Ginger and garlic are problematic ingredients to have around. The former tends to shrivel up if kept it at room temperature, and has a tendency to grow shoots if kept it in the refrigerator. Garlic also grows shoots; it tastes bitter when cooked, so the amateur cook has to remove that future garlic plant in the middle of the clove before processing it any further.

Fortunately, Indian cuisine has a marvellous solution: ginger-and-garlic paste. It's simple enough to make: take equal parts of ginger and garlic, peel, and grate. If kept in the fridge, it can go a long while without spoiling, and the amateur cook can now forestall the designs of Nature.

Seeing that there was a considerable number of garlic bulbs and a large, barely shriveled ginger root in the kitchen, this amateur cook set about marrying the two with the object of preserving them. Processing the ginger went without incident; it left a light and tingling sensation in the fingertips, almost reminiscent of lemons.

The garlic, however, required more intensive surgery, as each individual clove had a shoot that needed to be excised before grating. This seemed simple enough until the last few cloves, at which point the tingling sensation in the fingertips gave way to warmth. Minutes later, the warmth started to burn. Halfway through grating the ginger, the burning started to seep under the fingernails.

So yes, I have spicy fingertips. On the upside, I can kill Dracula with a poke, if he should visit me tonight.

One day at the House of Yale, Rej decided to make tinola. We had all the ingredients: chicken, sayote, dahon ng sili, patis, luya, and ... oh noes! The were no chicken broth cubes! We upturned the cupboards, scoured the fridge, even scared some hapless mice out of their hidey-holes, but alas! No chicken broth cubes were found.

So, after much pleading on Rej's part, I sallied forth on a Quest to Find the Chicken Broth Cubes. So there I was, riding up and down Yale street (without a Patsy or a Concorde beside me, banging the coconut shells), seeking out the much-needed cubes, but to no avail. Dejected (and basically thinking bwisetkaRejformakingmegooutatninePMinsearchofartificialflavoring), I slunk back to Yale.

I was about to tromp across the drawbridge when *pouf!* the Chicken Broth Cube Fairy appeared with a sprinking of sparkly chicken broth cube dust.(Lasang-lasang manok!) This ... singular creature looked exactly like Tita Maggi, but had a five o'clock shadow and spoke to me in the most charming baritone. "I have seen your quest, good sir, and will now reward your efforts appropriately!"

And with that, the fairy's hand stretched forth (putangina, ang laki ng kamay!) and handed me three chicken broth cubes! "Add this to your soup tonight," I was instructed. "But beware! If you do not finish all of it tonight, in the morning a beanstalk will grow from your stove, reaching high into the heavens, laden with chicken pieces, peeled and chopped sayote, and wilted sili leaves!" At this point, I expected mascara tears to accompany this most serious warning.

As if horrified by the prophecy, the Chicken Broth Cube Fairy disappeared, again with the cloud of sparkly chicken broth cube dust.

I returned home, bearing the magic chicken broth cubes and my ... very strange tale, which I recounted to the Yale denizens in full detail. Of course by then, the bastards were too hungry to care and just plopped the cubes into the soup and had dinner. They might've been hungry, but not hungry enough to finish everything.

The next morning, I rushed (!) into the kitchen, but alas (!) there was no strange, mutant beanstalk, leaving me to wonder if the Chicken Broth Cube Fairy was at all real.

So children, what's the moral of the story?

Gutom lang 'yan.

I'm cooking one of the recipes below for Rej's birthday party later.

For this, you'll need pasta in virtually any noodle form: spaghetti, linguine, fettucine, tagliatelle, angel hair, etc. If you use penne or macaroni, there's an added option below.

Boil the pasta in water with a tablespoon of salt and enough oil to coat the base of the saucepan. Cook until al dente; this time ranges from seven to 11 minutes, depending on the kind of pasta. The best way to check if the pasta is al dente, as the Italians suggest, is by using one's teeth. The pasta must be firm without any of the white, uncooked centers, and without being too soft.

The boiling water must be drained immediately after, or the pasta will continue to cook. Penne and macaroni (or any pasta that's tubular or retains more water), will need extra draining. The benefits of this will be seen days later, when the pasta fails to spoil earlier than usual. Angel hair pasta needs to be flushed with ice water after draining.

I. The Classic*: Aglio, Olio e Pepperoncino

2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil

3 to 5 cloves garlic, crushed and diced (or sliced, depending on your preference)

chili flakes

Heat olive oil in a pan. Toss in the garlic and sautée until translucent. Add chili flakes. Toss with your pasta, preferrably spaghetti.

II. The Tender Juicy, Mighty Meaty, Humping-pumping, Pelvic-thrusting: Salumi

1 sausage each of pepperoni and hungarian sausage, sliced on the diagonal

1 can black olives

Add to the basic recipe before tossing in the pasta. Brown the sausages, and then add the olives. Then pasta.

