Love (in the kitchen) never felt so good

My niece Jenny introduced me to a new music video of Justin Timberlake dancing to the iconic moves of the late Michael Jackson.  The song was, in fact, composed by MJ himself, in partnership with another known composer, Paul Anka, who composed karaoke’s “national anthem” My Way, for Frank Sinatra.  This new MJ song was released only now, five years after his passing.

MJ transformed dramatically the all-American traditional big band music and dancing, moving them away from the Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers tandem waltzing and the hip twisting, rock and roll shaking of Elvis Presley, to one that used film noir with dance sequences that defied gravity.

I remember.

It was 1982.  My young son was preparing for Halloween, “Mom, dress me like Michael Jackson!”  Luckily, I found the red, patent, padded jacket with pockets and zippers at Cartimar Market.  The black cropped or bitin pants were easy, same with the white thick socks and cotton gloves like what traffic policemen used to wear.  “Mom,” he hollered.  “Don’t forget the sequins.”  I sat with his yaya to hand-stitch silver sequins on one glove.  A black fedora hat and General McArthur’s sunshades tied up the Bad look.  When his baby sister saw his whole getup, she refused to be eclipsed.  She looked for a worn-out dress, tore it at the edges, messed up her long hair, and splashed a generous amount of talcum powder on her face.  “See Mama?  I’m the Thrilla zombie.”

Like a theater mom, I was filled with delight, but also because I liked MJ.  His songs and choreography were fine artistry and I enjoyed watching his stunning production, undoubtedly from a music-gifted mind.  My favorite was Rock with You and what fun to dance to its infectious beat.  Maybe, there’s one thing I still find uncomfortable though.  His habit of grabbing his crotch. In one interview, he dismissed it as something that comes naturally, being so immersed in his craft that his arms moved every way, high, below, and around his waist.

MJ sang, “Love never felt so good, never felt so fine.  Gotta fly, gotta see, can’t believe.”  It sang of sparkling love, given and received.  Instantly, I thought back to the many instances when my heart was literally dancing, singing, too, of happiness felt, embraced, and captured.

 Would you remember the time when you looked into each other’s eyes and you saw gentleness, warmth, and goodness?  You spent hours just sitting under a moonbeam, holding hands and heaving big sighs of contentment, wishing that this moment never came to an end?

What about when he led you across the room and danced to your favorite tune?  In our time, that meant no waltzing, only twisting, shimmying, mash-potato-ing and boogie-ing to great combo music, the Beatles especially.  The other dancing pairs never mattered.  So long as the boy dancing in front of you only had eyes for you and he made sure that you danced with him and him alone.  For a magic while, it was heaven.

The same thing happened to my son.  One day, he sent me a mystifying message:  “Mom, she’s the one! Check my private blog,” he wrote.  Wow!  I saw photos of his apartment strewn with rose petals from the front door to every part of his pad with more petals in his bedroom.  In several languages, she formed the words “I love you.”  But that wasn’t all.  She conspired with his building manager to be given the keys to his apartment.  While he was at work, she cooked up a four-course dinner fit for a king — the king of her heart.  This gesture set her apart from the other girls he dated.  For me, an impish thought came to mind:  Finally, here is someone who loves to cook (and cooks well) and will put an end to my slaving and toiling in the kitchen, a task I never savored nor welcomed.  I was not born with a kitchen fairy in my life and therefore preferred to delegate the cooking to anyone but me.  She solved my one dilemma (and drama):  Who will feed my son?

Eight years have passed.  She still cooks for my son, now her hubby, plus three growing kids and tadah! Her mother-in-law and her father-in-law, whenever we’re in town!  The bonus is she’s a neat freak, like my son and I, although she won’t flinch if she makes a mess in the kitchen to try out new, delicious, and healthy recipes.  She also keeps me away from the kitchen, except to bring my empty plate to the sink, licked clean to the last morsel.

MJ was right.  Love never felt (and tasted) so good.

In Tagalog, sarap talaga.