My girlfriend once asked me how much I love her. She's fond of using the trite "like a fat kid loves cake" line for the sake of being cliche. Abhorring cliche as much as I do, I try as hard as I can to stray from the beaten figurative language path and strive to rarely repeat myself.
That day I responded with, "I love you like I love Sinigang."
Naturally one might expect the worst of reactions; something like: You love me like a fucking stew!? Fuck you, fat ass! She knows me better than that, fortunately, and she remained silent, signaling I should clarify my statement.
"Well, you know how food is nourishing. It makes you feel good. And any food can taste good. Any food can be filling. But you know what beats the best restaurants and the finest dining? Home food.
"Don't get me wrong, I love Fried Chicken, Pho, and Lo Mein as much as the next guy but they ain't got shit on Tinola, Sotanghon, and Pancit. I'm talking food for the soul. For my soul. My nostalgic, Filipino-American college student soul.
You're my Sinigang, my Kare-Kare, my Bicol Express. You know I have other friends, I know other women but I'm most comfortable, most warm, most rested, most at home with you."
Nothing else was said, we remained still staring into eachothers' eyes for ages afterwards, No Reservations providing the background noise to my awkward culinary exploration of our love.
P.S. I promise to write more Jonathan type shit.
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