What She Kept

I showed my mother‑in‑law the dishes the way you show someone proof that you were paying attention. Proof that you listened. Proof that you cared enough to remember.

“I kept them all,” I told her. “The plates. The bowls. The mismatched ones. Even the chipped ones.”

I said it casually, like it was just a storage update. I expected a polite thank you. Maybe a nod.

Instead, she stopped.

Then she reached for a cup and saucer, like one of those delicate English tea sets that look like they belong in a storybook. She held it like it was a memory she hadn’t touched in years.

“My sister gave me this,” she said. “She told me to remember her every time I used it.”

She had several pieces from family. None of them matched. Not a single one. Different florals, different shapes, different eras. A collection only a sister could assemble, kinda chaotic, sentimental, and but perfectly imperfect.

Then she picked up another cup. Small. Oddly shaped. The kind of thing that could be a cup or a vase depending on the day.

“This one,” she said, smiling at the crack running down the side, “was from my other sister. She said the crack made it look like it was laughing.”

She is ninety‑three now.

When she moved from her two‑storey house to a two‑bedroom apartment, she worried. When she moved again into assisted living, she worried all over again. Not about the move. Not about the downsizing. But about her things.

The indoor dishes. The patio dishes. The holiday mugs. The boxes of decorations. The ribbons. The wrapping paper she reused because “it’s still good.” The small, practical things that made up a life.

She worried about what would fit. What would have to go. How you decide which memories deserve space.

She made lists. Then lists of lists. Then rewrote those lists. I didn’t laugh at her. I recognized myself in her. I realized we were the same kind of woman — the kind who would’ve been millionaires if modern stationery culture had existed when we were younger. Journals. Highlighters. Color‑coded emotions. We were born too early for the aesthetic version of our anxiety.

And then, in the middle of all this tenderness and nostalgia, she said:

“There’s a man in the building.”

I looked up. “A man?”

She nodded, annoyed. “He’s hitting on me.”

My husband and I burst out laughing. At ninety‑three! But also… we’re pretty sure she doesn’t actually know what “hitting on me” means.

But the man? Oh, he knows.

“He waits for me,” she said. “By the elevator. Every single time. Like he has somewhere to be. But he doesn’t. He’s just… standing there.”

She reroutes her entire day to avoid him. Different chairs. Different hallways. Different timing. He still appears.

“He asked if I wanted to have lunch with him. I told him I already ate. It was 9:15 in the morning.”

She said it with the same tone someone uses to describe a broken appliance. Mild irritation. Zero interest.

She loved my father‑in‑law. He died. That love didn’t. She has no desire to replace it. There is something both hilarious and heartbreaking about that kind of certainty.

She mentioned her old bus seatmate too — the woman she used to sit beside every week on the shuttle. “She moved to another home,” she said. No sadness. Just a shift in the schedule. People leave. Circles shrink. You adjust.

She never once called it loneliness. So I won’t either.

What We Ate When I Didn’t Feel Like Christmas

This year, I didn’t feel like Christmas.

Not in a dramatic, cancel-the-holidays way. Just… off. The kind of off that happens when you’ve been traveling, missing people, crossing time zones, and trying to pretend your heart didn’t get left somewhere between Las Vegas and wherever “home” is supposed to be now.

I was in Vegas with my daughter and grandson right before the holidays, and when I came back, the spirit didn’t follow me home. I didn’t decorate much. I didn’t feel festive. I mostly stared at things and thought, okay, sure, it’s December.

My husband noticed. He always does. So he finished the decorating for me. Quietly. No commentary. Which, honestly, is the most romantic thing he could’ve done.

Most of my family is in the Philippines, so Christmas here was going to be small. We invited my mother-in-law over. My husband announced he was making prime rib and vegetables — because of course he was.

He’s an incredible cook. Truly. The kind of man people assume should’ve opened a restaurant instead of managing a communications company. He can sauté, braise, roast, and plate like he’s auditioning for a cooking show.

But there are two things he can’t do:

1. My Filipino and Chinese food

2. My desserts

Which means, in this marriage, I don’t cook often — not because I can’t, but because I married someone who absolutely does not need help until suddenly he does.

And this was one of those moments.

I realized I needed to contribute something. Not because he asked — but because Christmas has a way of making you want to prove you showed up, even when you’re tired.

That’s when I remembered creamed corn.

Specifically, the creamed corn I used to order in Southern California. Steakhouse creamed corn. The kind that has no business being that good. The kind you don’t ask questions about.

I checked the pantry and found… canned corn. So much canned corn.

There was a brief period in this household when someone — who shall remain unnamed — became convinced via TikTok that the world was ending. Possibly a zombie apocalypse. Possibly supply chain collapse. Possibly both.

We were prepared.

I am confident that even when everything else expires, we will still be eating corn.

So there I was, Christmas Eve, emotionally underwhelmed, staring at shelves of apocalypse corn, deciding that this would be my contribution. I wasn’t going to the grocery store the day before Christmas. The lines would be insane. The parking lot would be feral. The roads would test my faith.

Instead, I did what modern women do when faced with a culinary crisis.

I asked GPT.

