My name is Christianne; but most people call me Chris or Deng (a nickname given to me by my nephew. I was born in the Philippines and immigrated to Chicago at the age of 4 years-old. It has been 23 years since I last step foot in the Philippines and been desperately wanting to go back. I love to experiment, no matter how good- or bad - the experiments come out, it's all about strategy! Since, I was born in the Philippines and live in a Philippines house hold, I tend to cook - Filipino food. However, living in a “melting pot” nation, it would be ignorant if one has not at least tried the diverse entrees waiting to be eaten.
A little background on me; I never liked cooking until just a few years ago. It is to the point where I would rather eat hard boiled eggs all day long than to cook a proper meal (side note: I just learned how to properly cook a hard-boil egg a few years ago). Yes! Sad, I know. So this blog is dedicated to the inner-cook in all of us!
I was only 19 years-old, it had only been a few months since my mom passed away; my dad was disgusted on how disconnected I have became from my heritage, the first thing he thought was to teach me how to cook Filipino dishes, or ulum (oo-lum). I have always thought that it was a lot easier to hop in my car, drive to the local fast food joints, order, pay, retrieve my order, and leave. Simple. Fast. Convenient. Easy clean up and with one easy payment of less than ten dollars! Yea – no! It most definitely did not fly with my dad.
Being 19 years-old and your opportunities endless, the last thing you want to do is cook. I have always imagine at the age of 25 years-old, I would be living in Napa Valley, owning my own business, living in a white pristine mansion, and having a maid and a cook to cook all my meals. Ah! Such foolish dreams I had. Back to reality! Exhausted from early morning classes, then going to my full-time job at a doctor’s office, dealing with over-exaggerated patient symptoms and over-bearing doctors, I did not even work for, the last thing I (or anyone, for that matter) wanted to do is cook a meal; let alone, the teacher was my father. My dad called me at work to go straight home and he will be giving me my first cooking lesson. Trust me; I prayed all day for him to suddenly have amnesia; forgetting, or even recollecting, the conversation and the subject of me cooking, period; needless to say, I was in no hurry to go home that day.
So when I got home that evening, from a very looonngg day, I crept into the front door, snuck into my bedroom, closed the door with a whisper thud, and called it safe. Ha! Not even thirty seconds later, I heard my dad’s booming accent from behind the door, “Chris! When you put your stuff down, go into the kitchen and I’ll teach you how to cook.”
“Damn! Why me? I don’t want to learn how to cook.” I thought.
So thus, when it all began.
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