A Motley Masterpiece

Colors

This Father's Day, I fondly remember one of Dadee's motley artwork.

Sometimes, all you need is a little splash of color. - Unknown

Dadee was making a Filipiniana drawing for my fifth grade Social Studies class. You know - one with a nipa hut, rice field, a farmer, a mountain for background, and a carabao.

Koloran mo pag tapos na, ha? Can you color it in after it's all done? I was chattering away like a bird as I handed him my 16-count Crayola box. 

Sige, tulog ka na. Go to bed now. I'll do it. His mild voice was reasonable and final.

Bright and early the next morning, racing against a chorus of manic dogs running about, I ran to the kitchen table. Dadee always delivered, so I was excited.

Are you curious?  Do you want to see what it looks like?

Oh, good. 

Ta-da! Can you chime in with an opinion? You certainly can't ignore its exuberant burst of color, right?

The sky looked like a mad painter's canvas, as if halfway through, the artist decided against blue and splashed ochre and crimson on the palette. Silhouetted against it was a bright yellow-orange kite being flown by a farmer with an orange sambalilo hat.The land was purple and lush, the blue grass rippling in the breeze. Rays of sunlight were stretching violet fingers across the top of an orange-colored nipa hut. Lazily ambling back and forth over lumps of hard clay, breaking it down so that a new field could be made, was a carnation-pink water buffalo.

I broke into a cackle of a laugh. 

The entire scenery was a sprawling expanse of divergent colors, like the dawning of the world. I couldn't wait to bring it to school. I couldn't wait to be the talk of the fifth grade class.

The years seem almost a blank now, like the strange calm patches you sometimes get in a cloudy sky, a moment of waiting, of forgetfulness. But there are things I never really forget.

Not for a moment.

Not that unique work of art that Dadee created with every ounce of passion in his heart.

For me, it easily gets first prize in the Filipiniana art awards. And just between us, doesn't it look like a shoo-in for display at the museum of contemporary art? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because it's perfect.

Because it's one-of-a-kind.

Every single discordant and quirky detail becomes front and center in my mind every time I think about it. I become ten years old again, on the cusp of all the possibility and wonder and good things in the world.

And I feel, as I did then, that the future, clad in motley colors, has just brightened even more.­

Black

Colors

There's something about BLACK. You feel hidden away in it. - Georgia O'Keeffe

Have you ever walked on a black sand beach? Our family did just that when we first traveled to Hawaii several years ago.

Today, I went back. 

Because Punalu’u, the most famous black sand beach on the Big Island is a sight to behold.

Because there's nothing like it in the world.

And because I need to do penance.

Mother Pele, I have sinned. I took not just a handful of black sand, but a huge lava rock from this very beach on that first visit. 

I know what you are thinking. I can hear you loud and clear. You are raising your eyebrows and shaking your head and asking, Why?

Well, at the time, I didn't know. Only after it had sat on a side table back home on the mainland did I learn that taking any of the sand away was kapu, forbidden, and that bad luck would come upon its purloiner. According to legend, the Hawaiian goddess Pele viewed these rocks as her 'children,' and she would punish anyone who took them away from her. 

Never doubt the legends of the jungle, a native-born Hawaiian kama`aina admonished us. I had to do something to deflect any forthcoming misfortune. 

I know. I'm ashamed. I shouldn't have and I'm very sorry. 

In a most ungallant decision ever, I hastily set my lava rock outside on the ledge of the fence farthest from our house, facing the neighbor's, and abandoned it there.

So near the shore, Hubby and I sat on the sand, the way children or old people do. Endangered hawksbill and large, green honu turtles were basking in the sun. A crab ran sideways at my feet. Sitting there, I contemplated how the black sand formed after a millennia or more of the rough surf pounding on the spilled, bubbling molten lava flow from the active Mauna Loa and Kilauea volcanoes. 

There it sat. In the rain and the mist and the dirt and the hot sun and the wind.

Day after day.

All those years.

All that time.

And now? It had evolved into the most glorious, glistening ebony color blanketing the shore.

I just wanted to touch it one more time, so I cupped a handful. How mysteriously poetic its black color was! It felt cool in my hands. I sifted the sand, unwilling to be held, and with absent fingers, let it spill freely.

