Buko (Young Coconut) Pie
Recipe:
1 fresh young coconut, drained with meat removed and chopped where the coconut flesh has not yet hardened and is still very creamy.
2 (12 fluid ounce) cans evaporated milk
1 (14 ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
4 eggs, beaten
¼ cup white sugar
1 pinch salt
Directions:
Step 1: Preheat an oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).
Step 2: Stir the coconut, evaporated milk, sweetened condensed milk, eggs, sugar, and salt together in a bowl; pour into a round 3-quart baking dish. Set the baking dish into a large roasting pan. Pour enough water into the bottom of the roasting pan to fill about halfway up the side of the baking dish. Carefully move to the preheated oven.
Step 3: Bake in preheated oven until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 60 minutes. Allow to cool completely before serving.
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A riddle four times not fair. Four soul-searing flights doing the Bataan Death March Hokie Pokie through an airport too far. Strapped down flat like a eight-pound lab rat trapped in the wooden entrails of a BDSM ventriloquist dummy being beaten with rubber mallets in a psychotic girl's teahouse dungeon.
Time to face the music. No rests for the wicked. Find the muse to change my life, here, on this infernal island, or die from my failures. Why is my cell phone ringing? Must burrow flat under the base of this pet poodle's shawl of a blanket and pause this world for a hundred forty hours or so.
~
Thirteen voice mails from Scam City. A sure-fire commodity trading system from a robo-dialer in Bulgaria. A New Delhi accent in Antwerp with a once-in-a-lifetime deal on real estate in Ottowa. Some lady from Portugal offers overpriced auto insurance for a car I don't even own in Burkina Faso.
And then …
A New Zealand accent. "Dougie."
Whwhawhafuthewha — ?
Two syllables. Lilting. Feminine. Traci Olny Beckwith. The REAL reason I'm here.
"Dougie Boy. Guess you know whoooo. The gangeroonie's pissed-up at Fianchetto's Revelation. Choice name for a bar, eh? So shake your Dougie Bum across the main drag, switcheroo left at the Happy Pig through the Mange Dog Maze to White Beach. Piece of piss, eh."
Bounce off the bed and a quick change act, before taking stock in the closet mirror. Pineapple yellow tropical tourista sunshirt. Board shorts. Knock-off Moscot sunglasses. Not my best foot forward, especially for a geek with crippling social anxiety going on a ten-thousand kilometer blind date.
The Moscots are for a Johnny Depp vibe, but I'm less Don Juan DeMarco than Gilbert Grape caught sniffing glue while masturbating in a '97 Dodge Dart parked at an illegal dogtrack in Oxnard after pissing away Jack Sparrow's Fuck You Disney money on Edward Scissorhands cosplay swords.
These clothes are meant for travel comfort, not painting first date impressionisms, but in life's grand play, you go with what you know in that great, big bleak theater of the future.
Ta-da! The curtain opens. Rush downstairs past the empty gym. I'll get that workout in, tomorrow. I swear. Past the guard ga —
"Kill them! Kill them all!"
The lean, mean security guard growls at an old nine-inch portable TV perched on the window sill next to an eggplant. It's a Philippine Basketball Association game of great import: the Barangay Ginebra Kings versus the Rain or Shine Elasto Painters. "Kill him. Kill him again. Block his shit in. Kill him all, brother. ARRrrrraghhhh!" He pounds his fist and slumps like a wounded gopher, then sighs. "Fucking overtime."
"Who's winning?"
An incredulous frown.
Whoops. I tilt my head skyward, admiring our sun god's positive glow. "Ah, quite the day, today."
"Hella yeah, security is the life, brotha. Watch the games. Drink the cocosnots." For emphasis, he picks up his coconut drink and sucks on the straw, then belches. "Ahhhhhh."
"Sounds great."
"It is, brotha. It is. And the bestest thing … ah — " He pulls out a curved machete and takes a couple of swats at an annoying fly. "With this bolo, I'm legit as a Dirty Harry shit for any, uh, screaming whores of zombies who wanna cause trouble. Wooohoo! Wanna hold it?"
"Ah, no thanks. My doctor says I need to cut down on weapon play."
"Suit yourself, brotha." Sensing fear, he puts the blade back in its sheath. "Hey, you're the dog room brotha, right, brotha?" A vise grip handshake in friendship. "Armando."
"I'm Doug."
"Dog?"
"Doug."
"Dung?"
"Jim. My name is Jim."
He smiles affably, then peers around. "That was a bold little, uh, movement back there, Jim."
"What?"
"C'mon … " A hushed tone. "Checking in with a suitcase full of electric dildos. That's crazy."
"What? No. No way — "
A hearty laugh and a thumbs-up. "Relax, brotha, relax. I kid. I kid." A sly wink. "Happens all the time."
"What?" A quick gesture at my non-functional watch. "Um, I gotta go … meet some friends."
"Oh, I bet."
I start speed-walking, then glance back. He flashes me the pinky 'n' pointer rock 'n' roll shocker sign while holding up his drink. "Don't forget to stay hydrogenated and enjoy our humble island's cocosnots, Mister Jim, Brotha."
"Kill him! Kill him all!"
I bound away to Armando's screams of mass homicide.