A few minutes ago, I smelled the freshly squeezed calamansi juice that my father was making for his bedtime tea. I looked up from where I was sitting and asked if there were any calamansi left. He told me that there were enough, and implied that if I wanted some I should get off my ass and make a cup for myself.
As I started to slice the fruit I casually asked if he had any small strainer ready; he said no. He said I should fish out the seeds using a teaspoon. I then continued slicing, and then he handed me a teaspoon, interrupting his own masterpiece. He then noted how I was slicing the calamansi; he mentioned something about how to properly do it, which was his way, of course.
I started squeezing and then scooping the seeds out. He handed me a small jar of honey; he told me to use it. As he started dipping an herbal teabag, in and out, bouncing up and down the elixir, he said that I should put in some teabags because it would make the concoction delicious. I went to the thermos for some hot water, and then he called out and said that he had some freshly-boiled water ready; as I am not very much familiar with my parents' kitchen I turned and looked like I was caught in a hazy maze. He pointed at one corner; apparently, he used the coffee pot to boil the water. I then poured some water, put the pot back, and started going through the cupboard for some teabag. He hissed that he already had something ready for me. Like a little girl I took the teabag from him, ripped it open, and started dipping, in and out, bouncing up and down.
As I was clearly finished with the ceremony --- which he was watching as he sipped his tea, standing up --- he told me how I should secure the teabag by wrapping its end around the mug holder.
Although my dad and I fight sometimes as he is a terrible (and sexist) backseat driver and like many men he always insists that he is always right, I found that supposed-annoying instance comforting and thought that I simply missed being a just a child, that I will always be somebody's daughter.
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