Crummy but Goody - don't tell my Mom!

Eating is a universal pastime.  If we are not eating, we are surely drinking something. I work with someone who is chewing at least six hours of her day. She works and eats at the same time. At lunch time, she would come with me even if she just finished her “breakfast.”  I am not saying it like it is a bad thing - never!

I have a rather eclectic repertoire where cooking is concerned.  As a young immigrant, I did not know how to cook the foods I grew up with. I knew how to cook rice but that was all I could muster.  One day, I was craving “sinigang,” the ubiquitous Filipino sour broth dish. Sinigang is equivalent to the Thai’s shrimp soup with tart tamarind, Cayman’s fish tea (which I suspect was a concoction by the Filipinos who migrated to the Cayman Islands.) In any case, I knew that sinigang has at least basic four elements:  meat or fish, tartness, tomatoes, and water.  I decided that I would make mine pork sinigang.  The problem is that in the early 1970’s, Mama Sita was not in the U.S. markets yet.  I had a brilliant substitution! I opened a jar of pickles and put them in the broth.  Ok, cancel the movie in your mind. 

Later on, I added adobo to my list.  In a week’s time, I would alternate pork, chicken, even beef adobo with sinigang (at this point, I was told to use lime or lemon for variety) with lots of bok choy.  These days, I grill a lot and I stock Mama Sita mix like nobody’s business, for those special Filipino gatherings.  One time, my husband (HB) exclaimed, “Oh is this chicken bistek?” Oh yes, he married a Pinay alright and he knows my Filipino dishes by smell. 

In any case, in our household used to be a little boy.  He used to make faces when I would take him with me to the Asian stores. Asian stores has the pungent but oh so familiar and dear to  Filipinos' sense of smell, minus the maddeningly wetness of an honest-to-goodness  only Anthony Bourdain can-get-excited- about farmer’s market in Quezon City.  We sat down with him and told him that it is not always like the United States anywhere he goes. We told him to expect less than ideal when we travel.  During one of those travels is what I want to share:

We were going to conclude our long, hot, wonderful China trip by stopping in Hong Kong for a few days. We ate well and shopped well while in China, seeing the terra cotta warriors in Xian, the beautiful gardens in Shang-Hai and Zhou-shou, and falling in like with GuiLin and touring the sights of Beijing.   During our first night in Shang-Hai, we went to a restaurant where neither we nor they understood each other.  They decided what we should eat. They gave my son a plate of ravioli, a hamburger, egg rolls, and milk. They gave me soup and noodles and they gave HB a sandwich, soda, and ravioli, and a green salad of lettuce and carrots.

So now we are in Hong Kong and HB told me that a Chinese secretary in his firm’s HK office will take us to the best restaurant in all of Hong Kong.  We were staying at the HK Peninsula and I was sure that  Suen will take us somewhere fancy. All I had in terms of an outfit for the best restaurant in HK is a pair of capris, a pair of heeled flip flops, which I kept hiding from the Pen staff during high tea, and a nice summer top. I just hoped I would be admitted to the best HK restaurant  looking like I did.

We met Suen and her boyfriend at Central. There was a big show of haute couture on the super giant screen.  Designer shops all over,  it was  teeming with women carrying their Louis Vuitton’s and  Gucci purses,  cell phones, pumps and suits, and smart watches, men in suits, and casually dressed HongKongers that looked like a million bucks. We had our own share of tailor made suits delivered to our hotel.  At this time,  I felt like an impostor and a derelict, headed to eat the best dinner of the trip. I have not reached the point of travelling in my own private plane with my Louis Vuitton suitcases and a personal sytlist.  Furthermore, I was not idiotic enough to pay $150 for a pair of Nine West sandals in Hongkong for something I can pay for a third in the USA. So there I was in the middle of HK fabulosity, looking like an ugly duckling in migration.

There was another couple with us – a young Korean American lawyer from New England and his American life partner. Suen told us to follow her. We were walking along sidewalks and then we were blocks away from the Center.  Now I was seeing local joints – all kinds of merchandise being sold in little variety stalls and suddenly she stopped in front of a literal hole in the wall.  We followed her inside the dingy place.

The “cook,” wearing a wife-beater’s shirt and old flip flops and shorts, was busy deep frying something outside the restaurant.  It smelled good. We followed Suen in silence.  We sat down.  The tablecloth was made of flimsy plastic, the kind that one can find in a Dollar Store. There were no napkins.  My son was quiet.  I passed around some Kleenex to everyone.  The cook came to clear the table. He was holding a plastic bucket. I could see the mud on the bottom of the pail while the cook cleared our table.  The place was very hot and very noisy.  The Chinese are very animated people. There was a round of wine going on the next table and the rest of the guests were just boisterous and happy.  We were talking loudly ourselves.  My son was very quiet but not sullen.  My husband was being very good at not showing any emotion. I wanted to run away but I did not.  Instead we talked about each other’s visit to mainland China.  This is a place where you will have to insist on drinking only canned or bottled soda, delivered to your table still corked. It was sort of dark save for some lightbulbs over the tables. 

