Family is it
April 22, 2007 | 12:00am
It is a Sunday, and I am doing some paperwork in bed, when something on TV catches my eye. It is a Coke ad that shows a family connecting at the dinner table, laughing, celebrating togetherness. The message is clear: mealtime should never be underrated. I think of it as a spin-off to the saying, "The family that prays together, stays together." But I believe there is truth, too, in the lighthearted axiom, "The family that eats together, stays together."
I sift through my memories, and three backdrops come gushing out softly, neatly, and in a most melancholic way: Lolo Tingting’s oval wooden table in Carlota Hills; our white table with the lazy Susan in Bonifacio St.; Lola Carmen’s huge round and perennially tablecloth-clad dining table in the Martinez compound. Yes, my earliest childhood memories were definitely formed around these.
I grew up in a family that always, always ate together. We are very clannish in that way. Breakfast was usually a rushed affair; some would still be asleep, while those who had to rush off to school would ritually grab a huge glass of milk (me) or gobble a quick breakfast with rice and something else (my sister Caren). I remember individual placemats and neatly pressed checkered red and white table napkins that doubled as a not-so-secret place where my sister hid the two or three vitamin tablets, which, previously laid out by our yaya so we would not forget, she hated swallowing.
But lunch and dinner were always family affairs. We always came together as a family during those two moments in one day. I still remember clearly in my mind our permanent places around the table; they were never consciously assigned to us, but we somehow melted into a set pattern. I remember our individual covered rice bowls, the plates that all matched, the tall clear glasses. I remember how Daddy and I liked our rice fluffy, while Caren liked hers soft and squished together. Mommy was especially fond of the tutong.
The only rule was that each one went to the table physically neat and armed with good manners, out of gratefulness for the grace we were about to partake of, and respect for every other person around the table we were sharing it with. No fighting or bickering was allowed; there was no faster way to spoil good food. And everything was allowed in moderation  soft drinks, the cholesterol-laden dishes, ice cream or a candy bar for dessert. That way, we never had to sneak around in school, gorging on sinful treats like there was no tomorrow, while our parents boasted that we were eating only healthy food. I actually had classmates who stuffed themselves with all the food they were prohibited from enjoying at home.
Yes, we always ate together, and the only reason one member would be absent from the table was if he or she was sick that a tray had to be brought up to his/her room instead. When we would be down with the flu, comfort food was about Purefoods corned beef, Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, and rice. Eating these food was only good when we were sick. Daddy would always go to our room at the end of our bed-ridden meal with a candy bar, usually either Almond Roca, with its gold wrapper gleaming prettily from the pink tin, or Toblerone. During Lola Carmen’s time, getting sick meant being fed with poached fresh eggs, bits of white bread dunked in them, and then the whole thing lightly sprinkled on top with rock salt. In Lolo Tingting’s house, it was all about steak and good manners; even the young ones were trained to always cut food with a knife and never wrestle with it using fork and spoon. Lolo was a very proper, distinguished gentleman.
The table was always the melting pot, and mealtime was always a respite; it is where we shared stories and dreams, where we laughed, ate, and loved. We came together as a family and we always operated as a family. It was always a lingering affair; yes they were almost always long, but they were happy ones and never really felt drawn out and tedious.
On hindsight, and now that I am an adult and have a family of my own, it was never just about the good food (although I remember that very well). What I like to dwell on now each time I remember pages of my mealtime past is what seemingly insignificant gestures then still tell me now about the people I hold dear: how well they lived and how much they loved, each in his/her own sparkling way. For instance, eating fried chicken was never just about eating the dish Manang Kessin prepared so well, but about how much your mother loved you enough to pretend she really preferred the piece of white meat over the drumstick she knew you wanted. It was where older siblings first learn to look after and give in to the younger ones, cutting up their food, making sure the fish on their plate no longer had bones, letting them take first pick from the box of chocolates passed around after dessert. I think about prim and proper adults I shared meals with who told us young ones to scoop the plump flesh of the mango properly with a spoon only, and I lovingly remember them as much as I do the more tolerant ones who encouraged us to eat mango with our hands, peeling off the skin and biting into its sweetness without being apologetic about the juice that dripped down the sides of our lips all the way to our chins and down to the neck of our napkin-covered necklines.
Being at the dinner table is an everyday lesson in the art of sharing. It is where we discover who we take after and where we become definite about what we like or do not like, where people become individuals as interesting as quirks and nuances shine through. It is where good manners are first learned, and then honed, where traditions are carried out and then intrinsically passed on. In the dinner table, there are countless ways to extend yourself to let others know you care and even the most mundane of things  peeling the shrimp for mom or dad, scooping soup into bowls and passing it around to every person around the table, carving the roast, laying out carefully thought out meal combinations  become everyday acts of love.
Sometimes, I wish I recognized then what I definitely know now, but then again, maybe it is best that I didn’t. After all, some things always sit better after they are steeped in time. What I know for sure is that this laidback daily activity  eating meals together  provides a strong sense of family. Human connection is at the base of a happy existence. Yes, family matters. And knowing that you belong to a unit keeps you grounded even as it gives you the wings to fly.
My Tito Gabby always said that the best combination in the world of food was Coke and peanuts. But I am going downstairs right now to get myself a cup of vanilla ice cream and over it I will pour some Coke Lite. I have not had a Coke float in years and, after remembering all that I have shared with you now, I have more than enough reasons to celebrate.