Thanks to Ricky, who liked deli, and who inspired this recipe and the naughty title. :D

III. The Saucy: Pomodoro

1 can Italian tomatoes (has to be Italian so you get that sweet taste)

basil (fresh or dried)

Again, before adding the pasta, pour in the tomatoes. Crush the tomatoes with a spoon (wooden spoons rock, by the way), and leave to simmer. Add some basil leaves (fresh if they're available) and salt, both to taste. No need for pepper, since the pepperoni and the chili flakes will give you the bang.

This is what I'm making later.

IV. The Sultry: Al Forno

mozzarella

I've never tried this, but it came to mind while mentally composing the recipe. I imagine penne would work best with this. Bascially, you mix the penne with the sauce above and top the whole thing with mozzarella. Bake for, oh, maybe 30 minutes or so, depending on how much pasta you made.

Ayan tuloy, nagutom na ako. Not counting the fourth addition, this recipe can be cooked in 30 minutes, tops.

*Name suggested by Ian Roxas. :D

At Maniel's request, my potato recipe. I'm deviating from the usual military-style nomenclature of my recipes kasi wala akong maisip. Instead I'm naming this one after Jonathan Swift, whose "A Modest Proposal" essay Aldus loves. Taken and improvised from Tita Ruby's copy of The How-to Book of Healthy Cooking.

Potatoes (medium-sized, marbles, or new; preparation directions vary according to size)

2 to 5 cloves of garlic, crushed and diced

olive or canola oil, enough to coat potatoes

rosemary

salt

If your potatoes are medium-sized, cut into one-inch cubes. If they're potato marbles, just halve the bigger ones. New potatoes can be quartered. Peeling is optional, depending on whether you like potato peels or not, or how tamad you are.

You also have the option of par-boiling the potatoes for 15 minutes, not enough to cook them, but enough to make them fluffy on the inside and crispy on the outside, as Jamie Oliver likes to say on his shows. Again, depending on the effort you're willing to commit to this endeavor. ;-)

Once the potatoes have been prepped, toss in the garlic, the oil and the salt and mix. Crush the rosemary (so the flavor comes out) before putting it in with the other ingredients. (The upside to this is that your hands will smell like rosemary and garlic after. Mmm, spicy.)

Pop into an oven for 30 to 45 minutes, on medium-to-high heat. To check if the potatoes are cooked, poke the bigger pieces with a fork. A cooked potato will offer little resistance. Try not to poke them too much, or you'll end up with potato smithereens.

Frying is also an alternative, but will increase the chances of your having potato smithereens.

I haven't tried cooking this with a microwave, but I'm sure it won't result in crispy potatoes. Still, I guess it'd taste better than Irish babies.

PS

If you're trying to imagine how it tastes, think back to the last Yale party you attended. We prolly served it then. ;-)

During the Nazi Occupation of Paris, the Resistance supposedly had several active agents among the city's firemen, or pompiers, and apparently their favorite activity was sabotaging Nazi offices. A normal operation would start with someone bicycling past a known Nazi establishment and lobbing a small firebomb at it. Naturally, the occupants would call the fire brigade, who would promptly arrive and, using axes and whatever tools they had on hand, proceed to hack the building's interiors apart in an earnest and vigorous effort to "stop the fire." Nazi or no, you really can't stop a fireman from doing his job, even when the act of kicking down a closed door means sucking the fire into the documents room so it can consume all that confidential information.

Or at least that's what Sidney Sheldon said in his novel, The Other Side of Midnight. I'd Google it to confirm, but where's the fun in that?

(No, Regina Teresita Magdalena Layug, I am not that old, you saucy wench.)

(No, I am not older than that, either!)

Anyway, those cunning revolutionaries now lend their name to my recipe for French Toast, grabbed from Maniel's Multiply.

I've told this story several times, but I figured writing it down would save on future retelling.

This dish was developed in the days of Pabling Station, which carried over to theYale House when I first started hanging out there. One night, I asked Dante what he wanted for dinner, to which he responded with, "Are we having some more of your corned beef suicide?"

My answer to this was "It's going to be corned beef homicide if you keep up those witty comments."

Suffice it to say, the name stuck.

Corned Beef Suicide

1 large can corned beef; preferably plain, none of those newfangled flavors and textures

1 medium-sized onion, sliced into half-moons (as Nigella Lawson would say, complete with contralto and British accent)

2-3 cloves of garlic, chopped

1 can tomato sauce (235 mg?)

1 can whole kernel corn (not cream kernel; this is optional, anyway)

various spices (black pepper, basil, and rosemary for starters; feel free to experiment with others later)

Sautée garlic in a little bit of oil (you don't need much; corned beef has a lot of fat as it is). If you're not a huge fan of onions, add them at this stage.

When they turn translucent, add the corned beef. Immediately season with pepper and wait until at least half the fluids have evaporated. This would take two to three minutes over a medium flame.

Add the tomato sauce, the basil and the rosemary (fresh is generally better with these two spices). Simmer over a low heat for five minutes.

Add the corn, and let it simmer for a further two minutes. Take off the flame. If you like your onions, add them at this stage for a bit of crunch. 

Serves three to five.