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What else can I help you with?
What is the scientific name of apahap?
I'm not sure what "apahap" is. Do you mean APAP? It's also called paracetamol or acetaminophen, and its IUPAC name is N-(4-hydroxylphenyl)acetamide.
Kinds of fish in the Philippines suited for preservation?
alumahan bangus dilis hasahasa tilapia dalag bisugo tanguigue apahap (sea bass) tamban tambakol lapad lapu- lapu (gruper) Matangbaka sapsap talakito maya maya tuna
What is the poem of allegorical quatrains?
Allegorical QuatrainsTranslated by Bienvenido LumberaAlas for me, my friend,Solitary is the peace of thread:Once it snaps at the bobbin,It ends up tangled in the heddle-rodThough the hill be highAnd reach up to the highland,Being desirous of heightsIt will finally be reduced to discern.When one submits to a wound,he does not feel the pain;to one who resists it,a mere scratch become a sole,I'm the fish the size of the "sap sap"No wider than a barnacle;But I'm creating quite stirBecause I'm swimming aroundwith a Big "apahap"
Can anybody here share the Allegorical quatrains?
Allegorical QuatrainsTranslated by Bienvenido LumberaAlas for me, my friend,Solitary is the peace of thread:Once it snaps at the bobbin,It ends up tangled in the heddle-rodThough the hill be highAnd reach up to the highland,Being desirous of heightsIt will finally be reduced to discern.When one submits to a wound,he does not feel the pain;to one who resists it,a mere scratch become a sole,I'm the fish the size of the "sap sap"No wider than a barnade;But I'm creating quite stirBecause I'm swimming aroundwith a Big "apahap"
Where is the patis by Carmen Guerrero-nakpil?
WHERE'S THE PATIS?By Carmen Guerrero NakpilTravel has become the great Filipino dream. In the same way that an American dreams of becoming a millionaire or an English boy dreams of going to one of the great universities, the Filipino dreams of going abroad. His most constant vision is that of himself as tourist.To visit Hongkong, Tokyo and other cities of Asia, perchance, to catch a glimpse of Rome, Paris or London and to go to America (even if only for a week in a fly-specked motel in California) is the sum of all delights.Yet having left the Manila International Airport in a pink cloud of despedidas and sampaguita garlands and pabilin, the dream turns into a nightmare very quickly. But why? Because the first bastion of the Filipino spirit is the palate. And in all the palaces and fleshpots and skyscrapers of that magic world called "abroad" there is no patis to be had.Consider the Pinoy abroad. He has discarded barong tagalong or "polo" for a sleek, dark Western suit. He takes to the habiliments from Hongkong, Brooks Brothers or Savile Row with the greatest of ease. He has also shed the casual informality of manner that is characteristically Filipino. He gives himself the airs of a cosmopolite to the credit-card born. He is extravagantly courteous (specially in a borrowed language) and has taken to hand-kissing and to plenty of American "D'you minds?"He hardly misses the heat, the native accents of Tagalog or Ilongo or the company of his brown-skinned cheerful compatriots. He takes, like a duck to water, to the skyscrapers, the temperate climate, the strange landscape and the fabled refinements of another world. How nice, after all, to be away from good old R.P. for a change!But as he sits down to meal, no matter how sumptuous, his heart sinks. His stomach juices, he discovers, are much less neither as apahap nor lapu-lapu. Tournedos is meat done in a barbarian way, thick and barely cooked with red juices still oozing out. The safest choice is a steak. If the Pinoy can get it well done enough and sliced thinly enough, it might remind him of tapa.If the waiter only knew enough about Philippine cuisine, he might suggest venison which is really something like tapang usa, or escargots which the unstylish poor on Philippine beaches know as snails. Or even frog legs which are a Pampango delight.But this is the crux of the problem where is the rice? A sliver tray offers varieties of bread: slices of crusty French bread, soft yellow rolls, rye bread, crescents studded with sesame seeds. There are also potatoes in every conceivable manner, fried, mashed, boiled, buttered. But no rice.The Pinoy learns that rice is considered a vegetable in Europe and America. The staff of life a vegetable!And when it comes a special order which takes at least half an hour the grains are large, oval and foreign-looking and what's more, yellow with butter. And oh horrors! - one must shove it with a fork or pile it with one's knife on the back of another fork.After a few days of these debacles, the Pinoy, sick with longing, decides to comb the strange city for a Chinese restaurant, the closest thing to the beloved gastronomic county. There, in the company of other Asian exiles, he will put his nose finally in a bowl of rice and find it more fragrant than an English rose garden, more exciting than a castle on the Rhine and more delicious than pink champagne.To go with the rice there is siopao (not so rich as at Salazar) pancit guisado reeking with garlic (but never so good as any that can be had on the sidewalks of Quiapo) fried lumpia with the incorrect sauce, and even mami (but nothing like the down-town wanton)Better than a Chinese restaurant is the kitchen of a kababayan. When in a foreign city, a Pinoy searches every busy sidewalk, theatre, restaurant for the well-remembered golden features of a fellow-pinoy. But make it no mistake.