There will be another Grand Sto. Padre Pio Pilgrimage organized by The Philippine Center for St. Pio, through its chairman Atty. Rafael Ortigas Jr., president Ramon and wife Didi Rodriguez. It will be from May 9 to 22. The pilgrimage will be accompanied by Capuchin chaplain and spiritual director Fr. Serge Arensa, also a devotee of Sto. Pio. Included in the pilgrimage package are breakfast and dinner with accommodations in first class hotels. For details, call Tez, tour coordinator, at 0921-9554410.
I sift through my memories, and three backdrops come gushing out softly, neatly, and in a most melancholic way: Lolo Tingting’s oval wooden table in Carlota Hills; our white table with the lazy Susan in Bonifacio St.; Lola Carmen’s huge round and perennially tablecloth-clad dining table in the Martinez compound. Yes, my earliest childhood memories were definitely formed around these.
I grew up in a family that always, always ate together. We are very clannish in that way. Breakfast was usually a rushed affair; some would still be asleep, while those who had to rush off to school would ritually grab a huge glass of milk (me) or gobble a quick breakfast with rice and something else (my sister Caren). I remember individual placemats and neatly pressed checkered red and white table napkins that doubled as a not-so-secret place where my sister hid the two or three vitamin tablets, which, previously laid out by our yaya so we would not forget, she hated swallowing.
But lunch and dinner were always family affairs. We always came together as a family during those two moments in one day. I still remember clearly in my mind our permanent places around the table; they were never consciously assigned to us, but we somehow melted into a set pattern. I remember our individual covered rice bowls, the plates that all matched, the tall clear glasses. I remember how Daddy and I liked our rice fluffy, while Caren liked hers soft and squished together. Mommy was especially fond of the tutong.
The only rule was that each one went to the table physically neat and armed with good manners, out of gratefulness for the grace we were about to partake of, and respect for every other person around the table we were sharing it with. No fighting or bickering was allowed; there was no faster way to spoil good food. And everything was allowed in moderation  soft drinks, the cholesterol-laden dishes, ice cream or a candy bar for dessert. That way, we never had to sneak around in school, gorging on sinful treats like there was no tomorrow, while our parents boasted that we were eating only healthy food. I actually had classmates who stuffed themselves with all the food they were prohibited from enjoying at home.
Yes, we always ate together, and the only reason one member would be absent from the table was if he or she was sick that a tray had to be brought up to his/her room instead. When we would be down with the flu, comfort food was about Purefoods corned beef, Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, and rice. Eating these food was only good when we were sick. Daddy would always go to our room at the end of our bed-ridden meal with a candy bar, usually either Almond Roca, with its gold wrapper gleaming prettily from the pink tin, or Toblerone. During Lola Carmen’s time, getting sick meant being fed with poached fresh eggs, bits of white bread dunked in them, and then the whole thing lightly sprinkled on top with rock salt. In Lolo Tingting’s house, it was all about steak and good manners; even the young ones were trained to always cut food with a knife and never wrestle with it using fork and spoon. Lolo was a very proper, distinguished gentleman.
The table was always the melting pot, and mealtime was always a respite; it is where we shared stories and dreams, where we laughed, ate, and loved. We came together as a family and we always operated as a family. It was always a lingering affair; yes they were almost always long, but they were happy ones and never really felt drawn out and tedious.
On hindsight, and now that I am an adult and have a family of my own, it was never just about the good food (although I remember that very well). What I like to dwell on now each time I remember pages of my mealtime past is what seemingly insignificant gestures then still tell me now about the people I hold dear: how well they lived and how much they loved, each in his/her own sparkling way. For instance, eating fried chicken was never just about eating the dish Manang Kessin prepared so well, but about how much your mother loved you enough to pretend she really preferred the piece of white meat over the drumstick she knew you wanted. It was where older siblings first learn to look after and give in to the younger ones, cutting up their food, making sure the fish on their plate no longer had bones, letting them take first pick from the box of chocolates passed around after dessert. I think about prim and proper adults I shared meals with who told us young ones to scoop the plump flesh of the mango properly with a spoon only, and I lovingly remember them as much as I do the more tolerant ones who encouraged us to eat mango with our hands, peeling off the skin and biting into its sweetness without being apologetic about the juice that dripped down the sides of our lips all the way to our chins and down to the neck of our napkin-covered necklines.
Being at the dinner table is an everyday lesson in the art of sharing. It is where we discover who we take after and where we become definite about what we like or do not like, where people become individuals as interesting as quirks and nuances shine through. It is where good manners are first learned, and then honed, where traditions are carried out and then intrinsically passed on. In the dinner table, there are countless ways to extend yourself to let others know you care and even the most mundane of things  peeling the shrimp for mom or dad, scooping soup into bowls and passing it around to every person around the table, carving the roast, laying out carefully thought out meal combinations  become everyday acts of love.
Sometimes, I wish I recognized then what I definitely know now, but then again, maybe it is best that I didn’t. After all, some things always sit better after they are steeped in time. What I know for sure is that this laidback daily activity  eating meals together  provides a strong sense of family. Human connection is at the base of a happy existence. Yes, family matters. And knowing that you belong to a unit keeps you grounded even as it gives you the wings to fly.
My Tito Gabby always said that the best combination in the world of food was Coke and peanuts. But I am going downstairs right now to get myself a cup of vanilla ice cream and over it I will pour some Coke Lite. I have not had a Coke float in years and, after remembering all that I have shared with you now, I have more than enough reasons to celebrate.
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