Poached eggs with bread bits dunked into them and with that a glass of Royal Tru-Orange was Lola Carmen’s recipe for happy smiles even through the most painful bout of fever and flu. That was one of my favorite memories of her and is so reflective of the unconventional grandma that she was. The usual lola would probably lay down bowl upon bowl of chicken soup, but not Lola Carmen. For her, nothing could perk up the appetite faster than that. There was nothing greater nor more delicious for recuperating bodies than eggs and Royal Tru-Orange. Or chocolate, which she sneakily always had in her bag. She was diabetic, by the way.
I actually cooked before. Or tried to. I defined my role as big sister to my little brothers by cooking for them and their friends. I baked cookies, lemon squares, and at the end of their playtime, I would serve them what I called my Whatever Fried Rice. Kids never lie, they do not play politics, so I comfort myself with the fact that because they ate up whatever I prepared for them, it had to be good, somehow. Baking is a given because as long as you follow directions, all will be good. Cooking is harder. But I had Knorr seasoning, and I am secure enough to admit now that that must have been the greatest thing going for me, big-sister-in-the-kitchen-wise. It sure made everything – my Whatever Fried Rice included – taste better than it actually was.
Tanguingue was the undoing of my bravery as a college freshman. It was my first time away from home, and being from such a close-knit family, I gave myself a pat on the back each night because I had yet to feel pangs of homesickness. Then I overheard my sister talking to my mom, and when she put the phone down I listened as she told me nonchalantly that mom had called because she was sending by big boat a Styrofoam box full of tanguingue because the suki had a fresh catch and she knew we liked that. With that I broke down, big fat tears streaming down my face, half-wailing, half-sobbing. I cried myself to sleep, longing for mom and dad, home in Ormoc, and the familiarity of our white, round dinner table with the lazy Susan in the middle. And in my prayers that night, I blessed my wonderful parents and asked the angels to keep the big boat safe as it carried its passengers and the Styrofoam box full of tanguingue fish all the way to Cebu.
Lola Apyang, she of banana cake fame, I will also always remember because she had patience as long as the Maggi noodles she loved to serve us when we were kids. She was actually the nanny of my father and his siblings, but she lived long enough to see most of us cousins grow up to our late teens. Where Lola Apyang went, Maggi noodles were never far behind. It was a treat for us. Whenever she was in charge, we could ask for Maggi noodles with rice for breakfast, lunch, merienda and dinner, and she would let us get away with it. No questions asked. Don’t you just love grandmas?
At 18, first love came in the form of an Eskimo roll from Coney Island, and several years after that a shabu-shabu dining experience where the carousel of sauces excited me more than the prospect of the movie that always followed after. At 19 years old, though, I learned another lesson in love at first sight. Malunggay was the only vegetable I could tolerate, but at lunchtime I found myself with a plate of food someone else had prepared for me. Back then, the only carrot I would eat was cake and the only bean, Hunts pork and beans. But beside me was the man of my dreams, and he casually pointed to the carrots and string beans smiling demurely back at me, untouched on my lunch plate. By then I had already devoured the roast beef, the potatoes and the corn that came with it. If it were a movie, I would remember it as a scene in slow motion when he said, "Vegetables are good for you." And so without missing a beat, and as bravely as I could, I gulped them all down, every fat chunk of carrot, every last string of bean. I smiled sweetly at him through it all, making him believe I loved them as much as I did crispy pata and Chippy. He nodded approvingly. But now I have been found out. That same man married me, and has since figured out what a ruse that whole thing was. True love happened at 22, and by then it was ube ice cream with Sprite.
Pansit palabok from Jollibee was a lesson in the selflessness that is motherhood. On a rainy night about three years ago, three generations of women craved Jollibee pansit palabok. For some reason, the only outlet still open had only one order left. The driver bought it anyway but by the time it was there my mom had conveniently decided she no longer wanted some. I had conveniently decided I did not want any either. Of course, we both knew she did not want it because she wanted me and Juliana to have it in the same way that I did not want it because I wanted her and Juliana to have it. In the end, we each took a bite just to get it over with and let Juliana enjoy it in full. And the next day, we all had one full order each.
Tita Liclic always made for us her improvised pancakes, but I later discovered they have always existed and were otherwise known outside her kitchen as French toast. Lola Lydia’s fruitcake is, for me, a lesson in the comfort that rituals bring. Every year she made a whole big batch, some to sell, some to give away, a few to keep. Until she was too sick to bake, it was a yearly thing.
As a pregnant woman frustrated in Japan, where I felt like a blowfish alongside the fashionable Japanese women, I turned to milk tea for comfort. One serving of milk tea from the Vendo machine for every pang of shopping longing I harbored in my heart and my big, growing belly. I talked to my then unborn baby, and together we admired shoes that would not fit and bags that were so obscenely expensive they were equivalent to the sum of my tuition from high school to college. The highlight for me then was just breakfast (I loved room service), after which came lunch, and excitingly enough (for me, at least), dinner. The eating went on all day. My husband would buy me maternity clothes (but I wanted the ones that were not… bwahahaha) and fed me whatever I fancied.
Now I am a mother to a growing child, and food is still at the center of our time together. I take Juliana to school and in the car she tells me what she wants me to bring when I pick her up. It is a game between us. I try to give her healthy meals, and my greatest reward is the way her face lights up when she sees what is inside her pink lunchbox. For her first day in school, I made her a cheese sandwich but I shaped the bread into a big heart. She wanted it pink next but happily let that thought slip away when I picked her up the following day armed with mini versions of her big heart sandwich, except that this time around, Yaya Lita and I used cookie cutters. So aside from her heart-shaped mini sandwiches, she also had star- and bear-shaped ones. The extra bread we saved for Richard to make into bread pudding. He makes a simply delicious one.
One of my favorite books is Elizabeth Taylor’s My Love Affair with Jewelry. I read the whole book in just one sitting, amazed at the beautiful jewels, doubly so at the stories behind them and the string of men they came from. Each story is a testament of love lost, love found, lost again, found again – take your pick. She had many great loves, many beautiful stories, many precious jewels. Maybe when I am Elizabeth Taylor’s age, I will make my version of her book. Except that mine will be about food, because with only one great love, it will not even be half as colorful as hers. For now I think it will be entitled My Life in Food. And I will have my rosy appetite and the white Lazy Susan I grew up with to thank for it.