It’s crazy that this post’s photo folder has been dormant for over three months now. Fresh, this is not, but I’d like to believe memories, although fleeting, easily taken for granted, easily preserved but eventually forgotten – can still be lived one way or the other. Today is one of those days.
Dad and I drove a few miles, to the next ‘baranggay’, to visit his little plot of land which he made into a makeshift ‘farm’. It’s not that big; its neighbors are houses, so technically it was located in a little ‘subdivision’. But it made sense. We had distant relatives nearby that he tapped to take care of it when he can’t.
My dad always said that it was ‘in his blood’ to take care of farm animals – in his case, poultry, because his dad (my grandfather) used to take care of animals as well in their hometown of Bilar, in Bohol. If you’re wondering, I can’t speak Bisaya to save my life.
He doesn’t like to sell the chickens or the eggs, much to my mom’s chagrin. He relishes at the feeling of simply tending to and propagating the flock. And true enough, what started with a few pairs of roosters and hens, exponentially grew into a brood of 30 or so, with chicks sprouting almost every month.
“Di na natin kailangan ng plato” (We don’t need plates), was his response when I asked if we’d bring plates. I was confused. Did he keep a secret stash of eating utensils among the nests and feeds? No. Then he elaborated that we would be eating it like a ‘boodle fight‘, in short, a table and a banana leaf are all we need.
I didn’t say a thing, though I was hiding the inner frustration and hesitation at the thought of doing something that wasn’t me at all. Don’t judge – I just prefer to eat my food out of a plate or bowl. With a spoon and fork.
Initially the conditions weren’t really my cup of tea when it came to prepping everything. There was a rickety plastic table, and that was it. It was a good thing I brought a chopping board and a knife. Just no plates.
Dad knew what he was doing, of course. “Ganito kami sa probinsya, simple lang ang buhay” (This is how we do it in the province – simple living). Well, looking back, I did get the idea.
This is what simple living entails: no electricity, no fancy appliances, no fancy ingredients. Just the basics, and the elements – a pot and a makeshift stove using burning wood. It’s incredibly uncomplicated and liberating, in a way. As long as there’s rice, we’re good. That’s what my dad believes in, anyway. Like the way adobo is more of a way of cooking than it is a dish, this is a fragment of a way of life.
Then we dig in. With our hands. No pretensions. It was one of the best lunches I’ve had in a really long time. I mean it. Despite my penchant for different adobo variants, this one was a winner. Incredible.
I don’t eat with my bare hands (‘kamayan’; ‘kamay’ – ‘hand’, hence ‘by hand or using you hands’) a lot, despite this practice forcefully flowing through the veins of Filipino culture.
But call it luck (or whatever you want), but every single time I do get to eat with my hands, the food is always spectacular in its own way – whether it’s with the family eating freshly grilled fish and pork at the beach, or at Mang Inasal, where their chicken seriously tastes better when eaten by hand.
This adobo was no exception. Salty, sour nuggets of pork perfectly cooked until fork tender, tempered with the taste of fluffy, steaming rice. Finished off with a bottle of ice cold (say that seductively sloooow) coke.
My dad and I share an imperfect, sometimes awkward, complicated relationship. But time just froze in that simple, uncomplicated pocket of a moment. And I saw a glimpse of my dad that I don’t get to see often.
We drove home a little after lunch with bellies full. And like I said, it’s been three months. Right now dad’s in Manila studying, he’ll be gone for a few months and that was the first and only time we managed to do that. But despite all of that, there’s always the excitement of doing it all over again soon.