My Mothers House, My Family's home
What could be a more fitting welcome than a big (and I do mean big) bowl of kare-kare and two succulent slices of tuna belly grilled to perfection plus the spicy smell of sinamak -when you get home?
If the prodigal son was my mom's very own? that dumb fart wouldn't have ran away in the first place. He would have sat his prodigal ass at home and thugged it out he's whole life just so he could sit his behind every night at the dinner table and enjoy the simple home cook feasts of mi mama.
Call me a mama's boy, I don't care, because in our family -even my dad is a "mama's boy." There's nothing like having a cooky-cook-ky mom. She's our princess, queen, general, slave driver, cosmic karmic bringer, cashier, accountant, bank, pawnshop, judge, clown, conscience, heart and soul. She's all that and everything else in between.
