Cooking lesson
January 5, 2006 | 12:00am
I have only seen my mother cook once. If other children have memories of their mother preparing elaborate meals, spending hours slaving in front of a fire, my memories are filled with my mother asking other people to feed me.
As a young girl, this didn’t have any bearing in my life. I came home to substantial but unimaginative food. It was either fried fish, or some nilaga or sinigang, which I particularly hated because of the sebo it would create at the top of my palate. My sister and I would race with the heat of the soup and mourn the coming of the dreaded dried-up oil. I learned only three kinds of fish – bangus, hasa-hasa and galunggong.
Meriendas were our most appealing meals – rows upon rows of Sky Flakes "palamaned" with strawberry jam, Cheez Whiz, Ludy’s peanut butter or plain butter sprinkled with sugar. One particular stretch of childhood I remember with awe and amazement was seeing for the first time white rounded pasty squares sprinkled with what looked like white cheese to me. I almost gagged when told I should sprinkle sugar on top. Lo and behold, it was palitaw! It was something my mother learned how to buy from a neighbor regularly.
How I envied the stories of my classmates of their mother’s cooking! At snack time in school, my classmates would bring out their well-thought-out baon. I was always given money, instead.
But my mother was pulido at the grocery. Pushing her cart, she was like a soldier. She taught me grocery-savvy techniques like how to check if a canned good was good or old. One simply had to push at the top of the tin with a thumb and press hard. If it pushed down, it was an old can. If it remained firm, it was safe to put in our cart. Corned beef could only be from Pure Foods, condensed milk had to be Carnation, sardines only from Ligo, fruit cocktail had to be Del Monte. Although we were sometimes poor, it was either these brands or nothing. At the counter, every sales lady knew her. The manager, Susan, would always come up to us and personally greet my mother a good afternoon with a stern look at the bag boy to hurry things up. As all this bowing and kowtowing would happen, my mother would slowly take things out of the cart, second-guessing what could possibly be merely frivolous items.
One December when I was 10, she told me that since my eldest sister had gone abroad to study, I would be her assistant for New Year’s dinner to make our famous meat loaf and potato salad. This excited me no end, as I knew of these mysterious cooking moments, which I had never witnessed as it was done when dinner was over and the maids had cleared the kitchen. I was envious of my older sister and would try to stay up to watch but the tire of the day’s school and play would see me in bed. Days before this event, phrases like, "Three kilos of patatas…," "Only whole pickles can be used…," "Make sure the raisins are Sunmaid…," and "Don’t forget to dry up the bread…" would waft in and out of everyday conversations. In the middle of all these, my mother would turn to me and remind me to remain vigilant, as these were secrets I would need to know.
And finally the night arrived. My mother made me take a small nap to make sure I was awake for the cooking. Boiled potatoes hauled from the large pot were placed on the kitchen counter, steam rising and clearing my nose, the smell of salt and murky water. My mother took one potato and I saw her hold food for the first time. With a potato peeler, she showed me how to scrape a tiny piece of skin and slide my wrist for the rest of the skin to follow. She illustrated how to place a potato on the chopping board, cut in half, then quarter and place in a large vat.
In another bowl, three dozen boiled eggs would be waiting. These cooled as we took whole pickles and used a cheese grater to grate them directly on top of potatoes. When the eggs cooled, they were sliced and mashed and added to the concoction as well. This whole process was buoyed by my mother’s constant reminders: "The more eggs, the more malasa"; "Only sweet, whole pickles because the longer the salad lasts, the more tiim the taste"; "Potatoes should be large enough so even if they get mashed, every bite is a bite"; and "Only real mayonnaise can be used, hija."
Arms weary, we would then turn our attention to the meat loaf where more secrets would be shared. It was with open mouth that I saw my mother get her hands into a vat of raw meat, mixing and kneading together pork, beef, chorizo, and hamon, made slimy with tomato sauce and Worcestershire sauce. She would eventually work out a rhythm, splaying fingers in moist food to some classical Brahms melody or a jazzy Art Tatum tune. There was a twinkle in her eye as she popped a raisin in her mouth in the middle of all that cooking. She deserved more than one, I remember thinking. It would take a total of five hours to bake all that meat loaf, but I was never sleepy. I knew it was a monumental moment that would change my life forever. I thought my mother was… glorious.
