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Welcome, aspiring millionaires, dynasts, and future infrastructure tycoons! Today, we’re not cooking adobo or sinigang. No, no, no. Today we’re cooking something far more delicious: a privileged life — the kind that comes with endless contracts, highways named after your last name, and ribbon-cuttings that double as family reunions. If you’ve ever wondered how to whip up a life where money flows faster than a flash flood on an unfinished drainage project — don’t worry. We’ve got the recipe. Ingredients (Non-negotiable): 1 fresh nepo baby (preferably delivered into a family with DPWH ties). 2 cups of last name privilege (seasoned with legacy and connections). 3 sacks of government projects (roads, bridges, flood control systems — the more, the merrier). 5 kilos of padrino system (finely chopped into mayors, governors, and senators). 1 truckload of taxpayers’ money (harvested directly from the people’s pockets). A dash of “hard work pays off” rhetoric (for plating). Optional garnish: ribbon-cuttings, tarpaulins with your face, and Instagram reels captioned “#Blessed.” Step-by-Step Instructions: Step 1: Preheat your privilege. No need to struggle, apply, or hustle. Just be born into the right womb. Your mother is your first investment plan, your father your first business partner. With this base, you don’t even need to chop garlic. You’re already halfway done! Step 2: Whisk together your surname and connections. Blend until silky smooth. If your last name echoes in the halls of DPWH, congratulations — you now have an all-access pass to projects. If not, don’t worry; just marry into a family that does. (Pro tip: Love is temporary, but contracts are forever.) Step 3: Add contracts “won” through bidding. But don’t stress about competing fairly — the recipe calls for “friendly” bidding only. Make sure the competition is either family, friends, or puppets willing to lose on paper. Toss this into the pot and let it boil in government kitchens until tender. Step 4: Pour in taxpayers’ money. This is the lifeblood of the dish. Funnel it generously, making sure no drop is wasted — except, of course, on actual public service. Every peso ladled into your pot adds flavor to your gated community, private schooling abroad, and sports car collection. Step 5: Season with the padrino system. Take your mayors, your congressmen, and your “malakas sa taas.” Sprinkle them liberally — the more padrinos, the stronger the flavor of untouchability. This ensures your dish never spoils, even when scandals heat up. Step 6: Simmer in ribbon-cutting ceremonies. Add large scissors, a priest’s blessing, balloons, and a tarpaulin with your surname in size 72 font. Stir slowly until the crowd claps. Remember: it doesn’t matter if the road cracks a week later — presentation is everything. Step 7: Plate beautifully with luxury. Serve with steaming hot European vacations, iced designer handbags, and a side of “humble beginnings” stories. For garnish, drizzle quotes like “Success is hard work” or “Anyone can do this if they try.” (Warning: may cause indigestion among listeners.) Serving Suggestions: Best served while ordinary people commute through potholes and unfinished roads. Pairs well with public school classrooms that flood during heavy rain. Goes down smoother if eaten while telling others: “Wala, sipag at tiyaga lang talaga.” Ideal for family banquets, where cousins are also subcontractors and uncles are sitting mayors. Chef’s Notes: This recipe is foolproof — as long as you start with the right bloodline. No amount of grit, grind, or GPA can replicate the taste of being a contractor’s child. Others may try their hand at entrepreneurship, climb the corporate ladder, or work overseas just to make ends meet. But you? You wake up and contracts fall onto your plate like freshly baked pandesal. Side effects may include widespread envy, taxpayer fatigue, and a bitter aftertaste of injustice. This dish is not recommended for democratic health but remains a bestseller in elite kitchens. Because in this culinary world of privilege, some are born with the recipe book already written for them — passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, contractor to contractor. Meanwhile, the rest of us are left outside the restaurant, peeking through the glass, stomachs rumbling, clutching wallets that paid for the meal we’ll never get to taste. Bon appétit.