And listen — I’m not saying AI saved Christmas.
But I am saying we had creamed corn.

I asked if canned whole kernel corn could work. I asked if it could taste like Lawry’s. I asked if I could make it ahead of time. I asked if I could make it richer. Butterier. Steakhouse-level indulgent.

GPT was very encouraging. Almost suspiciously so.

I followed the instructions. I made it ahead. I reheated it. And then — because life is humbling — it tasted a little salty.

So naturally, I went back to GPT, like one does when standing in the kitchen questioning their life choices.

Should I add sugar?

GPT said HELL NO.
Gurllll don’t go crazy.
Follow the system.

At one point, I admitted I only had salted butter.

GPT did not judge me.

It calmly walked me through how not to ruin Christmas with salted butter and fear.

And you know what?

Dinner happened.

The prime rib was perfect. The vegetables were great. The creamed corn — born of canned goods, mild despair, and artificial intelligence — was rich, comforting, and somehow exactly what the night needed.

It wasn’t the Christmas I imagined. But it was warm. It was enough. And everyone was fed.

Sometimes adulthood looks like that. Not big feelings or big revelations. Just making do. Letting someone else lead when you’re tired. Feeding people with what you have instead of what you planned.

Also, sometimes adulthood looks like accepting help from a chatbot because the grocery store parking lot feels like too much.

The Creamed Corn (End-of-the-World, Steakhouse-Adjacent Edition)

Born from canned corn, holiday fatigue, questionable TikTok prepping decisions, and a very opinionated GPT.

Ingredients

• 2 cans whole kernel corn, drained
  (Because this household was apparently preparing for a zombie apocalypse.)

• 4 tbsp butter
  (Yes, mine was salted. We adapt.)

• 1 tbsp olive oil
  (Steakhouse trick. Butter + oil = commitment.)

• ½ small onion, very finely minced
  (Like SUPER fine. Mince until you cry all your emotions out.
  Blame the onion. No one gets to call you emo.)

• 1 clove garlic, minced

• 1¼ cups heavy cream

• ¼ cup whole milk

• 2 tbsp cream cheese
  (Optional, but also… why are we lying to ourselves?)

• 1 tsp sugar — MAYBE
  (More on this later. Calm down.)

• 1 tsp salt (start light)

• ¼ tsp white pepper
  (Black pepper is fine if that’s what you have. We are not elitists.)

• Tiny pinch nutmeg
  (Optional, but makes you feel fancy and emotionally stable for five minutes.)

Instructions (a.k.a. The System)

1. Build the base
Melt butter and olive oil over medium-low heat.
Add the onion and cook it slowly until soft and sweet. No browning. No chaos.
Add garlic for about 30 seconds — don’t let it get aggressive.

2. Corn gets cozy
Add the corn. Stir it around. Let it soak up the fat for 3–4 minutes.
This is where corn learns its purpose.

3. Cream bomb (gentle version)
Add heavy cream, milk, sugar (JUST A LITTLE), salt, white pepper, and nutmeg.
Bring to a gentle simmer.
Do not boil. Corn deserves respect.

4. The steakhouse texture move
Blend about ⅓ of the corn until smooth, then stir it back in.
This is what makes it lush instead of sad.

5. Finish rich
Lower the heat. Stir in cream cheese until melted and silky.
Simmer another 3–5 minutes until thick and glossy.

6. Taste and adjust
If it doesn’t make you nod slowly, it’s not done.

The Sugar Panic (Because This Will Happen)

I asked GPT: “Should I add sugar?”
GPT said: HELL NO.
Gurllll don’t go crazy.

Follow the system:

1. Add cream or milk first

2. Then butter

3. Blend more corn

4. Sugar is the LAST resort (¼ tsp max — not a vibe)

Dump sugar too early and congratulations — you made Thanksgiving casserole.

Reheating Notes (Important, sis)

• Reheat low and slow

• Add cream or milk first

• If using salted butter, add ½ tbsp at a time

• Taste after every step

• Walk away when it’s good like a professional

Do not microwave straight from cold unless you enjoy broken sauce and regret.

This is not polite corn.
This is I didn’t feel like Christmas but I still showed up corn.

Is This Adulthood?

I used to think adulthood would feel like arriving somewhere—like I’d wake up one day calm, competent, and finally sure of myself. Instead, it feels more like moving through my days with a mental checklist and a practiced smile, doing what needs to be done and making jokes along the way so no one notices how tired I am. I’m good at this part. Too good, maybe.

But lately, I haven’t been showing up.

I quit a job I loved. A job that looked, from the outside, like proof that I was finally doing adulthood right. I started as a seasonal employee. Part-time. Within three months, I became a department supervisor. Then a key holder. Before my third year, I was promoted to assistant store manager in the highest-volume store in the district. My boss’s boss told me to stay. To hang in there. That in a year or two, I’d have my own store.

And still, I left.

It wasn’t an easy decision. I loved the work. But the culture was relentless, and being competent made me an easy target—especially for the store manager and the managers around me. The better I performed, the more exposed I felt. So I walked away from something I had built from the ground up.

Now I’m lost again.