With the potato salad and meat loaf done, my mother took me in her arms and said good night. She smelled sweetly of food. Everything smelled sweet around me. I must have dreamed the sweetest dreams that night. It was as if some mystery about the world had opened up – I learned that food, any food on the table, is a product of love, no matter how the food got there. I learned that traditions and rituals, especially the passing on of these, are an important part of a mother’s job. The presence of these two dishes tie us to our grandmother, tie us to my mother, tie us to each other, tie us in some mysterious way to hope. Yes, we are grateful for our food, and yes, we hope next year we will be blessed again with food.
I continue to cook these two dishes during the holidays. I hope it is not too late to share with you my cooking lesson.
2 kilos potatoes, boiled and quartered
1 large bottle Real mayonnaise
1 dozen eggs, boiled and mashed
2 cups pineapple chunks, drained
1/2 cup crushed pineapple (Don’t forget to set aside the juice for a refreshing drink!)
1 bottle sweet whole pickles, grated
sugar and salt to taste
Mix everything together and chill. This always tastes fantastic a day older.
1-1/2 kilos ground beef
1/2 kilo ground pork
1/2 kilo ham (Purefoods or Majestic), shredded
1 can chorizo de bilbao, cut into small pieces
1-1/2 kilos white onions, diced
1 large Quickmelt cheese, grated
3 cups sweet pickle relish
2 cups raisins
1 large Tetrapak (750 grams) tomato sauce
1 large bottle tomato catsup
1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce
2 cups raisins
1 bag bread crumbs
3 eggs
a dash or two of soy sauce
2 tablespoons sugar
Put them all together! What could be easier? Bake covered with aluminum foil for one hour. After which, remove foil and bake another 45 minutes or until top is golden. This recipe is equal to two large trays.
After thorough mixing, I normally make a small patty and panfry it. I taste it and see if I want it sweeter, saltier or more sour. I make the necessary changes and fry another sample until I am happy with it.
You may reach me, extremely full, at Rica.Santos@gmail.com.
As a young girl, this didn’t have any bearing in my life. I came home to substantial but unimaginative food. It was either fried fish, or some nilaga or sinigang, which I particularly hated because of the sebo it would create at the top of my palate. My sister and I would race with the heat of the soup and mourn the coming of the dreaded dried-up oil. I learned only three kinds of fish – bangus, hasa-hasa and galunggong.
Meriendas were our most appealing meals – rows upon rows of Sky Flakes "palamaned" with strawberry jam, Cheez Whiz, Ludy’s peanut butter or plain butter sprinkled with sugar. One particular stretch of childhood I remember with awe and amazement was seeing for the first time white rounded pasty squares sprinkled with what looked like white cheese to me. I almost gagged when told I should sprinkle sugar on top. Lo and behold, it was palitaw! It was something my mother learned how to buy from a neighbor regularly.
How I envied the stories of my classmates of their mother’s cooking! At snack time in school, my classmates would bring out their well-thought-out baon. I was always given money, instead.
But my mother was pulido at the grocery. Pushing her cart, she was like a soldier. She taught me grocery-savvy techniques like how to check if a canned good was good or old. One simply had to push at the top of the tin with a thumb and press hard. If it pushed down, it was an old can. If it remained firm, it was safe to put in our cart. Corned beef could only be from Pure Foods, condensed milk had to be Carnation, sardines only from Ligo, fruit cocktail had to be Del Monte. Although we were sometimes poor, it was either these brands or nothing. At the counter, every sales lady knew her. The manager, Susan, would always come up to us and personally greet my mother a good afternoon with a stern look at the bag boy to hurry things up. As all this bowing and kowtowing would happen, my mother would slowly take things out of the cart, second-guessing what could possibly be merely frivolous items.
