Choco Chip Hips

Chapter 3: Christmas Cookie

I pushed our gate open, wondering how many calories I'd just burned from walking from school. Not much probably. Kim told me how once she sweated it out on the treadmill for forty minutes, only to burn 250 calories, the equivalent of one candy bar. I doubted that my five-minute stroll was capable of melting all that butterscotch I'd inhaled.

Oh, and did I mention the chips? Halfway into the butterscotch, Kim and I felt thirsty so we walked outside to the sari-sari store and got a big bag of potato chips. Wait. That didn't make sense. What I meant was, she got a soda and I got my bottled water when Kim saw the munchies hanging from the store's ceiling. So we sat on the bench and indulged in the vicious cycle of sweet-salty-fizzy until we finished all our food.

With a sigh, I scooted over to the side of the house that led straight to the dining area. My hand froze over the doorknob as strange sounds floated toward me. Music? Laughter? The tinkling of plates and utensils? Dad never mentioned a party. Clearly our house had been broken into, and the robbers were having a celebratory meal after making off with our heavy-duty baking equipment. Cautiously I turned the knob and peered inside.

"Jess! You're just in time!" Dad called out. He thrust an empty plate into my hands and gestured to the table. "Eat, eat, eat!"

Oh my G. My eyes widened at the spread. Huge prawns with glistening shells, a huge bilao of pancit, fried chicken, roast beef, a big bowl of rice; and the clincher—always the clincher every freaking time—a whole lechon, its skin so shiny, it was practically winking at me.

I swallowed. Hard.

"Is it someone's birthday?" I looked round at the chatting employees. Mang Oscar, one of the bakers who also doubled as our driver, waved at me. I waved back. They were a happy bunch, including Dad, who was smiling so wide, his cheeks looked like full moons. A bouncy song poured out from the speakers, and Ate Mila did a little cha-cha as she returned to the buffet table.

"Even better." Dad popped a piece of lechon skin into his mouth and whispered conspiratorially into my ear. "The (crunch) accountant called me this morning (crunch, crunch), and guess what (crunch, crunch, crunch)? We made a lot this year—enough to give everyone a raise and to open a second branch!"

I was so psyched to hear the news that my heart did a little cha-cha too, seeing him so drunk with happiness.

"So let's celebrate!" I allowed him to drag me to the table, where he replenished his plate with a fresh pile of food.

It was a sin to think of calories at a moment like this. Dad looked so happy, so clueless about my latest resolve to lose weight. He looked at me expectantly as I stood there, clutching a plate to my chest.

No, I would not be a party pooper.

I gave him my best smile and dug in.

* * *

You could tell a party was winding down when the table, which only a few hours ago, was groaning with the weight of food, was now nearly empty. The lechon, in particular, looked positively massacred, with its skin and meat ripped off, exposing the stuffing of herbs that ran along the length of its body.

My body felt like it was going to explode, gut dying to bust out of my skin. My zipper was probably halfway down. It didn't matter anyway since my shirt was long and loose.

"I'll do the dishes!" I announced. I knew washing the dishes wasn't enough to annihilate everything I ate. Still it was better than nothing.

But the employees were too fast for me. Fending off my protests, they began to collect the plates, stacking them up after scraping the leftover bits off them.

Resigned, I peered out the window, thinking I could brisk-walk around our village. But by then, darkness had fallen. Dad wouldn't let me out for sure. And then I had a brilliant idea: I could walk around the baking station! It was the biggest part of our house, and no one would be there.

I traded my ballet flats for my cross-trainers, which I had not used since PE class. If there were any part of my body that gave me comfort, it was my feet. At least they didn't get any bigger even after I've had three platefuls of food.

When I got to the baking station, my heart sank when I saw the lights turned on. Dad was hunched over one of the metal shelves. I was about to turn back when he straightened up and saw me.

"Hey. You're just in time for my surprise." He beamed, gesturing to the tray perched on the shelf. "I think they're ready."

I peered at the tray. My eyes widened.

"Dad, how can you . . . ?" I started to protest. "It's not even Christmas yet."

His smile grew even broader. "It feels just like Christmas—at least to me." He got a spatula and scraped off a cookie. After blowing on it, he held it out to me.

It was our best-selling Ultimate Choco Chip Cookie, which The Baking Spoon sold only once a year, during the holiday season. Through the years, loyal customers dubbed it as the Christmas cookie. It was huge, the size of Dad's palm, and that was saying a lot. It was a play on textures—crispy at the edges while soft and chewy at the center. It wasn't cheap, especially since it was dotted with imported Ghirardelli milk chocolate chips. But people loved them, patiently waiting for December to roll around so they could sink their teeth into the rare treats.

"Remember when I quit my job to focus on the business full time?"

I nodded as I took the cookie and bit into it. My eyes rolled to the back of my head. It was that good. "Everyone said you were crazy—even Tito Joey."

Dad already had a high-paying job as an advertising executive when he became a home baker. When the orders started piling up, he decided to leave the boardroom for good and make the kitchen his new workplace.

Dad smiled, biting into his own cookie. He closed his eyes and made a smacking sound with his fingers.

The truth was, I was glad Dad quit his job too. Sure, we always had hired help to keep me company after school, but none of them stayed long enough for me to trust them. When I got home, I'd go up to my room, my stash of junk food keeping me company until Dad arrived from work.

Now I got to see Dad all the time. He also had more time to invent new goodies, such as this warm, gigantic cookie that I easily tucked into in five delicious bites.

"I'll get these to the others." Dad was transferring the rest of the cookies onto a plate. "Do you want more?"

It was a rhetorical question.

He grinned and handed me two more pieces. Happiness.

I was just about to bite into my final cookie when I heard the crash. Without thinking about it, I put the cookie in my mouth and hurried to turn into the corner that led to the dining area.

The bakers were in a circle, huddled over something. Someone hollered, "Step back! Give him some air!"

One of them turned to me, screaming, "Call a doctor!"

For the first time ever, I let a Christmas cookie go to waste. It fell on the floor as my mouth hung open. The same floor Dad was lying on.

And he looked dead.