What is the poem unending thanks by Pedro Suarez Osorio?
Allegorical QuatrainsBienvenido LumberaAlas for me, my friend,Solitary is the peace of thread:Once it snaps at the bobbin,It ends up tangled in the heddle-rodThough the hill be highAnd reach up to the highland,Being desirous of heightsIt will finally be reduced to discern.When one submits to a wound,He does not feel the pain;To one who resists it?A mere scratch become a sole,I'm the fish the size of the "sap sap"No wider than a barnade;But I'm creating quite stirBecause I'm swimming aroundWith a Big "apahap"No greater love than yoursNicanor TiongsonThere is no greater love than yours,O Most Sacred Heart,so we, the Filipino people,offer you our hearts.In our temples and in our homes,we cry out to you.May your kingdom stand firm from Aparri to Jolo.Long we have hopedfor Your Empire in the East.Like the sun burning brightis the faith of the Philippines,It stands strong like a rock and fills all void like the sea. Never shall these islands be possessed by sin, for on our mountains is raised your heavenly signand the gates of Hell shall not prevail.The StormTheodore RoethkeAgainst the stone breakwater,Only an ominous lapping,While the wind whines overhead,Coming down from the mountain,Whistling between the arbors, the winding terraces;A thin whine of wires, a rattling and flapping of leaves,And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming againstthe lamp pole.Where have the people gone?There is one light on the mountain.Along the sea-wall, a steady sloshing of the swell,The waves not yet high, but even,Coming closer and closer upon each other;A fine fume of rain driving in from the sea,Riddling the sand, like a wide spray of buckshot,The wind from the sea and the wind from the mountain contending,Flicking the foam from the whitecaps straight upward into the darkness.A time to go home!--And a child's dirty shift billows upward out of an alley,A cat runs from the wind as we do,Between the whitening trees, up Santa Lucia,Where the heavy door unlocks,And our breath comes more easy--Then a crack of thunder, and the black rain runs over us, overThe flat-roofed houses, coming down in gusts, beatingThe walls, the slatted windows, drivingThe last watcher indoors, moving the cardplayers closerTo their cards, their anisette.We creep to our bed, and its straw mattress.We wait; we listen.The storm lulls off, then redoubles,Bending the trees half-way down to the ground,Shaking loose the last wizened oranges in the orchard,Flattening the limber carnations.A spider eases himself down from a swaying light-bulb,Running over the coverlet, down under the iron bedstead.Water roars into the cistern.We lie closer on the gritty pillow,Breathing heavily, hoping--For the great last leap of the wave over the breakwater,The flat boom on the beach of the towering sea-swell,The sudden shudder as the jutting sea-cliff collapses,And the hurricane drives the dead straw into the living pine-tree.Summer SongSummer longI'll sing to youmy summer songRead a poemA summer songIt isn't longIt's just a songFrom my hearta poem longbut not at allmy summer songMy summer longis something speciala poem, a songto my heart belongSummer breezesummer longI'll sing to youmy summer songPlanting RicePlanting rice is never fun,bending over 'til the set of sun.Cannot sit, cannot stand,Plant the seedlings all by hand.Planting rice is not fun,Bending over 'til the set of sun.Cannot sit and cannot stand,Plant the seedlings all by hand.14
What is the literary essay of where is the patis?
The literary essay "Where is the Patis" is a critical analysis of the short story "The Patis" by Carlos Angeles. It delves into the themes, characters, and narrative techniques used in the story to explore deeper meanings and interpretations. The essay likely examines the symbolism of the patis (fish sauce) in the story and its significance in relation to Filipino culture and identity.