I’m scared to admit that out loud, especially at this age. I’m turning fifty-four in a few days, and instead of feeling settled, I feel like I’m standing at the beginning of something without a map. I thought by now I’d know the ropes. That I’d have direction. That I wouldn’t still be asking myself what comes next.

I found love late in life. He’s close to retiring. I uprooted myself, moved to a foreign country, rebuilt from scratch, and took a job I knew nothing about—only to leave it once it finally started going well. And now I’m here, half a century in, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do next.

The Best Christmas Gift I Never Expected

 It’s almost Christmas, and I keep finding myself pausing in the middle of ordinary moments — folding laundry, washing dishes, staring out the window — because something inside me feels full in a way I didn’t expect.

My books are selling on Amazon.

Not viral. Not headline-worthy. Just… real. Real people, somewhere out there, choosing something I made. And at 53 years old, that feels like a miracle I didn’t even know how to pray for.

This is the best Christmas gift I never expected.

The Holidays, the Boxes, and the Quiet Scorekeeping We Don’t Talk About

The holidays do something strange to my chest.

One minute I’m fine — wrapping chocolates, sending cards, pretending I’m organized — and the next minute I’m standing in my kitchen doing emotional math I never signed up for.

Who gets what. Who expects what. Who notices. Who never does.

This year, I sent cards. Same card, same message. Friends, coworkers, family. Easy. Civilized. Very peace on earth.

What I didn’t do was tuck money into a card for an adult who has quietly come to expect it.

Solo, Sinigang, and SoFi Stadium Feelings

My husband flew to LA this morning. Yes, again. This time for a Rams game at SoFi Stadium. Just him and his ride-or-die—his best friend, his forever football bromance. And me? I’m home. Again.

It’s a familiar rhythm — football weekends, solo nights, and the strange quiet that comes with midlife, marriage, and the holidays.

I used to feel bad when he’d go off on these guy trips, leaving me behind in a house that echoed with silence. Especially when we still lived in the woods—snowed in up in Pollock Pines, buried under feet of drama (and actual snow), praying the power didn’t go out again because a tree fell on the lines. I used to ration firewood like it was a war-time commodity, dragging logs up the stairs like a freezing, grumbling lumberjack.

Now? We live in the city. No fireplace. No snow. No deer peeking into our kitchen window like confused neighbors. No bluejays squawking territorial arguments on the railing. Everything is close by—groceries, coffee, the rest of the world.

Everything…except the people I miss most.

Aging, Airfare, and the Ghost of Christmas Cards Unsent

Tomorrow we fly to Arizona for the Rams vs Cardinals game.
A football weekend.
Sports.
Yes, again. 🙃

My husband is thrilled. As he should be. He grew up in Huntington Beach, where surfboards are basically issued at birth. You know the type—blond, sun-kissed, freckled, grew-up-on-a-longboard type of SoCal boy. Former jock who somehow still knows the batting averages of players who retired when gas was under two cents. Name a sport? He played it. Or at least talks like he could…if his knees didn’t now sound like a bag of Rice Krispies every time he stands up. Aging, my friends, is the real MVP.

Meanwhile, there’s me.
Filipino Chinese. Raised by a full-on Asian Tiger Mom.

“No biking! You might fall and scratch your face!”
“No swimming! You’ll get dark!”
“No standing near a fan! You’ll catch pneumonia and die!”
“Where’s the Vicks VapoRub?! Apply it on everything. Prevention is better than cure. And Vicks cures EVERYTHING!” UGH!

So yeah. While the kids were out there bruising their knees and learning teamwork, I was indoors bonding with Nancy Drew, binge-reading the Britannica Encyclopedias (Gen Z, that’s Google but in book form), and escaping into entire worlds of Greek and Filipino mythology. I was alphabetizing facts about the Trojan War while baking Food For the Gods and sylvanas, watercolor, charcoal-drawing Princess Diana, and creating sculptures with plaster of Paris. Doing mix media before that was a thing.
Introvert aesthetic before it was a Pinterest board. 

I wasn’t athletic. I was imaginative.
I didn’t play dodgeball. I dodged expectations.

Now? I go to NFL games. Only NFL. Not college. That’s the only kind I can take.
I made the mistake once of going to a college game at Hard Rock Stadium.
Never again.
The kids were standing the entire time, screaming, sweating, shaking their shirts like they were possessed by a frat demon.
And do they even know what deodorant is??
No thank you. I need assigned seats, overpriced nachos, and adults who sit down between plays.

Not because I understand it (I still don’t know what a “3rd and 6” is and I refuse to learn at this point out of principle), but because it’s fun in a weird, chaotic, overpriced-hotdog, nacho-cheese-stuck-to-my-jeans kind of way. And because I’ve learned that fun sometimes wears a jersey and yells at referees.

Also, full disclosure:
I did have a Brady-Gronk era. And I’ve been a Travis Kelce fan since BEFORE Taylor Swift turned him into a lifestyle influencer. I saw him first. Let the record show my superior scouting skills. 💅

I actually tried learning football using ChatGPT. AI looked me dead in the face (digitally) and said:
“Dory, you actually know more about the game than most Americans do.”
HAH. I retired right then and there.