Food in my mouth, memories in my mind, gratitude in my heart

(Part 1)

I have often wondered, albeit passively, why the stories of my life unfold with food as a verdant backdrop; wondered, too, why the memories fluidly and richly roll out, in neat bundles and stacked heaps, tied warmly with strings of emotion, when a dish is remembered, its company recalled, the experience of it all rekindled.

Maybe it is because when I remember food it is, to me, never about just that. Always, it is also about the many different people I shared it with, and the celebration of life and love with its convoy of rides flittering between triumphs and pains. It is about stirring dreams over endless cups of coffee with cream, mixing old friends with new over a casual barbecue, baking sweet moments between mother and child over cookie batter and brownie mix, folding and layering loving thoughts between husband and wife over quiet dinners and spontaneous picnics. Food is a subtle reminder that, yes, oh yes, it is good to be alive. And as much as it is a comfort for sore, wounded bodies it is a balm for even more sore and wounded souls.

Yes, I love to eat, the same way other people love to cook, gossip, daydream, clean and shop. When traveling, and for someone who loves fashion as much as I do, I would much rather choose sleep over a shopping spree before lunch, but I would sleepily rise from bed to enjoy the breakfast tray I carefully chose the night before, or check what is being served for breakfast in the hotel coffee shop. I find the croissants, the omelets and the sausages irresistible.

Again, I say I love to eat. And my one big not-so-secret frustration is that I cannot cook. My grandest dreams are seldom about imposing offices, corporate dominions and power suits. The stuff my fantasies are made of, instead, are all contained in cozy homes and even cozier kitchens, bottling jams and jellies from baskets full of fruit picked from the garden, or folding them fresh into fat, juicy pies. Naturally included in this delicious dream is a steady stream of people who flutter around the kitchen table like butterflies, soothed by the bowls and plates of food, warmed in their hearts and all the way to their fingers and toes. This kitchen is a place where food is never burnt, nothing is ever undercooked, and only love and good cheer float in the air.

Every day I wish I could cook, as lusciously as I dreamed and as often as I smiled. I’ve always wanted to be able to whip up a meal, any that the moment calls for, deftly and effortlessly so that anyone who sees me and tastes my cooking would believe that pots and pans, cooking oil and garlic, were playmates I grew up with.

That said, although I can dream all I want, acceptance is a must and I have come to terms with the fact that cooking does not become me, nor I it. My feeble attempts have left me bemused, bothered, bewildered and the food I cooked, even more so. Baking has been much kinder, but even a four-year-old can bake so that is not much consolation, really.

The upside is, although I do not cook, I enjoy its fruits so much that I have, many times over, unintentionally given people the impression that I do. "For someone who does not cook, you seem to know a lot," they always say. I do know a lot – about eating, I always reply, and with that they are content to just feed me, and feed me some more. We enjoy the food together, not really dissecting its flavors as much as simply enjoying its taste, until my tummy is warm, my appetite round, and my smile very happy.

I know no school-taught kitchen secrets. All I know about food and its preparation I have gathered in bits and pieces through the years from real people living real lives. Such are homey little tricks and rules that differ from home to home; oftentimes they have neither rhyme nor reason, and they seem as ritualistic and nonsensical as throwing a little salt over your shoulder for good luck or cooking with "a dash of love" in your heart. But somehow these little extras do make food taste much better than it already is.

For instance I know that apple pie is just perfect (in our household at least) when the fruit is cut into chubby cubes, as opposed to when they are sliced thinly and arranged in tight rows like neat little soldiers. The filling then becomes juicier and chunkier, almost friendlier, in a way. I also know that the crust comes out flakier when it is handled by hand, or kumot-kumota, day as Yaya Juling would always say. That little tip is even included in the handwritten recipe she gave me. Soup should never, ever be served or eaten cold, unless it is really meant to be so, and pasta and shrimp are the same in that they should never be overcooked. Tita Liclic’s chicken salad was extra special because she had all these unexpected ingredients that you would never think salad could and should have but when asked she would always say her secret was in her hands, literally. She would remove the many rings she always wore, and use her long clean fingers to mix the chicken with the potato, languidly tossing both meat and root crop with her special dressing, her always long, shiny, ruby red nails glamorizing the pale chicken dish the way only she could.

I know that anything instant (whether it is noodles, juice or flavoring) really does taste different from the real thing, the same way fresh tomatoes taste different from canned ones. Homegrown fruits, vegetables and spices are inexplicably more satisfying than their store-bought counterparts, dirty ice cream has an appeal that its royal counterparts will never have, and fish balls will always taste better when nakatusok-tusok, as collegialas daintily say, and eaten where it is bought, on the sidewalk where the sun ends and the dust begins, with life going on all around. Don’t ask me why. That is just the way it is.

I also know (as I’m sure the rest of the world does) that the simplest meal in great company tastes grand and that the grandest ones leave a bitter aftertaste, in the heart and the palate, when eaten in an ambience of disharmony and ill will.

I also know for sure that presentation, ambience and setting matters I often wondered why I would devour the fruit plate in Japanese restaurants and those found in the breakfast trays of room service, but hardly ever the ones I would find in the basket on the kitchen table or in the refrigerator. The answer came one sick day, when my husband prepared for me a plate of chilled fruit, cut simply but thoughtfully. I cannot recall the exact mix of fruits but I remember that the first bite transported me to dessert time in a Japanese restaurant, and the next pushed me gently back to starched white sheets, plush four-inch deep wall-to-wall carpeting, and room service.

I long ago learned that choice ingredients do matter, and substituting can significantly alter the results. Our cook in Manila copies Yaya Hilda’s famous chicken-pork adobo recipe, down to the last sliver of garlic, but the results have yet to be exactly the same. Sometimes it is just as good, but in an entirely different way. In her case, Yaya Hilda says the secret is in the chicken. She uses native chicken, which is fed a different diet from the usual white leghorn we buy from the supermarket. Short of bringing a hoard of native chickens to ensure perfect adobo, Yaya Hilda style, I am resigned to just enjoying it in the province whenever I go home. But someone please tell me: Where, oh, where are the native chickens hidden in the big city of Manila?

On a separate day I also wondered why and how I could down three slices of Collette’s buko pie in the car with only tissue paper for a plate but hardly finish a slice when it is serenely laid on a plate at home, with a fork neatly beside it. I then recalled I was with friends when the former occurred, on a long car trip south of Manila, with the countryside rambling on greenly as we moved along, while the latter happened when I was home alone, with only the TV rambling before me.