Memories of Home Cooking

Like my fellow foodie, Rikki, I come from a food-loving family that cooks. I realize now that I am sentimentally old, that my fond memories of childhood include food.

My mother spent all her growing up years in the dormitory. She was an “interna” from grade school in Bacolod to high school in Manila and shared an apartment on Padre Faura with her siblings while studying at the University of the Philippines. That means she didn’t have any kitchen experience outside of her home economics class. Her vast knowledge of food and cooking came from reading American magazines such as Good Housekeeping, Ladies Home Journal and McCalls. She became a proficient baker and even joined contests sponsored by Manila Gas and some food manufacturing companies.

My father was born and grew up in a compound in Quiapo. His father was a medical doctor so they were middle class. They had a male cook named Beltran who set the traditions of the household. When my mother moved into the compound, she learned these traditions. There were certain foods that were served on specific days and side dishes that had to be served with the main dish. “Bagay-bagay’ was how she called Beltran’s system of food combining. Pochero went with grilled eggplants soaked in vinegar, crushed peppercorns and garlic. Although cooked together in a big pot, when served, the meat in the pochero had to be in a separate plate from the vegetables. And the broth was served as a starter. Nilagang manok, on the other hand, had to go with ground beef with carrots, potatoes and peas. The sawsawan for this was liver mashed in patis and calamansi.

Sunday was family day. Slow-cooking food for the lunch was prepared the day before. I remember accompanying my mother to the Quinta market to buy the ingredients for kare-kare: tuwalya, librillo, cow’s foot, intestines. These were boiled for hours. It was not only time consuming but labour intensive as well because everything was made from scratch. Peanuts and rice were toasted and ground by mortar and pestle. For all the effort, a big pot has to be made to be worth it. Two cousins lived with us when I was about five years old and other cousins from my mother’s side were always at the house on weekends. There were always many mouths to feed.

For Christmas we made our own ham. My father did the final process of burning the brown sugar on to the fat with a hot iron. It was a male ritual. My mother baked fruitcakes. My uncle who worked in JUSMAG supplied the imported fruits, nuts, cookies and peppermint candies.

Ours was not a traditional Filipino Christmas. It included watching the Pepsi or COD displays and the Holiday on Ice. Noche Buena was optional or very casual --- we didn’t have to wait for midnite to partake of the ham, queso de bola, ensaimada and other special dishes. We went to mass in the morning. On Christmas day, we would gather at my father’s sister’s house for late lunch that extended to dinner. It wasn’t pot luck and we always took home something special that my aunt wanted to share. She was the only daughter of my grandparents so she was their princess, later on the queen of the family. She was also the wealthiest and the most generous. At harvest time she would send her driver to deliver kaing of lanzones from their farm to each home. After each trip abroad we would get our share of pasalubong, never mind if she had eight kids of her own.

Close to Christmas, going to mass at the Santa Cruz church was more motivating for me because it meant coming home with a bag of roasted chestnuts.

In the summer when we went to the beach in Cavite or Batangas, we would bring home baskets of fresh talaba. The helpers would brush each piece to get rid of the mud. Sometimes we would develop allergies or stomach problems but what the hell, they’d go away with a pill and calamine lotion, and finish the oysters.

My father would surprise us with his Chinatown purchases --- century egg, shark’s fins, birds nest. During Lent, my mother would cook bacalau, in tomato sauce with olives and potatoes, as a form of abstinence.

At gatherings on my father’s side of the family, the recipes were passed on through the women. My older cousins all had to help in the kitchen. When my time came for kitchen duty, the women of my generation had been liberated by caterers and take-outs so I didn’t have to serve my time. Now I have to ask my older cousins to teach me the kitchen’s secrets.

There were also travels outside of the country by family members so increasingly we were exposed to more foreign things.

Slowly, Beltran’s traditions were eroded. It took only one generation.