Choco Chip Hips

Chapter 1: Butterscotch

"Smells wow!"

It felt exactly like a bull had rammed into my side, causing my right hip to hit the kitchen sink.

"Dad!"

"Sorry." Dad's eyes were closed as he sniffed the pot I was stirring. "I forget that we can't fit in here at the same time. In fact, I can't remember the last time we did."

I turned off the heat and stole a sideways look at him. "So . . . time to diet?"

He squeezed my shoulder. "We could do that. Better yet, we could just expand the kitchen. Much easier."

I shook my head, smiling. Diets were something Dad and I were good at. Correction: starting diets were something we were good at. When the urge to lose weight hit either of us, Dad would go all out with the home-cooked meals—assembling salads and baking and steaming things instead of frying them. But like clockwork, exactly a week later, one of us would cave and order a triple-decker burger or a family-size meaty pizza, ending another one of our short-lived dieting attempts.

"So what's this? Peanut butter squares? Revel bars?"

Carefully I added the dry ingredients to the pot and started mixing. "Butterscotch."

"Ah." Dad nodded approvingly. "A classic." The recipe for butterscotch bars was the very first baking recipe he taught me. I was only eight years old then, blown away by the fact that butterscotch, an entire flavor, was made with just two simple ingredients: butter and brown sugar.

"Don't forget to put in walnuts," he said before slipping out. "Save me some."

"If there's gonna be any left!" I called out, adding the eggs. "I'm meeting Kim later!"

After snagging a pack of chopped walnuts from the pantry, I carefully folded them into the batter, which I scraped off into a baking pan. The walnuts dotted the surface like tiny islands.

I carried the tray to my favorite part of the house, the source of all those sweet, delicious smells floating around the house. At this time of day, the baking station was really busy. Aluminum pans clanged, electric mixers whirred, oven alarms went off, and one or two bakers were always belting out to the song playing on the radio.

This area was also the main reason why our kitchen was so tiny. It took up almost the entire first floor with its industrial ovens and cooling racks that nearly reached the ceiling.

I plunked down my tray next to the others waiting for their turn in the oven. I'd become an expert in identifying the gooey messes, which—once baked—they'll turn into glistening batches of lemon squares, fudge walnut brownies, and caramel bars.

"Can this piggyback in the oven?" I asked Ate Mila, our senior baker. She smiled her yes, and my eyes flew to her head, where a hairnet peeped out of her white baker's cap. Oh my G! I totally forgot to wear a hairnet. Dad would go nuts if he found my hair mixed in with the bars. It wasn't hard to spot the strands of my curly—most times, frizzy—hair.

Coiling my hair up in a bun before sticking a pencil into it, I pushed open the door that led to the adjoining shop and soaked in the sweet air conditioning.

"You can't go wrong with our milk chocolate cake." Dad had his back turned to me, blocking my view of the customer. "We've patterned it after the Milky Way bar, so it's really creamy and smooth, with a soft caramel center."

He tapped on the display chiller, pointing to the cake right beside it. "But if you like something less decadent, I suggest our dark chocolate cake made from pure tablea sourced from Davao . . ."

As Dad rattled on, I walked to the other side of the wall and adjusted a framed magazine article on Manila's top five sweet shops. Earning the third spot, which I highlighted in yellow, was The Baking Spoon. The writer described Dad as "an innovative sweet freak, inventing mouthwatering desserts that don't scrimp on ingredients but are surprisingly affordable."

"I can't decide," the customer whined. "Excuse me, miss? What do you think?"

I was so surprised that I almost knocked the frame off its center again. I turned and eyed the woman, who looked like she had just snuck out of the office, judging from the figure-hugging pantsuit she had on. Even with light makeup and hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, she looked beautiful. In fact, I could imagine her on an issue of Cosmopolitan, showing how to rock office wear that was both formal yet feminine.

In short, she looked like a dark chocolate girl, who counted calories and dutifully burned them at the gym. She badly needed some flab in her life.

"Definitely the milk chocolate cake."

She smiled at me, revealing a row of blindingly white teeth, and then swung back to Dad. "Milk chocolate, it is."

Dad gave me a wink. "My daughter has good taste."

As he wrapped up the cake, the woman fumbled inside her designer purse. "I'm sure it's delicious. As a rule, I don't buy from bakers who aren't fat. I mean, big eaters are great cooks, right?"

I sharply drew in my breath, watching Dad. He still had his smile on, though now it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Be careful. I ate the last person who told me I was fat."

The woman doubled over, laughing so hard that I half expected some knee-slapping action. When she finally recovered, she turned to me and gave me the once-over. "And I'm sure you'll grow up to be a great baker like your dad." With cake in hand, she slid through the sliding glass doors, her spicy perfume lingering in the air.

I stood stock-still, unblinking in the wake of the woman's words, which had sliced through me.

The next thing I knew, Dad had his arm around me. "Some people . . ." He sighed into my ear. "Don't mind her, Jess."

I felt a lump rising up my throat, threatening to erupt into tears. It took some time to push them down, way down to the bottom of my stomach. I shrugged off Dad's arm as gently as I could, suddenly disgusted at how soft and doughy he—we—both felt.

"It's okay." I casually strolled toward the door even if the tears were screaming to get out. I even managed to smirk at Dad over my shoulder. "Guess it's time for another diet."