As I timidly stared underfoot at the pitch-black granules glistening in the sunlight, I whispered, E kala mai i a`u. Forgive me, I'm sorry. With that, my hope was that all would be right with the world and between Pele and me.

My footsteps were dragging as we left. Black sand gave way to shallow water, then finally to waves cascading toward the shore. 

Red

Colors

This series features some of the colors of my life, of feeling, of articulation.

The long sorrow of the color RED... - Naomi Shihab Nye

I'm thinking about an exciting trip I’ve had before.

This one is code red, sort of, and can go all Dante's Peak (look it up on Netflix) where the inhabitants fight to survive a volcanic eruption.

Have I given you enough of a hint?

Are you ready?

Are you set?

Hubby and I have just settled in a rustic inn at the foot of the Arenal Volcano in Costa Rica. It's actually deceptively peaceful. I can hear the croo-ak of the frogs and the chirping crickets.

But out the window, silhouetted against the darkness, is the most uncanny view I'd ever seen - the glowing summit of a cone-shaped mountain looming large and ominous at 5,437 feet over the pastured green hillsides that surround its base. 

Surreal, isn't it?

Scorching red lava is flowing down its sides scattering tiny points of fiery brightness. It looks like a phosphorescent rivulet gliding and burning through the darkness. Plumes of ash are rising from its pinnacle. It's like the rupture of fireworks bursting defiantly over the land. You can't miss it, even if you are out and about and down the street. 

By bike.

By car.

By rocket ship?

I bet you can see it from outer space. Or maybe not.

Guess what I'm thinking? We're crazy to be here. 

Arenal has remained the country’s most active volcano for the past 43 years with an average of 41 eruptions per day. Yes, being here may not be such a good idea.

I stare at it, speechless. My mouth opens and shuts and opens again without squeezing out a single word. And would you believe what we dared to do at daylight the following day? We hiked closer to the foot of the rumbling giant. 

Nuts, right?

We can feel it. It's restless, alive, smelling like sulfur. With our every footstep, I seem to hear Death walking with us, chuckling softly in its throat. It's shapeless yet it hangs over everything. It's grinning, yet joyless and hollow-eyed.

Death the insatiable.

Death the implacable.

We shouldn't be here.

I can call to mind the story of the 87 or so people who were trapped underneath its ashes in a previous eruption, the quiet lament from the three small villages buried below.

Something is tumbling around in my mind. I'm playing, What if? What if the most powerful disaster of all is awaiting us, just around the corner?

Today.

Or in our sleep.

Tomorrow, perhaps?

The one that will be written about in poems and odes and all the missing third verses of hymns everywhere.

The one that will be passed down from generation to generation in hushed tones and whispers.

It has been nothing but a day of ill winds and the sorrow of an eternally-sizzling red-hot fire.

We should get out of here.

Spoiler alert: We managed to not kill ourselves on this trip. 

Tilapia Balot Sa Dahon Ng Gabi

Foods of Childhood
Dinner: Tilapia Fish Wrapped In Taro Leaves

I'm singing in the stands like a contestant on Tawag Ng Tanghalan (literally 'Call Of The Stage'), a local live talent show. The moon is bright so I can see every star. Outside, crickets are whirring. The air smells of nightfall, and not only that...

It smells of dinner.

Tilapia fish in coconut milk.

After the waiting, the summons comes. Dinner!

A small cheer goes up throughout the room. Like the door has opened, and an angel is singing.

I carefully sit down with a plate that is dangerously heaped, surveying it to determine the best angle of attack. I nibble on the plump center of the rolled tilapia. With the first bite, I'm in ecstasy. It practically melts in my mouth. My cheeks bulge. 

I ignore the itchy-in-the-throat feel from the taro leaves. As Mum avows, they are, after all, the secret to a creamy-like complexion.

My lips curl comically in rapture at the taste of the flavorful fish and the thick sauce infused with delicious nuances of pandan flavor. Those rolls, folded to perfection the way Martha Stewart folds a fitted sheet, are one of the mysteries of life.

Watch the fish bones, Mum says. 

I quietly mouth, I know to spin my plate three times to dislodge the fish bone should it get stuck in my throat.

