Noshing
November 24, 2006 | 12:00am
Let’s get this out of the way: I can’t cook. Unless I absolutely have to, for instance if I’m trapped in my house during a typhoon, the phone lines are down, and no one is delivering food. Under duress I can fry something, assuming it had been processed beforehand, like sausage or corned beef from a can. A chicken leg is more complicated because I wouldn’t know how to tell if it’s really cooked and not a mass of salmonella. Don’t even mention frying fish because I will not approach splattering oil without full-body armor. I can fry eggs, with unpredictable results ("Look, it’s a map of Argentina!") and occasionally my pancakes come out round, but for the most part my culinary philosophy is "Just add water."
My mother tried to teach me basic kitchen skills, but I was too busy reading the Nancy Drew Mysteries to be bothered. I read all 50 or so Nancy Drews, and as far as I can remember she was never required to prepare a meal (although there is a Nancy Drew Cookbook). She had no mother and an absent father, which is how she could run around solving mysteries – roughly one per week. Whenever my mother suggested that I step into the kitchen, my father would say, "Come on, she’s reading. Other kids don’t like reading at all." After I’d gone through all the Nancy Drews there was the Star Trek series "novelized" by James Blish, and the John Carter of Mars series by Edgar Rice Burroughs. The concept of me cooking was forgotten altogether. In the fifth grade we were supposed to learn cooking in Work Education class. We prepared for it by making our own aprons (mine was hideous), but the apron-making took so many weeks that we only had time left for one dish (ukoy). Also, there weren’t enough stoves in the Work Ed room, so I held a spatula for a total of three minutes.
It’s too bad I never took lessons from my mom, because she was an excellent cook. Her laing is particularly missed. My parents were both from Bicol, so all our food contained coconut milk and peppers. Our meals were characterized by excessive flavor. I often went to market with my mother, and though my nose was literally always in a book, I noticed how fussy she was about choosing the gabi leaves for laing. Apparently if you weren’t careful you’d end up with leaves that made your throat itch and close up. My mom’s laing recipe is lost to history, but my sister does Mom’s adobo and heart-stopping spaghetti Bolognese on holidays, both complicated productions that leave her exhausted.
I may be a culinary illiterate, but I appreciate the literary possibilities of food. Consider pinakbet. In college when we studied Macbeth (my favorite Shakespeare, bloody as hell), it occurred to me that one could easily do a Filipino Macbeth. The protagonist would be a certain Ilocano politician egged on by his grasping wife. Naturally it would be titled Makbet. Imagine Act I, Scene 3: Makbet, a decorated war hero, encounters three witches in the forest.
Witch 1: All hail, Makbet! Hail to thee, congressman from Ilocos Norte!
Witch 2: All hail, Makbet! Hail to thee, senator of the republic!
Witch 3: All hail, Makbet! Thou shalt be president hereafter!
Later, when the body count has risen, Lady Makbet sleepwalks through the palace attempting to hand-wash a stained Balenciaga gown, crying, "Out, damn spot!" And Makbet’s big "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" speech would contain the line, "Cut, cut, cut cleanly!"
All right, it’s a bit obvious, and not as clever as my friend’s canzone about pinakbet, which somehow involves the Romans, Spanish friars, the diaspora and Carlos Bulosan. But can you see its cinematic promise?
I mention pinakbet because while leafing through The Governor-General’s Kitchen: Philippine Culinary Vignettes and Period Recipes 1521-1935 by Felice Prudente Sta. Maria, I came upon a 1922 recipe for pinakbet by an American author with the irresistible name of Susie Butts. The Governor-General’s Kitchen is the literary equivalent of the overstocked larder of a great hotel: it is packed with appetizing information. For instance, Magellan’s fleet of four ships carried these provisions for its 265-man crew: three pigs, six cows, 222 libras of rice, 18 jarras of mustard, one jarra of capers, 70 boxes of quince, and so on.
(Unfortunately no contemporary equivalents are given for libras, jarras, etc.) During the American Occupation, Americans tried to deal with the tropical heat by driving their cars naked, in their underwear, or trouser-less. These attempts at natural ventilation were later outlawed. The word adobo comes from the French adober, which originally meant "to dress a knight in armor," and later, "to dress foods." (If my mom had mentioned armor I might’ve paid attention.) In the 1920s, the bartender at the Manila Hotel concocted an answer to the Singapore Sling of the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. It was called Lintik, a cocktail of gin, lemons, angostura and sugar that was guaranteed to be smooth yet "hit like lightning."
