In my island home, Misa de Gallo or Rooster's Mass is held in the early morning from December 16-24 in anticipation of the birth of Jesus.
Putò bumbóng is a purple, sticky rice dessert steamed in bamboo tubes, buttered, then sprinkled with sugar and shredded coconut.
Dali means hurry up. Kakanin - dessert. Manang is a title of respect for elderly women. Sarap - delicious.
I look over to the east. It is almost dawn. A thin light filters through the curtains. I'm still drowsy with sleep, but nothing will entice me to wake up for Misa de Gallo than the prospect of a puto bumbong snack afterward.
Dadee barks a laugh, Ready to go? My voice sharpens in response, Ready! as I race to the front door.
Sidewalks are already busy. People are conferring happily and talking in excited tones. A handful of children are runnning barefoot, laughing and shouting. They yell in hurried tones, Dali! Waving, I grin down on them. Along the way, I crane my neck at busy tables groaning with sweets and take in the smell of ginger tea, hot chocolate, and roasted rice coffee. My smile grows, seeing the white lights gleam, strung from one corner of makeshift tienda stores to the other.
The allure of delicious kakanin has made it hard for me to focus on the church service. Deaconess Afrie welcomes both the bright-eyed folks and those whom she says will need a toothpick to hold their eyelids up. I make an effort to perk up as I realize that she may be referencing the latter remark to me.
The pastor takes his stand on the pulpit. My brothers and sisters in Christ, welcome to today's celebration. Dawn is arriving and the light of day is upon us, he begins cheerfully. The choir responds with a voice that rises, passion upon passion, leading us in the singing of Las Mananitas, the "little morning" song.
I stare at him. Please make the sermon short today, my mouth begins to contort. I vaguely hear some reference to penance. After the communal blessing, we respond with the act of contrition. Then with the rest of the faithful, I recite requisite litanies that resound off the walls of the parish, feeling out the stone arches. Is it over yet? I ask, leaning toward Dadee confidentially. He shushes me. After seemingly never-ending prayers, I hear, Amen. I smile broadly as I scurry outside to my favorite stall. I'm famished.
I observe the creation of the puto bumbong, my expression rapt. In a large bowl, Manang Rosa mixes the purple yam powder and glutinous rice flour. Then she gradually adds enough water to make a dough. Her adept hands knead it smoothly.
I cock my head in hopeful anticipation, How much longer, Manang? She answers, Sandali na lang. Soon, with exaggerated patience.
Gingerly, she pinches off about two tablespoons of the dough, shaping it into an elongated five-inch roll. She greases a narrow bamboo tube with oil and pushes the dough through, then sets it on top of a cylindrical base inside of which are coralled smoldering hot coals. In less than five minutes, the sticky delicacy is done. She shakes it loose from the bumbong tube, tops it with margarine, muscovado sugar, and grated coconut. Heto! Here! she says, pride ringing in her voice as she hands me the still-warm treat.
I immediately unfold the banana leaves in which the puto has been wrapped.
I take one small bite, humming as I press it with my tongue to the high curve of my mouth to make it last. It is so good that I want to go there, to that delicate taste on the roof of my mouth and melt there. Sarap! I continue to nibble at one end of it until it has disappeared between my lips. I use my fingers to lop off its oily topping. The coconut flakes get all over my vestida dress.
Light is spilling out on the street. People are milling about, children's loud squeals are echoing off the houses. I slowly walk home, my face beaming with satisfaction.
There are times when life is limitless in its simplicity.
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