About 3 hours ago (as I start writing this piece it’s 12:27 AM), my mum and I were invited to my uncle’s wedding anniversary. There were lots of food, my cousins were there, my cousins’ children were there, and my anxiety was there too. I barely spoke a word—bouts of anthropophobia kicks in during social gatherings of like nature—and the relatability of my thoughts appear not so much in conjunction with the moment I was in so, as expected, my ruminations became more intense as I sat there staring at the TV. Sure it was prime time, which means series upon series of soap operas grace program spots thus it became my utmost resolve to remain glued to the idiot box while each individual would be dallying with their affairs (not that I actually like soaps, especially local ones with all the slapping and shrieking supposedly for cinematic effect… which I don’t agree to as much; look at my penchant for movies such as the current nomination for the Academy Awards “Spotlight” that entails more of normal conversations as each scene’s focal point).

But I did eat and the food was gastronomic heaven.

It made my day in some odd manner because food serves as a catalyst for self-reimbursement (if there would be such a term, since vocabulary sometimes can be tedious for someone who had severe epileptic seizures in the past). It was at that juncture where I figured my moment of redemption imminent, so I ate a sampling of most of the servings, erstwhile skipping carbonara because I had never endeared myself to anything with white sauces or les blanches garniture**. Admittedly so, the arroz valenciana was a blast that I had to eat additional spoonfuls of it along with a slice of chilled mango graham cake. I’m a food freak.

Still, there were other sorts delectable delicacies: for all you know, hot coffee along with ice cream—for exotic palates, no doubt—was served and everything was inviting; however I decided to take a step back and rethink my yet another round for the table. The Weight Armageddon shall definitely take place if I do and that would be catastrophe personified.

It was 10 PM when the little party came to a close; and while all my cousins were getting ready to pack up and go, mum and I decided to exeunt. We were benevolently handed a package of take-home goodies from the reception which I figured my other family members would enjoy. Oh yes, they did because the cake and carbonara were present, not to mention the shanghai  spring rolls—all four of them left because people were picking things up here and there at the party. So no take-home arroz valenciana for me either.

When I got home, I thought my gastric juices needed help so I sought my ever-reliable panacaea for everything that needs tummy first aid: green tea. This time I had something with jasmine so I eagerly boiled water and finally let my tea steep according to instructions (I am a stickler for instructions when it comes to tea). Two cups felt like sunshine within my intestines, thus alleviating my oft-belligerent paranoia for anything that sends my tummy to occasional sequences of gastro-flagellations.

Either way, I think I had a pretty good time notwithstanding my flair for silence and the tragedies of overeating. Food has some trickling of magic after all.

** Pardon my French as I was supposed to say “white glazes: I just like how it sounds, supposedly, and was applying my finite knowledge of Latin; but I’d like corrections so feel free.