Finally, and most important of all, was the food that my family ate together as part of a celebration. Once my
mom brought me and my siblings to the remote village where she grew up. It was very rustic. Some of the houses
didn’t have electricity. Drinking/cooking water had to be drawn from a hand water pump. Laundry was at the banks of
the river. Illumination came from oil lanterns. My siblings and I were playing at the banks of said river, when one of
my mom’s kin summoned us kids to their hut/house because the people who gathered wanted to honor us with
something special. They announced that we were going to eat lechon (slow roasted pig). They trotted out a small pig
and then one of the men ceremoniously slashed the pig’s throat in front of us. I think we kids were a little stunned by
that, but got over it quickly when we finally feasted on its delicious flesh. Besides, in countries like the Philippines,
there isn’t a societal denial that the meat we eat
come from animals that lived until they were
killed for food – and in some cases, consumers in
such nations demand to see the animal to make
sure it is healthy before having it butchered (and
sometimes the head is served with the body so
that the people eating the animal can have proof
that what they are eating is indeed chicken and
not something else). But the killing of the pig
wasn’t the part of the memory that I look back
on fondly (I feel like I have to say that lest you
think that I’m some sort of sadist). The good part
was the kinship we shared with the family
around us during that feast, and other
subsequent family celebrations. We would eat
not only lechon with banana sauce (a peppery,
Lechon
gravy-like condiment in taste and consistency),
but also pancit (glass noodles mixed with finely
chopped bits of vegetable, pork and shrimp stir
fry flavored with soy sauce and fish sauce), and kare-kare (ox-tail and eggplant stew in peanut sauce). We would eat
using a fork and spoon, using both utensils to shred our food to bite sized pieces, then pushing the morsel with the
back of the fork into the spoon, which we then lifted to our mouths so we could nom-nom-nom. Or we would just use
our kamays (hands) – in fact Filipinos who feel the tug of nostalgia will go to kamayans – restaurants where
everything is served on banana leaves and there are no utensils. Good times.
I suppose I’m walking down this memory lane because I wonder if my child will embrace or shun Filipino food.
I have a strong feeling that my baby will probably take to Filipino food, not only because it’s delicious, but also
because of the association of family that comes with it. My wife of Scots-Irish-Anglo descent likes Filipino food,
especially halo-halo. I love Filipino food, but only once in a while, usually enjoying it during special occasions with
friends and family, rather than having it as a staple in my life. It’s just too heavy and if I had it every day in this city
existence of being a couch potato most of the time, I, too, will be just too heavy.
Ultimately though, I’m sure that if I work at being a good provider, protector and an example of good character
– the way my parents were with me, my child will look back at her childhood with fondness the way I look back at
mine, and associate happiness with whatever she does eat – be it Filipino, Mexican, Korean, Chinese, Japanese,
Italian… ad infinitum.
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THE CONE - ISSUE #8 - WINTER 2016