Hey, girlfriends, where are the boys?

Valentine’s Day 2004: Offices were closed and traffic flowed smoothly. If there was any build- up of people and vehicles, it was in the perimeter of the shopping malls, a comfortable distance from where we were supposed to meet. I expected this bunch of ex-Hilton girls to be on time or at the most, just a little late.

The first to arrive was Celia Silang-Cruz. She put her wooden bowl filled with fresh, crunchy leaves of lettuce, curly endives and the woody-tasting arugula topped by a generous sprinkling of chopped walnuts, apples and hard boiled eggs down. Her salad dressing concocted from apple cider, olive oil and other herbs provided just the right blend of sweetness, tartness and, ah, zest.

Celia made a brief call to her daughter who opted to stay home with her music, the computer and the telephone rather than be in the company of this fiftysomething group. Made sense.

Fe Reyes and Maurita Arce Kuhn arrived next. I could hear them from the gate as they hollered for Celia to move her shiny, new car so they could park alongside hers. The chattering didn’t stop. They were giggling and almost stumbled as they clumsily balanced pints of ice cream, a box of chocolates, a shoe-shine tube, gaily wrapped gifts all packed in mammoth bags. Maurita was still musing about the absence of traffic when Fe broke into a frown to see all of us dressed in various shades of red.

"But you didn’t answer me when I suggested that we come in our crimson flowing gown? Look at all of you shimmering like fiery rubies," Fe bemoaned.

No one had time to reply because the double door suddenly burst open to reveal Lita Potassy sashaying to the tune of Peggy Lee’s Fever. (Never know how much I love you...) She wore a rich Chinese silk brocade jacket.

"Lita, where’s your serpentina‚ skirt?" I asked. "Still at the dryer’s," she chuckled as she waved two big shopping bags full of photo albums. Digging into one, she pulled out a tiny wrapped gift and sheepishly handed it to me. She then walked past the swinging door straight to the buffet table to rest a plate of cold cuts that looked too elegant to spoil.

"Did you make these, Lita?" I asked. Hiding behind a serving spoon, she replied, "Well, kinda. I kinda lifted the phone and dialed Le Boucherie‚ and don’t anybody touch the plate. I have to return that to the butcher!"

Fe peeked into Lita’s bag to check the photos again. "Oh goodness. I don’t have copies of these. Can someone please scan them and e-mail them to me?"

Dead silence. No one was proficient in computers since most retired from work just when the electric typewriter was being sold at auction or for scrap. Behind me, I heard a harried and harassed voice, "I can’t stay. I bungled up my schedule. But I just couldn’t miss seeing you guys." (Hmmm. There was also the risk that we would talk about her).

"I brought prosciutto/parma ham wrapped in melon boats. Hurry up. I want some pictures with the group before I go. It was Rita Dy.

Betty Nelle and Marimil Hernandez showed up on each other’s heels. Marimil headed straight to the buffet table and rested her homemade chicken relleno next to the fish cutlets. She reminded everyone to try her peaches, plum and orange sauce served in an elegant compote.

Betty went to the kitchen looking for the freezer. She brought mango float, a whipped cream-based dish with thick slices of ripe mangoes sandwiched between several layers of baked egg white ala sans rival. It must be kept frozen until serving time which was not a good hour at least. Someone tried to sneak a bite but a built-in sensor flashed, "Tiramisu darling. I am for dessert."

To whet the appetite, deep fried keropok was passed around. This Malaysian version of the shrimp crackers was the best kind. They were made from pure shrimps with no flour extenders and prepared the halal way.

Now growing thirsty, everyone’s query was, "Do you have diet soda?" It’s unbelievable how these wacky ladies could hang on to the myth that diet soda can keep one’s weight down in spite of over indulgence. They didn’t stop munching.

Remy was the last to arrive with her squid adobo steaming and smothered in black sauce. It was super garlic-ky, vinegar-y, and sugar-y nam-nam.

A noisy queue suddenly materialized. Everyone hurriedly filled up their plates eager to sit and start. With the lights down low, the candles lit, soft music playing, and vintage wine poured, it was time to dig in. Someone forgot to raise a toast.

Conversation spilled continuously, interrupted only by peals of laughter so loud and spontaneous that could have shaken the very foundation of decorum and propriety. Topics switched from politics (the funny, ridiculous, annoying, repugnant, quixotic, and the terrifying side of it) to family (the funny, ridiculous, tender, annoying, quixotic and worrisome side of it) to everyday concerns and quotable quotes that could make, break or inspire the heart. It was also a beautiful night for singing and dancing.

Dancing? Where are the boys? Each girl turned to the one next to her and clinking ice cubes asked, "Huh?"

What’s Valentine’s indeed without your girlfriends’ love and friendship?