Life goes on

It was during an uncanny situation that I, all the more, discovered the principle and sincerity behind the phrase “life goes on.” The “sticky” situation started when I volunteered to cook the family dinner of lechon paksiw one Sunday when the truth is I did not know how to prepare the dish. And I was not inclined to turn to online recipes, simply because my mother never resorted to one and told me many times to always trust the instinct.

That’s what I barely have — the kitchen instinct. Every little thing I knew about creating magic in the kitchen I learned from my mother — by observing her, by being her taste tester, by helping her peel the garlic or slice the onion from time to time, or simply by listening to her talk about the food that she prepared when she was young or the first meal she cooked after her own mother died. How I wish I had written down her recipes, though she did everything by tantya-tantya (pure estimation of ingredients).

That moment of helplessness was also a lightbulb moment for me. Life goes on, I told myself. Candida, an excellent cook, is gone but I will recreate her lechon paksiw. (BTW, the two kilos of lechon was my pasalubong to my family from my recent trip to Cebu.) And it was at that moment when I was enveloped with excitement, anticipation and joy. The same excitement, anticipation and joy I felt every time I would watch my mother cook up a storm in the kitchen.

For the first time — and I mean every letter in the F-I-R-S-T  T-I-M-E — I thought of my mother without a tear threatening to fall from my eyes. That moment, I was happy. I was more than glad and challenged to rise to the occasion and serve lechon paksiw on our dinner table. Even when the heart is heavy with grief, the heart also finds happiness amidst it. I was genuinely happy that Sunday.

“Life goes on” — I replayed that thought in my mind. My heart understood it. In “life goes on” is an intrinsic faith. It brings an unquantifiable hope and an even more unquantifiable joy.

“Life goes on” is a simple prayer, a brief plea to God to wipe away my tears, even for that moment, even for a while, and replace the tears with happiness. God never fails.

“Life goes on” is a clear manifestation of faith. And faith is silent joy that bursts. When all I hear inside our house is benevolent silence because I go home to a home sans my mother to welcome me, I hear and understand myself clearly. I hear the voice of God amidst the slow race in my heart.

Aside from my mother’s room where all her Silva dusters are, I hardly engage myself in the kitchen because so much of the memories I have of my mother were in the kitchen. But that Sunday, I had a spring in my step as I put the pan on the stove. Again, I was genuinely happy that day.

Then the moment of truth: how do I begin cooking? I did not know where to begin. I must have been staring at the packs of chopped lechon and I still did not know what to do.

I reached out to my phone and with humility and confidence, I sent a Viber message to Sylvia Reynoso Gala, a celebrated kitchen goddess in the Philippines, to help me start cooking my lechon paksiw. Pardon my bragging, Sylvia and I have been prayer partners every single day for a while now and our friendship started when one day she sent me a message to say she loved reading about Candida’s cooking, which I wrote about many times in my column. Had I followed her advice, I would not have problems about cooking. She told me to write down Candida’s recipes and I obviously did not heed her advice because at the back of my head my mother was invincible.

Sylvia selflessly shared her recipe over the phone. I took mental notes of the ingredients that included water, vinegar, garlic, pepper, bay leaf, rock salt, Mang Tomas. Sugar is optional.

“No onions?” I asked. My mother was fond of using onions in her cooking.

“If your mom used onions, just put one, finely chopped, please,” she said.

Then the procedure: “When boiling, always start on high fire.” She might as well be speaking of the state of my heart that day: I was on high fire with excitement and joy in the kitchen. It felt like a crash course that I got from Sylvia, who studied the culinary arts in Spain, Switzerland, Hong Kong and Bangkok.

“Remember to adjust the taste as to how you remember your mom’s lechon paksiw,” Sylvia said, noting that almost all recipes of lechon paksiw have all those ingredients. I followed her advice. “And trust me, your mom is far better than me when it comes to this kind of cooking.”

Dinner came and I had confidence setting the table. My version was still not the way my mother’s lechon paksiw tasted but it was close to it. The joy on my brothers’ faces was a sign that I did Candida proud. I have never lost faith that somehow I would be able to recreate some of my mother’s recipes. Life goes on — in our house, in the kitchen, in my life.  That’s faith.

They say faith is the brush that sweeps all the cobwebs. Faith is believing in the fact that despite the troubles and concerns of the world, life goes on. When one has faith, one begins to believe in the impossible, even embrace it.

I thought it would be impossible for me to wear that smile again so quickly after my mother’s passing. But I have faith — and life goes on.

The lechon paksiw is ready. Its sweet-salty-sour balance proves that life goes on.