The Governor-General’s Kitchen is the product of decades of research into our edible heritage. Ms. Sta. Maria’s writing is both erudite and down to earth, and she is ably assisted by editor Maya Besa Roxas and designer Guillermo Ramos. You don’t have to know how to cook (or write) to enjoy this book, only how to eat. Chew on that, gourmet snobs.
My mother tried to teach me basic kitchen skills, but I was too busy reading the Nancy Drew Mysteries to be bothered. I read all 50 or so Nancy Drews, and as far as I can remember she was never required to prepare a meal (although there is a Nancy Drew Cookbook). She had no mother and an absent father, which is how she could run around solving mysteries – roughly one per week. Whenever my mother suggested that I step into the kitchen, my father would say, "Come on, she’s reading. Other kids don’t like reading at all." After I’d gone through all the Nancy Drews there was the Star Trek series "novelized" by James Blish, and the John Carter of Mars series by Edgar Rice Burroughs. The concept of me cooking was forgotten altogether. In the fifth grade we were supposed to learn cooking in Work Education class. We prepared for it by making our own aprons (mine was hideous), but the apron-making took so many weeks that we only had time left for one dish (ukoy). Also, there weren’t enough stoves in the Work Ed room, so I held a spatula for a total of three minutes.
It’s too bad I never took lessons from my mom, because she was an excellent cook. Her laing is particularly missed. My parents were both from Bicol, so all our food contained coconut milk and peppers. Our meals were characterized by excessive flavor. I often went to market with my mother, and though my nose was literally always in a book, I noticed how fussy she was about choosing the gabi leaves for laing. Apparently if you weren’t careful you’d end up with leaves that made your throat itch and close up. My mom’s laing recipe is lost to history, but my sister does Mom’s adobo and heart-stopping spaghetti Bolognese on holidays, both complicated productions that leave her exhausted.
I may be a culinary illiterate, but I appreciate the literary possibilities of food. Consider pinakbet. In college when we studied Macbeth (my favorite Shakespeare, bloody as hell), it occurred to me that one could easily do a Filipino Macbeth. The protagonist would be a certain Ilocano politician egged on by his grasping wife. Naturally it would be titled Makbet. Imagine Act I, Scene 3: Makbet, a decorated war hero, encounters three witches in the forest.
Witch 1: All hail, Makbet! Hail to thee, congressman from Ilocos Norte!
Witch 2: All hail, Makbet! Hail to thee, senator of the republic!
Witch 3: All hail, Makbet! Thou shalt be president hereafter!
Later, when the body count has risen, Lady Makbet sleepwalks through the palace attempting to hand-wash a stained Balenciaga gown, crying, "Out, damn spot!" And Makbet’s big "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" speech would contain the line, "Cut, cut, cut cleanly!"
All right, it’s a bit obvious, and not as clever as my friend’s canzone about pinakbet, which somehow involves the Romans, Spanish friars, the diaspora and Carlos Bulosan. But can you see its cinematic promise?
I mention pinakbet because while leafing through The Governor-General’s Kitchen: Philippine Culinary Vignettes and Period Recipes 1521-1935 by Felice Prudente Sta. Maria, I came upon a 1922 recipe for pinakbet by an American author with the irresistible name of Susie Butts. The Governor-General’s Kitchen is the literary equivalent of the overstocked larder of a great hotel: it is packed with appetizing information. For instance, Magellan’s fleet of four ships carried these provisions for its 265-man crew: three pigs, six cows, 222 libras of rice, 18 jarras of mustard, one jarra of capers, 70 boxes of quince, and so on.
(Unfortunately no contemporary equivalents are given for libras, jarras, etc.) During the American Occupation, Americans tried to deal with the tropical heat by driving their cars naked, in their underwear, or trouser-less. These attempts at natural ventilation were later outlawed. The word adobo comes from the French adober, which originally meant "to dress a knight in armor," and later, "to dress foods." (If my mom had mentioned armor I might’ve paid attention.) In the 1920s, the bartender at the Manila Hotel concocted an answer to the Singapore Sling of the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. It was called Lintik, a cocktail of gin, lemons, angostura and sugar that was guaranteed to be smooth yet "hit like lightning."
The Governor-General’s Kitchen is the product of decades of research into our edible heritage. Ms. Sta. Maria’s writing is both erudite and down to earth, and she is ably assisted by editor Maya Besa Roxas and designer Guillermo Ramos. You don’t have to know how to cook (or write) to enjoy this book, only how to eat. Chew on that, gourmet snobs.
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