Then the food started coming out – some mussel looking seafood with tails that look like milky worms. Delicious!  It was followed by succulent dish after another.  Savory! Then a fish head perched on a dish with mushrooms and scallions was brought to the table.  I took a look at my son and his eyes averted mine.  The Gringos were looking at the fish’ eyes uncomfortably.  Then our Korean American friend spoke, “In my culture, the fish head is reserved for the honored guests.  The fish head is the meatiest part of the fish.”  I do not remember who actually went for the fish eyes but I would have probably not hesitated if Mr. Kim Park has not already done so.  Then a platter of beautiful jade green vegetable was put on the table and Suen explained, “This is a very special kind of cabbage found only in the summer.” I took one look and I said, “Oh, I am familiar with this cabbage. It is called kang-kong in Filipino.”  She was pleased that I know what it was.  We ate every dish we were served with gusto.  They were piping hot and focusing on the food made us all forget that we were in glitzy Hongkong but in a dingy restaurant on a side street only the locals knew about.

As soon as the dinner was over we all prepared to leave.  Any thoughts of capuccinos were out of the question obviously.  I asked to go back to Central.  It was out of our way but it was nearer to go there than back to the hotel. When my HB asked me why, I told him that I needed to use the bathroom.  Suen said, “They have a bathroom here, it is over there.”  I looked at her and with all the diplomacy I could muster I said, “Oh, thanks Suen but I would rather go to Central.”  She did not say anything, she just told us where to catch the tram.

Back at the hotel, I thanked my HB for taking us to dinner and I thanked my son for being a trouper.  Then I continued carefully, “You know, I really appreciate the dinner.  As it is, I was born and raised in Manila but If my parents were alive today and I'd tell them  about going to eat at that restaurant where Suen took us, they would not permit me to go. They will tell me that I will catch cholera in that place and I would have risked my child’s health by taking him too.”

My HB said he understood.  Months later, I saw the lawyer who was instrumental in having Suen from the Hong Kong office take us to the infamous hole in the wall. He saw me by Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Hi Munam, I am so sorry!”

-Hi Mark, what are you sorry for?”

“Scott told me that your parents would not have allowed you to into that restaurant in Hong Kong I suggested to him,  that you would contract cholera.”

I felt ungrateful and my thought at that moment was that if cholera would not kill my HB, I would have killed him with that fish head for opening his big mouth!

-Oh, but see we all survived and the food was excellent.

“Do you mean it?”

-I mean it.

I MEANT IT.

You can do THAT?

I wish I had a magic wand or a “cancel” button so that I can restart and reboot all the growing pains to befall my child.  However, I definitely believe that it is important for him to own the scars from the choices he has made. I subscribe to the fact that learning life's lessons take time.  I used to actually have a magic wand.  Let me take you to that journey before I lost my "power."

When my son was around eight years old, he collected Pokemon cards.  Many times we would take him to the game store and fall in line under the sun and in very cold weather so that he could buy the latest  minted holograms/cards. This collection was not necessarily cheap either. He spent his little allowance on them.  He wanted us to take him to Japan so he could meet the Pokemon characters.  He was so happy when he saw Kaerope painted on wings of Japan Air Lines on a lay-over on our way to Asia.  We indulged him and engaged him when he talked about this or that character “Oh, he is sooo cute!” “Really, that is very special? I did not know that!"

During this time, we enrolled him in summer camp. He wanted to take his collection to camp to show his “friends.”  We told him that it would be a bad idea, he could lose them, that other kids might take them.  He would not be swayed. He insisted and we let him.

I got a call from his Dad in the afternoon.  He picked up Kris from camp and he was crying.  Apparently, he actually lost some cards. His nanny called me, “Kris has not stopped crying since he came home. I don't know what to do. I gave him milk but he would not drink it.”  I came home to an inconsolable little boy.  I offered to take him for burgers, “It will make you feel better and I will buy you a toy.”  He reluctantly went with me to the mall. He ate his burger and holding his little hand, we proceeded to go to the toy store.  We bought Woody from “Toy Story.” He thanked me and we started to go home.

