Dinner Spectacular

Pesto is comfort food. Cake is comfort food. It’s what you ravish preferably in a loose shirt as you rock back and forth in a fetal position, humming to yourself.

A kilo of gay crabs smothered in chili-garlic sauce, however, is not comfort food to me. It’s more like a blood transfusion.

It’s my madeleine out of Proust. I cannot see a kawali of crabs behind the glass of tiny Dampas without becoming eight again. It is my time machine, my childhood, my mom.

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