The Lent of my youth

What is it about summer that it never fails to bring back memories of our youth? Maybe because summer always finds us spending more time at home, eating all three meals in the languorous comfort of our kitchen, raiding the pantry and the refrigerator simultaneously and in the process driving our mothers crazy. Sometimes they wished school was not yet over, hoping for a little more reprieve before the siege, but the season is unforgiving-summer must come on schedule and right on track as soon as the cool month of February ends.

Summer for most is all about the beach. In our youth, it was picnics in Pansol or just or just a quick run to the YMCA for a dip in the pool. Every May 1, though, it was Hinulugang Taktak, in Antipolo for the family, back when it still had cascading waters to cool us off and the noise of rushing waters was still deafening. In later years, our picnics became more quiet because Hinulugang Taktak had eventually dried up over the years, leaving only old tables under the shade of ancient trees. Slowly, the picnics stopped altogether. 

We enjoyed Antipolo for several years though, because May 1 was my brother Eddie’s birthday. I remember vividly the merry sight of young people going to Antipolo on foot, starting on the journey the night before. We started out as early as 6 a.m. by car, and traffic even then was already horrendous.

After mass, it was always lunch at one of the stalls outside of the church. All the stalls sold fresh crispy lechon, lining the road and glistening in their fat under the scorching sun. For years, this was our regular fare, capped by dessert of ripe mangoes, and whatever else came with the lechon was collateral. That and the take home brown bags of roasted kasuy and bunches of suman and more ripe mangoes was the epitome of summer for the family.

Still, like most Filipino families in this predominantly Catholic country, the Lenten season remained the highlight of summer. The Pabasa always figured in, as the countless processions around the neighborhood, and the annual Santacruzan that brought everyone out of the house to gawk. But for the young children, my brothers and my countless cousins, everyone looked forward to the bacalao that was as much a part of Lent as it was of summer. My mother was always designated cook for this dish which everyone looked forward to as part and parcel of Lent. It may seem irreverent, but it is a fact within the Gamboa clan. Back then, the authentic salted cod from Portugal was not readily available, and if it was, the price was rather prohibitive. If you are going to cook for a whole clan, wisdom rules over gustatory delights, so more often than not, we had to settle for the native variety of this dish. Deep into the summer months, dried heavily-salted labahita floods the sidewalks of Manila. This fleshy variety of fish has become the popular alternative choice for Pinoys wishing to cook bacalao on a modest budget, and because it is really a bland-tasting fish, the hawkers salt it heavily.

Maybe we have not really fine-tuned our taste buds, but the “daing na labahita” was already a feast for the family, a dish cooked only during Lent. With plenty of diced potatoes and chick peas, simmered for a long time in tomato sauce and hinting mildly of olive oil, Holy Thursday and Good Friday were never complete without this traditional dish.

There were always some left-overs, or maybe my Mom always had the fortitude to store away some of it from the ravenous clan. Anyway, the left-over bacalao was again another treat, this time as sandwich! Many now think of this as weird, but bacalao in pan de sal is a great treat, the oil seeping nicely into the bread, making it very moist. Try it some time.

On the other Fridays of the Lenten season which the old folks treated as abstinence days, the fare was usually more simple. I remember “sarciadong dalagang bukid”, “paksiw na bisugo”, “pesang dalag” or just plain fried “hito”.

Like most young folks, fish was not our diet of choice. Though my mom tried to make them as appetizing as possible, we still longed for home-made hamburger or adobo, but we had to go through “penitensya” on our meat-less days. After all, there was always Easter Sunday to look forward to and as children, we knew it was going to be one big celebration.

Easter Sunday lunch always was. After mass which took longer than usual, all roads led to our humble home, at least for the family and some close friends. To mark the occasion, my father would always buy a big chunk of lechon (not a whole pig, mind you-that was too expensive) from La Loma which was the most famous place for lechon. The whole street was lined with it, and when it was my turn to go with the old man to buy a few kilos for lunch, the aroma, the sight and scent always had me drooling, impatient for lunch to commence.

Very often, the dish that would be cooked at home for Easter lunch was nilaga or bulalo, a hearty soup of bone marrow and kenchi with a lot of cabbage, pechay and tender potatoes. The pot would simmer for hours and hours until the tendons fell off the bone, and this would be eaten with small dishes of “patis” all around the table. But of course, the star of the table was the lechon chopped up into smaller pieces with the crispy skin up for grabs.

Sometimes, it would be my mom’s signature kare kare. If it was the dish of choice, my brothers and I would be up till late at night manually grinding the unsalted peanuts and rice which were to be used for the sauce. As early as 6 a.m., the beef pata, “buntot”, and the sinful “bituka” would be boiling away, because my Dad would raise hell if the meat was not tender enough. The intestines had to be cleaned thoroughly of course as they would render the whole pot malodorous if not properly cleaned. But once cooked and very tender, the intestines would yield tasty fat oozing out as the intestine cuts were pressed. This was priceless for us cholesterol-loving young people. It had the rich delicate taste of bone marrow and had to be eaten while piping hot or it will leave patches of hardened fat that tasted like candle wax in your mouth.

And since family gatherings like this always stretched into dinner, the left-over lechon would hurriedly be gathered and made into “paksiw” which I actually prefer to the real McCoy.

Decades later, we would still cling stubbornly to the old family traditions. My wife Baby now makes the bacalao, but she refuses to use “labahita” and goes for the imported salted cod, and the dish is still much anticipated in its more bourgeois transformation, redolent of extra virgin olive oil. Easter Sundays sometimes find us at home enjoying a pot of cocido, or in Cebu where the native lechon enjoys center stage or at Highlands Steak House for a prime rib lunch courtesy of my brother Rey, Eve and family. (Hint, hint!!)

Mabuhay!!! Be proud to be a Filipino.

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