I kept checking him from the rearview mirror on the way home. He looked so sad and I was helpless to take away his sadness.  He was looking out the window with the saddest eyes.  When we got home, I sat down with him.  “Anak, this is the reason why Dad and I did not want you to take your Pokemon cards to camp. Some little boys took them without your permission.” “No, mommy they are my friends. They would not take them!” “They are your camp friends. You just met them in camp. Your friends are the ones you met in school but these kids are not your friends. Friends do not steal from their friends. You do not want to be friends with dishonest kids. These are acquaintances. Say it.”  “Acquaintances.” "Acqwaitsense."  “Not my friends.” “Not my friends but they are my camp friends, Mommy!”

I invited him to watch television with me in his   parents’  bedroom. I told him we can watch any movie he wanted.  He put his arms around my neck and kissed me. He said, and I remember it to this day, “I love you, Mommy. Thank you for the hamburger and fries. Thank you for buying me Woody. You make me feel warm and fuzzy all over but  it is not still taking my hurt away.”  Tears started streaming on his little cheeks again.  I would have given anything to make his “hurt” go away.  I glanced at the television screen. We were watching some animated Disney movie and an idea came up to me. So I turned him to face me.

 “Hush...hush.   Listen, I have not told you or anyone about this  before.  This is our secret.  When you go back to camp tomorrow, then you can tell your friends, ok? Tell them, “My mommy is a witch.  She  said she knows exactly who took my Pokemon cards.  If my cards are not returned by Friday, whoever took it will be turned into a fish, a merboy. My mom said she will cast her spell so that whoever took it will grow scales everywhere including his legs and it would be very itchy and she will make it stay that way until my cards are returned.”

He looked at me with  eyes bugging out.  “You can do THAT?”

“Trust me Anak, I can and I will. Have I ever let you down?" "No."  "So, what about you, can you say that to them?”  He said, “Yes I can, yes I can. I love you, Mommy.”

We went back to watching television with his little hands in mine.  That night he went to sleep soundly after we alternately read pages from Harry Potter.

The next day, Thursday.  Kris was happy.  He told his Dad over the phone that most of his cards were found by his friends on the playground.  His Dad was happy. The nanny was happy that she did not have to take care of a child who would not stop crying. I was happy too!   I did not say one extra word.

Friday, last day of camp week:  Kris reported to his Dad on their way home that he got ALL his cards back with his awesome friends finding each one of them and happily announcing to him, “Look, I found your missing Pokemon card!” 

That night, my husband (HB) wanted to know something.  “What is this I heard that my wife is a witch?” Apparently, Kris told him that I had some sort of magic and that he got his cards back after he announced to his camp friends that his mother was a witch.

I told my HB exactly what I told Kris.  He said laughing, “Oh my God!” Then he warned me, “Stop telling that to him. He might tell his classmates and his teachers and before you know it, someone will be setting bonfires in front of our house!”

I have not cast a spell since then and I never want to wish I could.  However, it wil be nice to own a magic wand so that every stroke I do will make my child remember to make the best possible choice: be punctual, reliable, proactive, communicative, financially conservative & responsible, to take out the trash,  put the dirty dishes in the washer, do his laundry, pay rent on time, continue to see the bigger picture, call his parents, text his Mom….return his boss’s calls, and text promptly so that he is not his “former boss.” I hope that he continues to be the resilient child that he is proving to be - learning to roll with the punches and not getting bitter when he is dealt with the unexpected. Learning the hard way is the only way to learn…

Pilipiiinss???!!!

I am back from being fat and happy on a week’s cruise-vacation to Bermuda.  This may sound corny but aside from the great company of my HB and our friends from Connecticut, my vacation was made awesome by the crew of the cruise ship VeenDam.  Thirty percent of them were Filipinos.  Others were Indonesians and from other countries as well like Chile.   I have never seen diversity in one closed space than at any other time.

Whenever I’d smile at someone at lunch in the buffet bay and say “Salamat,” they would say, “Ate, Pilipina ka?! Taga saan ka? Ano gusto mong iluto ko bukas para sa iyo? Dagdagan mo ang kay Ate!” In one of those encounters, they gave me more than I could eat despite the portion control that they seem to put into subtle practice.  The next day, there was chicken adobo in the back burner, waiting for me and my husband. I was touched.  Di ba naman?

Let me share my one close and memorable/amusing encounter with a paisana:

I called the spa and spoke with a girl who identified herself as Analyn. I suspected she’s Filipino.  I wanted a spa treatment and I was ready within ten minutes. She said they could accommodate me.  I went up to the spa.

-Hi, are you Analyn? I called a few minutes ago. I have an appointment.  Cabin 374.

