Open house

March 2024

When you walk into my house, you will find yourself in my kitchen. Immediately you will see the wooden countertop that has, pushed to the wall, the Japanese rice cooker (a must), a mini lazy Susan with some condiments (ketchup, wildflower honey, butter, if that counts), and a setup for making pour-over coffee (used daily). On the right day (usually Sunday), my starter jar might be there too, bubbling quietly. The open shelving reveals stacks of plates enough to host a small dinner with friends, but not enough glassware. If you open the cabinet below the counter, you will find my humble library of cooking pans, a few appliances, some dried pantry goods. The liquor—gin, bourbon, green Chartreuse, a few bottles of wine—is somewhere at the back.

Before we continue walking through—here is the bathroom. Situated at the north corner of the house, the bathroom is fitted with a soaking aluminum tub, a large sink, and a Nature’s Head toilet. In the air linger traces of toiletries: the lavish amber, patchouli, and frankincense of my perfume, the mild aroma of unscented bar soap, faint peppermint from toothpaste. Hidden inside the medicine cabinet are all my creams and some common remedies. On the two-tiered wall shelf to the right, our grooming kits: my make-up and hair accessories, Michael’s gels and shaving kit. All we could possibly need.

Back to the main area—Across the large kitchen counter is the double-bowl sink with brass finish fixtures and a pair of casement windows behind it. Mornings come into the kitchen delicately through the east-facing glass; I love this about the house. Inside the sink base cabinet are less exciting but no less important things: basic hand tools, shoe polish, laundry detergent, miscellaneous cleaning supplies. Next to this counter is my workhorse of a three-burner gas oven range. Between the stove and the wall at the back is a small plank of wood that serves as space for cooking utensils (silicone, for compatibility with the nonstick pans I regret buying), oils (olive, avocado, and sesame), and sauces (various kinds of soy sauce and vinegar).

Across, once more: here is my top-freezer refrigerator. Its contents are predictable: a drawer of fresh produce, various cheeses, a gallon of milk, miso and gochujang, some berries, hummus, a carton of eggs, jars of fermented and pickled vegetables. On its door are photographs from my wedding and two punched eclipse postcards that double as pinhole projectors. Once, still ensnared by the minimalist aesthetic that was particularly fashionable these past five years, I aspired to keep the walls and surfaces of my house as empty as possible. Clean. My restless personality and Filipino upbringing ultimately won out, and now my house is abloom with things I find beautiful; come, you’ll see.

Unconventionally, our front load washer-dryer interjects between the stove and the kitchen pantry. Elevated on platform legs, the W/D stands over a foot taller than the stove. This odd placement does add great storage opportunities. A small fraction of its surface, the side closest to the burners, is occupied by my salt jar and pepper grinders for convenience. The rest of the space on top of the unit resembles a kind of altar: beeswax candles, incense sticks, glass containers with an assortment essential oils and oil blends. Some oils I use exclusively to add fragrance to homemade cleaners, some possess therapeutic properties or practical functions, and some blends I use as room spray. It’s a dream of mine to have an herbal apothecary at home.

The kitchen pantry next to it is a sleek, spacious thing. At first glance, storage may seem very limited, but its capacity is surprisingly more than adequate for a two-person household. Inside this cabinet, with its seven rows four-and-a-half inches deep, is a wide range of spices, a coffee canister, tinned fish, bone broth, seven-grain pancake mix, cans of milk (coconut, condensed, dulce de leche), granola, pasta (two kinds, usually), noodles (several types), beans and lentils (some canned, mostly dried), flour (AP, bread, and whole wheat), sugar (white cane, confectioner’s, muscovado), baking powder and baking soda, cornstarch, tablea, curry paste, bags of tea. All we could possibly need.

On top of the pantry is a towering stack of books that comprise my current library. A few titles more and the books would touch the ceiling. At present, I like to think there is an even distribution of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction in my collection, and a significant presence of Filipino authors. I brought to Texas those most influential to my work at the moment, and acquired a handful of new ones in the past two years. There’s Rizal and Villa (of course), Jose Lacaba, Chingbee Cruz, Glenn Diaz, Wilfrido Nolledo (a happy discovery thanks to Exploding Galaxies), and some great writers I am lucky to know as friends: Zeny May Recidoro (I Am A Wound Shrouded in Devotion, 2022), Angeli Lacson (Unbecoming, 2023), Zea Asis (Strange Intimacies, 2023), and Christian Benitez (Isang Dalumat ng Panahon, 2022). (There is, however, a big gap in my library in the shape of Estrella Alfon—any leads on copies of her work would be much appreciated.)