One December when I was 10, she told me that since my eldest sister had gone abroad to study, I would be her assistant for New Year’s dinner to make our famous meat loaf and potato salad. This excited me no end, as I knew of these mysterious cooking moments, which I had never witnessed as it was done when dinner was over and the maids had cleared the kitchen. I was envious of my older sister and would try to stay up to watch but the tire of the day’s school and play would see me in bed. Days before this event, phrases like, "Three kilos of patatas…," "Only whole pickles can be used…," "Make sure the raisins are Sunmaid…," and "Don’t forget to dry up the bread…" would waft in and out of everyday conversations. In the middle of all these, my mother would turn to me and remind me to remain vigilant, as these were secrets I would need to know.
And finally the night arrived. My mother made me take a small nap to make sure I was awake for the cooking. Boiled potatoes hauled from the large pot were placed on the kitchen counter, steam rising and clearing my nose, the smell of salt and murky water. My mother took one potato and I saw her hold food for the first time. With a potato peeler, she showed me how to scrape a tiny piece of skin and slide my wrist for the rest of the skin to follow. She illustrated how to place a potato on the chopping board, cut in half, then quarter and place in a large vat.
In another bowl, three dozen boiled eggs would be waiting. These cooled as we took whole pickles and used a cheese grater to grate them directly on top of potatoes. When the eggs cooled, they were sliced and mashed and added to the concoction as well. This whole process was buoyed by my mother’s constant reminders: "The more eggs, the more malasa"; "Only sweet, whole pickles because the longer the salad lasts, the more tiim the taste"; "Potatoes should be large enough so even if they get mashed, every bite is a bite"; and "Only real mayonnaise can be used, hija."
Arms weary, we would then turn our attention to the meat loaf where more secrets would be shared. It was with open mouth that I saw my mother get her hands into a vat of raw meat, mixing and kneading together pork, beef, chorizo, and hamon, made slimy with tomato sauce and Worcestershire sauce. She would eventually work out a rhythm, splaying fingers in moist food to some classical Brahms melody or a jazzy Art Tatum tune. There was a twinkle in her eye as she popped a raisin in her mouth in the middle of all that cooking. She deserved more than one, I remember thinking. It would take a total of five hours to bake all that meat loaf, but I was never sleepy. I knew it was a monumental moment that would change my life forever. I thought my mother was… glorious.
With the potato salad and meat loaf done, my mother took me in her arms and said good night. She smelled sweetly of food. Everything smelled sweet around me. I must have dreamed the sweetest dreams that night. It was as if some mystery about the world had opened up – I learned that food, any food on the table, is a product of love, no matter how the food got there. I learned that traditions and rituals, especially the passing on of these, are an important part of a mother’s job. The presence of these two dishes tie us to our grandmother, tie us to my mother, tie us to each other, tie us in some mysterious way to hope. Yes, we are grateful for our food, and yes, we hope next year we will be blessed again with food.
I continue to cook these two dishes during the holidays. I hope it is not too late to share with you my cooking lesson.
1 large bottle Real mayonnaise
1 dozen eggs, boiled and mashed
2 cups pineapple chunks, drained
1/2 cup crushed pineapple (Don’t forget to set aside the juice for a refreshing drink!)
1 bottle sweet whole pickles, grated
sugar and salt to taste
Mix everything together and chill. This always tastes fantastic a day older.
1/2 kilo ground pork
1/2 kilo ham (Purefoods or Majestic), shredded
1 can chorizo de bilbao, cut into small pieces
1-1/2 kilos white onions, diced
1 large Quickmelt cheese, grated
3 cups sweet pickle relish
2 cups raisins
1 large Tetrapak (750 grams) tomato sauce
1 large bottle tomato catsup
1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce
2 cups raisins
1 bag bread crumbs
3 eggs
a dash or two of soy sauce
2 tablespoons sugar
Put them all together! What could be easier? Bake covered with aluminum foil for one hour. After which, remove foil and bake another 45 minutes or until top is golden. This recipe is equal to two large trays.
After thorough mixing, I normally make a small patty and panfry it. I taste it and see if I want it sweeter, saltier or more sour. I make the necessary changes and fry another sample until I am happy with it.
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