Salo-Salo Storytelling Feast. A Virtual Reading. October 25, 2021.

I notice blue scribbling on a yellow post-it note taped between elevator doors as I wait along the lobby of my Chelsea building. “Re: mask,” the note begins. My neighbor Carole waves ahead of me. “To the pretty girl with salt-and-pepper hair. Please call Dave, at 917-…-….” The doors open and Carole and I file in to once again plant our feet on pairs of decals as we head up. “And here I was wondering how one dates during COVID,” I say, catching my neighbor’s eyes.

Carole’s face and neck slowly turn beet red around her mask. She blinks back tears and points to my head. “Go for it, pretty girl. Call Dave!” She cups her mask with both hands and bursts into a giggle.

“You know?” I concur, as I wave and get off first, separating our trail of laughter, each of us heading back to our respective single lives.
I lean into my open apartment door and drag two Farm-to-People box deliveries inside: Contact-less. Human contact-less. Into the kitchen freezer I stack the meats and seafood; produce, tofu and blue eggs into compartments below. What healthy dish for one to prepare for lunch, I ponder. The empty boxes I collapse and set aside for recycling; and off the mask goes finally.

Still mindful of COVID protocol, I start to sing to myself, in front of my kitchen sink. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday to you. I let the faucet water run longer. With gusto hum a few more times. I flick the last drops and retrieve a text from my BFF. “You could try zoom dating.” I click on a web link she emailed earlier: "Video chatting and Zoom speed dating act as a great screening tool…”

I stare at the suggestion of entering the newly familiar platform of human connectedness: “Zoom”—Breakout rooms. Clearly framed faces. Unmuted voices. Sharing top "personal values." (What exactly are those, in real time?) “Speed” ?—not in my present vocabulary. “Dating” ?—how does that go again? How does one begin...

I turn to inspect the goodies inside the refrigerator. How does one begin... Grandma Inang’s sinigang recipe would begin with a big pot of water brought to a boil; the centerpiece around which the family gathers on the wide wooden banka boat that sets out just past the inlet into open sea. Farther out fishermen from larger boats set traps to catch the tangige white fish, droves of which are caught to sell in the big city. But my local family of farmers savor the mudfish that swim freely in the water closer to land. Into the simmering pot Inang would add freshly harvested arinda fruit—guava, tamarind, or kamias, creating a slow fragrant brew into which the fresh catch wriggles whole, heartily topped off by newly harvested green leafy scallions, kangkong, pechay. Ladled onto bowls of aromatic rice in clay, Inang’s sweetly sour concoction satisfies any hungry spirit.

What would the recipe be then, for a new relationship?
What can I hope for late in life, alone
mornings nights sweatless on my pillows
running towards visions of an island mate kisses smiles loins…

In my narrow kitchen I opt out of the wild-caught Atlantic salmon and cut up the other white meat. I fill a steel pot halfway with Brita-filtered water, which I bring to a boil. I touch and inhale the assortment of seasonal ingredients spread out on my emptied counter. Love onions. I peel and throw in a whole yellow one. One onion starts my soups. I cradle a large green-and-red heirloom tomato and proceed to chop; scoop juiciness of the imagined kamias/guava into the bubbling water. Fresh lemon juice I extract twisting a fork, and I throw in the rind for good measure. Brewing sourness, I reach for a ripe peach, take a bite; slice the rest and throw that in. Fresh figs intrigue me, don’t really know what to do with them; so I throw two halved pieces into the mix. My hands and taste buds work fast in fusion as the water continues to boil down. I add more Brita-filtered water. I drop each cube of locally butchered pork belly I season with pinches of coarse sea salt I keep with my collection of salts. Red and green kale is a leafy no-brainer, and I press chopped delicious and hearty layers atop the simmering brew. Bubbling brown rice cools down in a timed Chinatown-bought cooker. A few servings of freshly assimilated sour and sweet, for one. Thrilled, my nostrils inhale the depths of blue green that follow men who fish into the far-flung overnight.

Hungry for sun for air for water
dormant quarantined deflecting
I have enfolded deep within

Hot love of the tropical persuasion has been hard to top. Or put out. Let alone replace.

I return to my laptop click on the link.
What would it feel like, I still wonder, to cross over and never come back?
My heart races.