She gave me this big smile, her almond eyes made me wonder if in fact she was Chinay. “Hi Ma’am, welcome! Here is your form to fill out.  Where are you from?”

-I was born and raised in the Philippines.

“Pilipiiiins!!!!????  She said,  almost screaming, with joy.  “Te, ang cute-cute naman ng accent mo, bakit para kang hindi Pilipina kung mag-Ingles!” She then eyed and treated me like some laboratory specimen.

-I am fluent in Tagalog.

“Naku “Te,  ang CUTE mo talaga mag-Ingles! Ay naku, hihihihi!”

-Ah, teka kasi panahon pa ni Gomburza, nasa States na ako. Haahaha, you know nong bata pa si Crisostomo Ibarra, loka!

She was silent but grinning widely at me—ahah, hindi siguro nagbasa ng Noli!

-Taga saan ka, Analyn?

“Cebu, ‘Te.”

-Ay, nindot ang Cebu!”

“Hihihihi, ‘te, para kang Thai, oo!  (Huh? –batok!)

With this, she started kneading my back and proceeded with our lively “interview” session.

I learned that Analyn is building a house for her parents; that she sent herself to vocational school so that she can earn a living;  this was only her 6^th month in this ship, she considers Filipino boyfriends liars and she has an Indonesian boyfriend; and that she was confused if the US dollar is used in Boston, where she would conclude her contract and from where she will go home to the Philippines.  I lauded her, sincerely, for her efforts to help her parents. 

After an hour: Ok, tapos na, ‘Te!

-Analyn, ano bang treatment ang ginawa mo sa akin, bata ka? Bakit parang wala namang nangyari?

She giggled.

“’Di bale 'Te, nag-chikahan naman tayo o di ba? She said, conspirationally.  “Bili ka kaya sa akin ng milk bath, $70 lang para may benta ako.”

-That is too expensive for a milk bath.

“$1,000 naman ang hawak mo sa States, ‘te!”

-Sino bang mayabang na Fil-Am ang nakausap mo?”

“Di ba yon totoo?”

-Hindi!  A  $15 bottle of shampoo is expensive.  My husband will divorce me if I pay $70 for a bottle of milk bath, I said laughingly. -  will just give you a nice tip, how is that?”

“Okay yun ‘Te, thank you.”

-Ikaw talaga, wala nang massage, may raket pa?”

We both laughed.  Every time she would see me  around the spa section, she would give me a wide grin and “that look”, as if waiting for me to transform into a unicorn or something, then she would say, “Hi Ate!”

I was humbled by the exchanges I had with these hardworking Filipinos and Indonesians aboard the ship.   While I consider myself blessed and certainly deserving of some days when I can forget the inconsequential inconveniences of my daily life, they toil each day, happy to be of service, of making it a point to serve with a smile, doing their 150% to please their guests.  While they are in that ship for as long as six months, serving 1200 passengers each week, cooking, serving, cleaning, etc.,  I can go home each night to my family.

Analyn told me that the Filipinos sing karaoke every single night. Frankly, I would have been shocked if that were not so.  Karaoke singing is such an integral part of being a Filipino and during this cruise, there was a Filipino Crew Night. They danced a jota, a pandanggo, and tinikling and there were two song numbers.  The finale of their show was a heartfelt rendition of “Bayan Ko.”  I wept when they sang, “Ibon mang may layang lumipad, kulungin mo at umiiyak…” I realized that the Filipinos are free but they are still hostage to the economy of a nation plundered by its own leaders.  It has been thirty seven years since I have sung that song with my fist up in the air.  I set myself free...

The next day after the Filipino Crew night, I made a u-turn on the way to the dining hall  when I spotted the  dancers and singers and congratulated them personally.  I even shared a secret to the “sway balance” in Filipino folk dancing to avoid hitting each other. (ever the theater person that I am)  I did mention to Luchi, the leader , to give out her instructions softer than the music because I told her that I could hear her “O ikot kanan. Diyan ka sa left. Sway balance...asog ka, aray, natapakan ako.”

I told her that I was the only Pinay in the audience/guests and so I understood her instructions but the others can hear her too. I said, "Naloko na!" into my husband's arms and stopped myself from laughing loudly.  Luchi and the others laughed as well when I told them this and they started to practice what I taught them while waiting for the drinks they were about to serve the poolside guests.   It was a happy moment.

In the last thirty seven years of my life, I have always looked back to the chapters that started when I set foot in the United States and commenced a journey that has, along the way, given me opportunities to look not only from the outside in but more importantly from the inside out.  At the end of the day, I actually do like myself and what I have done with my life and I consider myself fortunate to have met and continue to meet people who make my life more colorful, more meaningful, and profound.