We arrive at the center of the house towards which everything gravitates: the center table. This multifunctional, foldable table I have folded not once since moving in. It is on this table of reclaimed wood that most of the activity at home takes place: writing, reading, eating, conversing, thinking. The clutter of objects pushed to the side in an attempt to organize reveals the life that takes place there. Against the wall is a basket filled with zines, and next to it are books I am either currently reading or using as a reference for a project. (Right now they are: Alice Notley’s tome The Speak Angel Series, Victoria Chang’s The Trees Witness Everything, and the Sabokahan Unity of Lumad Women’s We Call Her Ina Bai: How Strong Women are Made.) Electronics, too, scattered about: the remote control for the mini split, an old phone I haven’t managed to sell, my headphones, a USB-C cable, a speaker. Loose pens that always seem to escape their holders like unruly animals. A beautiful limited edition print by Laura Marling hangs above it all.

For most purposes, the table works wonderfully, but it does make a poor desk. Because the table is of bar height, it is paired with ordinary bar stools that aren’t conducive to extended periods of sitting, which is how most writing work is done. I’m not inclined to buy new, more comfortable chairs right now, so I like to think of this constraint as a reminder to move often. Pace across the house for a few minutes after typing for an hour. Maybe do some easy chores as a break. Lie on my stomach for a few minutes to give my body some relief.

At the end of the house is the protruding south wall. This side is beautifully illuminated in the day by the massive glass window that was, to Michael and I, one of the house’s best selling points. In lieu of a flatscreen, we have an unobstructed view of the hills that happen to be our backyard. We can catch the goats grazing outside, or the birds flitting from ground to bush to tree, or the single armadillo digging into the soil. In certain times of the year, wild turkeys. We can watch every day how the seasons change through the colors of the grasses, or attempt to predict the unpredictable Texas weather by looking at the fast-rolling clouds. All we could possibly need.

Against the south wall is the day bed with its thin cushion, a throw blanket, and a nest of mismatched pillows. Some were given to us, and some we found at a now-defunct outlet store the next town over. A lion stuffed toy I’ve owned since I was six lounges somewhere amongst the pillows with a coyote plushie I impulsively bought at a souvenir store in Fredericksburg last year when I was feeling lonely. On one end of the day bed is a walnut-stained lap desk that Michael built one winter. I like to use this when I’m working on the day bed for a change. Inspired by fiesta banderitas, seven postcards, mostly from our trip to Marfa, hang along a piece of yarn above the day bed. A few more prints, framed this time, also sit on the large windowsill. Finally, below the bed are large drawers that hold the season’s wardrobe—the rest are stored inside a trunk at the loft.

The loft is reserved for sleeping and long-term storage. To get there, you would have to climb up some narrow stairs with a birch pole as a railing. There isn’t much—just some office supplies I don’t often use but will likely need at some point, the aforementioned trunk containing off-season clothes, Michael’s violin, some extra beddings. The double-mattress, surrounded by windows on three sides, is set perfectly in a depressed section of the loft so that its surface lines up flat with the loft floor. This year, we are looking to replace the too-soft memory foam mattress—which, along with the rest of the furniture, came with the house—with a shikifuton. In moving into this house, Michael and I have made many compromises we eventually made peace with, but good sleep probably should not be one of them. I like to think that with rest and nutrition, everything is survivable.

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Spring break is upon us in Texas. Clocks have moved forward, bluebonnets have started to spring up along the highways, and mornings are starting to fill, once again, with birdsong. Life seems to be yawning awake, but I feel a sense of entrapment that, like before, makes me want to become invisible. My existence camouflaged in the trees, the busy streets. This has always been my survival trick, but also my vulnerability. So, instead, I am showing you my house, which is to say, my life—I don’t know if I am proud of it, but it is real, it is here, it is a work in progress. Thank you for stopping by.