Super simple. Super a-lot-of-food. Super fill-your-plate-up and go back for more. These are the foods of my childhood.

The.Best.In.The.World.

I float in on the memories of intimacy, wit, and love they bring, all of them bubbling beneath my feet.

Whether it is Mum humming to herself in the kitchen, the whiff of dulce drifting through the house.

The barely contained chaos at mealtime as you chow down on clam soup.

The mumbled satisfaction filtering from squash pudding-packed mouths.

When the scratchy taste of taro leaves doesn't matter and you finish off the plate, your appetite undaunted.

It is in moments like these when time stands still best - in moments that look suspiciously like ordinary life.

RECIPE

1. Choose the freshest tilapia from Aling Petra's stall in the neighborhood market. Despite her poetic remark, The blood of eternity is in this fish, choose only those with clear eyes and firm scales. 

2. Wash the fish after removing its innards.

3. Spoon chopped tomatoes, green onion, and ginger into the belly cavity of each fish. 

4. Wrap in taro leaf and tie with strips of pandan leaves to secure. The diameter of the wrap can go to hell. Character is okay for this dish.

5. Arrange in a single layer in pan. Add coconut milk and hot sili peppers. The latter can be a game changer. Add responsibly. Season with rock salt and pepper to taste. 

6. Cover and simmer for about 20-25 minutes or until fish is cooked through and sauce is reduced. Serve hot with steamed rice.

Will serve a family of nine. Add deboned leftover fish to the dogs' 'lamas.' 

Throw fish bones over the back fence for Aling Sisang's cats.

Dadee, the brothers, and Voltaire will all secretly spit out the taro leaves.

And that's a wrap (pun totally intended) for this series.

Minatamis Na Kalabasa

Foods Of Childhood
Snack: Squash Pudding

There’s something about afternoons after a siesta that I love.

The hours that amble lazily.

The promise of daylight for play.

And most of all, merienda.

Meet the snack for the ages. The tastiest on the universe...

... minatamis na kalabasa. Squash pudding. 

I swear the smell of the cooking dessert can wake the dead and Mum doesn't have to yell, Gising na! We topple over each other, taking prime positions on each of the long benches at the dining table. We sit expectantly as if awaiting the sudden appearance of Jesus or the Holy Ghost.

And then? 

The clouds part and we join the heavenly choir singing praises to the sweetness of newly-cooked squash pudding. 

Would you like to know how it tastes?

Are you set?

It is sweet. I take a spoonful and feel the pleasure of the smooth squash and light syrup. I eat it, almost as if I were in a trance. It is thick, stick-to-the-top of your mouth that you have to suck off the spoon. Mushy good.

And in that moment, I feel a thrill of recognition in the lightness, the flavor.

A singular incandescent moment of extravagant joy.

RECIPE

1. Choose a kalabasa squash from Aling Petra's stall in the neighborhood wet market. Turn it upside down and shake. When you hear the rattle of seeds, you know it's ripe and ready.   

2. Peel the squash. Boil, mash, and set aside.

3. Mix a can of coconut milk, a half cup of sugar, and condensed milk. Heat to boiling.

4. Break some eggs. Check the number of yolks in each egg. If you see two yolks in a single egg, you will become rich. 

5. Mix the yolks with some corn starch and pour in a thin stream into the boiling milk. 

6. Add the mashed squash and lemon rind. 

7. Be forewarned: this step is tedious and can go on till kingdom come. Stir while simmering in medium heat and your arm is falling off.  

8. Set to cool. If two ants are in the pot, it has cooled off enough and is ready to eat.

Will serve a family of eight (Dadee is still at the office). The dogs don't care for it.

Sopas Na Tulya

Foods Of Childhood:
Lunch: Manila Clam Soup

Just between us—there’s no inspiration like lunch to make us dream and gaze toward the kitchen. Like what's for today.

Manila clam soup and lamas.

The latter is hot, boiled rice hand-mixed (that's where the word 'lamas' comes from) with raw egg sprinkled with sea salt. Salmonella-what?! Never heard.

Our babbling, a constant birdsong as we wait and look forward to something warm to heat us up, down inside, is interrupted by Mum's announcement, Sopas! 

