Illustration by Arthur Rackham

In Grimms’ Fairy Tales there is a story called “The Stubborn Child” that is only one paragraph long. Here it is, in a translation by the fairy-tale scholar Jack Zipes:

Once upon a time there was a stubborn child who never did what his mother told him to do. The dear Lord, therefore, did not look kindly upon him, and let him become sick. No doctor could cure him and in a short time he lay on his deathbed. After he was lowered into his grave and covered over with earth, one of his little arms suddenly emerged and reached up into the air. They pushed it back down and covered the earth with fresh earth, but that did not help. The little arm kept popping out. So the child’s mother had to go to the grave herself and smack the little arm with a switch. After she had done that, the arm withdrew, and then, for the first time, the child had peace beneath the earth.

The Lure of the Fairy Tale by Joan Acocella in TNY.

We finally got the hand-woven abel iloko bag we’d been coveting. Rene designed it as a maternity bag for the artist Pam Yan Santos—lots of inner pockets for holding bottles, diapers and other baby stuff mommies have to think about. Well we refuse to walk around carrying a maternity bag so Rene had to think of a proper name for it. The bag’s interior looks like this.

“Very Georgia O’Keefe,” he observed.

So this bag is called the Georgia O’Keefe, Georgia O’Keps for short.

Thanks to our loud and regular badgering Rene has come up with new designs.

This is obviously The Matrix. Or the Keanu Reeves. And when you want to look at a different print, it’s reversible.

Rene explained that abel is the generic term for the rough hand-woven fabric produced by artisans in the Ilocos region. Inabel is the process, and binakol is the Op Art-like weave pattern that’s been handed down for generations.

This design in abel and denim doesn’t have a name yet, so for now we’re referring to it as the Ewan McGregor. Because hearing Ewan McGregor’s name brings an automatic smile to the people who know who Ewan McGregor is. (Also, we’re thinking of ordering a kilt made of abel.)

There are only 6-12 pieces of each design. The Georgia O’Keefe costs Php2,500; the Keanu and the Ewan Php1,200 each. For orders and inquiries email rene.guatlo@gmail.com.

After examining the bags we went to Chez Carine in Serendra for coffee and pastry. Our friends have been Chez-Carine-this, Chez-Carine-that all week so we had to try it for ourselves.

We were extremely pleased with the Muscovado Pudding served in little jars.

Our cats were extremely pleased with the abel bags. After rubbing their faces on the fabric for several minutes they promptly fell asleep on them. Cats love abel—must be the texture of the cloth.

Koosi appropriated the Georgia and an abel blanket (last piece of the white, no longer in stock, but there are queen-size bankies in white/beige and black/white combinations).

There will be an Inabel exhibition opening at Pinto Art Museum in Antipolo on 29 July at 3pm. We’ll post the invitation.

Many times over the years we have attempted to read Herman Melville’s Moby Dick and surrendered after a few chapters. So we decided to get the great white whale off our back and listen to the book instead. We downloaded the University of South Florida’s Lit2Go edition free from iTunes and listen to it in traffic. Taxi on Edsa at rush hour, whaler on the high seas: it’s a match.

Chapter 15: Chowder

Photo from Fictitious Dishes by Dinah Fried

But when that smoking chowder came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh! sweet friends, hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuits, and salted pork cut up into little flakes! the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites being sharpened by the frosty voyage, and in particular, Queequeg seeing his favourite fishing food before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we despatched it with great expedition…

You can read or listen to this chapter here.

We’ve always liked Uno Restaurant on Tomas Morato in Quezon City: the food is great, the quality consistent, the place elegant but unpretentious, the service reliable. There’s also a better than average chance of running into friends who live or work in the neighborhood.

We hadn’t eaten there for a few months so when work brought us to QC last Friday we decided to drop in. After the excellent main course we looked at the dessert menu and did a double take. Then our double take did a double take.

Their cakes cost less than 100 pesos. We’ve gotten so used to getting gouged overpriced desserts that an inexpensive cake nearly makes us burst into tears. And the cakes were good—light, not teeth-wreckingly sweet, excellent companions for their non-overpriced coffee.

Lucky QC folk.

Cartoon from The New Yorker

Before Sunday, Roger Federer’s last grand slam victory was at the Australian Open in 2010. Since then it’s been two and a half years of mental torment, recrimination and self-doubt—not for Federer, whose perfect hair remained unruffled by the dominance of Novak Djokovic and Rafael Nadal, but for Federer fans like myself.

I hope you’re a better human than I am, because I was reduced to hoping that Nadal’s knees would fall off (Not impossible, given the way he plays) or that Djokovic would split in half (Not impossible either—his upper torso goes left, his legs go right, boom! Manananggal). Sportswriters wrote Roger off (He’s 30)—I stopped reading them. He got cranky after his losses—I figured he’d been babysitting his twins. I watched the grand slams almost furtively, lest others gloat that he’d become “vincible”.

Suddenly we’re back! Okay, technically not “suddenly”—he had to win seven matches at Wimbledon—and not “we” because he did all the work. But we’re back, as in 17 grand slams, 7 Wimbledon titles—matching Pete Sampras’s record—and as an unexpected bonus, the world Number One ranking.

To Federer fans everywhere, the universe makes sense again.

Funnily enough, I was thinking of rooting for Andy Murray. I feel bad for Murray and the Brits, 76 years without a champion at home. And then Federer beat Djokovic in the semis by playing like Federer circa 2006…

Listen, to support Murray and Britain out of pity would be an insult to a fine player and a great nation. Go Roger! You’ve won everything, you don’t need another slam, but I need this. Just one more slam and I swear I will expect nothing more from you.

Last Sunday two narratives clashed. On one side the “old” warrior reminding the forgetful public that he was still around; on the other, the young hero seeking to prove himself while carrying the hopes of an entire country. Pundits like to say that the victory goes to the competitor who wants it more. Seriously, how do you measure that?

The possibility that I would have a nervous breakdown during the final could not be ignored, so I outsourced the match report to filmmaker and fellow Federer fan Mike Alcazaren. This turned out to be an excellent idea. I watched the first two sets curled up in the foetal position while my cats sniffed my face periodically to see if I was alive. This is how I stayed until halfway through the third set (including the rain delay), when Federer broke Murray’s serve in a 20-minute battle to go up 4-2. When you’ve been watching Roger for 11 years, you can spot the exact moment when every doubt is erased and the rest of the match is a formality. I got up, refilled the cats’ food bowls, and made myself a sandwich.

The Philippine economy is doing well.

We can now lend money to other countries.

Europe is in a recession.

Unemployment rates are high.

Real estate prices are plunging.

Let’s buy Spain.