I remember being obsessed with penny loafers, but the bigger mystery was the source of that obsession. Where had I seen them? What thought process did I go through at 12, 13 (?) to make me want them? But the mystery deepens when I actually get the shoes (don’t know how I convinced my mother of that) and to wear them specifically for one event- the Stations of the Cross for Lent. They were so new that they cut the back of my heel. To this day I still can’t decide whether I suffered for fashion, or was punished by God for my vanity.

I miss the quietude of the Holy Week of my childhood. No distraction of either entertainment or food. Pray and contemplate my mother, the lone Catholic enforcer in our household, urged us. I prayed- to get taller, for better (less oily) skin, for friends. I contemplated my existence, and of life out there in space, of faeries who attended Easter Sunday mass and whose only tell-tale clue of what they are is the absence of a medial cleft (I furtively scanned people’s faces as they bowed their heads and closed their eyes to pray).

What do you eat for Sunday when everyone is dieting? Don’t forget the buns (we got a pistachio and chocolate variant); an easy to cook lamb (butterflied leg of lamb that cooks in 35 minutes); and sticky date pudding (minus the ice-cream). I miss the lechon from Bangsal which we got on the way back from church.