After whiffing a breath to cool the bowl of steaming broth, I carefully take small, curious sips, pausing each time to savor the taste. I let it trace a long, hot trail to my stomach. The soup washes down the egg-rice mix beautifully. 

And the best part?

When I pick an open clam and slurp the meat off its shell with gusto. 

Mum admonishes us as we eat, speaking to us like she is ordering a regiment into battle. Be sure to clean up your plate.

I already know the reason why: the number of rice grains left behind on my plate will signify the number of days I'll spend in purgatory. But I'm not worried. 

Amid the jabbering and slurping sounds, I'm going all Rachael Ray sighing, Yum-O!

RECIPE

1. Walk to the talipapa wet market. Buy fresh tulya clams from Aling Petra. She won't tip the scale because Mum is her suki (known customer). 

2. Buy candied breadfruit dessert from Mang Pepe if there is change. If there's none, just snatch a couple when he's not looking.

3. Brush the shelled clams and soak in water. Wait for them to open and spit out sand and other impurities. This may take a few hours so while waiting, tune in to Student Canteen. Nori Jacinto, 'Neil Sedaka of the Philippines,' will be on to sing Stupid Cupid. He's Mum's favorite.

4. Saute garlic, tomatoes, and onion. Add water carefully or it will sizzle, in which case you'd hear, Anyare? It's an expression of surprise, short for Anong nangyari? (What happened?). 

5. Add the clams and ginger slices, cook for about 20 minutes. Add malunggay leaves. Season with sea salt to taste.

Will serve a family of eight (Dadee eats at the office) and six dogs.
For the latter's 'lamas,' use boiled corn kernels and kangkong leaves seasoned with soy sauce in lieu of egg. Add leftover clam meat for all, except Voltaire.
He's allergic. 

Dulce De Leche

Foods of Childhood
Breakfast: Caramelized Condensed Milk

This series revisits Mum's old-fashioned home cooking, while attempting to capture the unique whimsy of her recipes.

When I think of home, I think of Mum.  She is at the top of my list when it comes to heroes. She nurtures and creates joy. She has the cure for all hurts that come along the way. Best of all, she cooks the tastiest food of all time. Every.Single.Day. 

Starting with breakfast.

Just picture a heap of airy, slightly-sweet and hot pandesal bread smothered with dulce de leche - that dreamy caramel-like nectar of life.

It isn't like it's a recipe that Mum's great grandmother smuggled over from some foreign country on a scrap of paper stuffed in her cleavage, but its sweet and heady fragrance has always been for us the best part of waking up.

Mmm... can you smell it? 

In the kitchen, Mum is presiding over the Liberty Condensada can of sweetened milk simmering on the stove.

With the magic words, Almusal! Breakfast! we drag ourselves into chairs around the table amidst a commotion and the strange hubbub of voices, rising in pitch.

I hold one of the fist-sized rolls up to my nose and breathe in its scent theatrically. The first bite tastes warm in my mouth. The salty crust of the bread, slightly crunchy with a fine coat of crumbs, is dense and chewy with the dulce. 

The flavor explodes in my mouth, rich and intensely sweet. As it dissolves, I let it sit on top of my tongue. I relish the taste, eating as slowly as possible.

It is said that every time you smile, a very tiny bit of the smile stays on the face. As you get older the face starts to show all the tiny bits of all the smiles and you look like you're smiling all the time, even when you're just thinking about what's for breakfast.

RECIPE

1. Start with a 14-ounce can of Liberty condensed milk or whatever is on sale at Cherry's grocery.

2. Peel the label off the can, place in a pot, and cover with one to two inches of water. Bring to a very gentle boil, then reduce the heat to low.

3. Simmer for two to three-and-a-half hours, depending on the depth of golden coloring desired. If the brothers cannot wait, which has always been the case, take the can out already.

Madre de Dios! Mother of God! Oops, too late now.

4. Don't open the can while it's still hot. Let it cool completely before opening, or there will be a devil of a mess.

5. Soothe the burnt finger with Purico lard. Lather the spread on the bread. Give the spilt sweet to Tisoy (my dog whom you may remember as the subject of a September 2017 entry). When Mum is not looking, slip in, besides, a whole pandesal to him.

Will serve a family of nine and Tisoy.