How Do I Love Thee, Adobo?

Chicken adobo. Chicken adobo. Chicken adobo.

If there is a better antidote to heavy rainfall and a case of the "dulls," I do not know what it is. It's simmering on the stove right now. In an hour, I'll put on the rice and all will be well. I will no longer be sore from having stood at the top of a snowy mountain (okay, small hill) and countless times seating, steadying, and then pushing dozens of children down on their various pieces of plastic. I will not have a runny nose and gunk in my throat from the inn's bizarre idea of a heating and a/c unit which blew either furnace-hot wind or arctic-freeze wind into the room. All the laundry will be miraculously washed, folded, and put away. Neatly. My children will stop emptying the linen closet of blankets and strewing them everywhere and pointedly ignoring my pleas to stop with a distinterested, "Mom. We're playing a game."

These are the sorts of dreams inspired by that heady aroma of chicken, vinegar, soy sauce, garlic, and bay leaf. Whether they come to pass is not important. What's important is that at this moment, I believe they will.

When my brother cooks his adobo, he does what I deem unthinkable: throws in chicken livers. He thinks it's really funny when I eat one. The first time this happened, he served me all gallant-like (to make sure an actual piece of liver wound up on my plate) and then watched me carefully until I'd taken a bite of one. Then all nonchalant-like he goes, "So, how is it?" Wanting to be all polite-like, I said, "Really good." Then he was all, "That was chicken liver! That was chicken liver! Hahahahahahahaha!"

Evil.

But I knew something wasn't quite right. While I was saying, "Really good," I was thinking Hmmm. This chicken tastes like it had a rough life. And no doubt it had; I just didn't want to taste it. I should note that besides the liver, it was good adobo.

But enough of this. It's time to do the laundry.