It was a humid Wednesday evening. I had been home for hours and had probably finished with my homework by then. I must have been in my freshman year of high school. It was close to 9 in the evening when I heard the rumbling of the very distinct engine of our jeepney. Distinct as it was difficult to not hear the loud growl of a V8 engine (it had been meant for our old truck) running in a PUJ (public utility jeepney, for non-Filipinos, this would be the most common means of public transport. Pa was a driver.). That meant that Pa was on his way home from driving the local route.
Pa came through the door, the scent of sweat and motor oil following him. I greeted him at the door with a smile… and an unmistakable sound of a grumbling stomach.
Pa looked to the table and realised I hadn’t eaten dinner yet.
“So you haven’t cooked anything?”
The annoyance and exasperation was evident in my father’s voice
I stood there meekly and embarrassingly in front of him and then replied in the most matter of fact manner.
“I don’t know how to cook.”
Pa stood there, mouth wide open.
He shook his head and marched straight for the kitchen.
Nope, we weren't having sandwiches. (No Bread.)
We weren't going to be ordering pizza or any delivered food. (We lived on the farm. We didn't have a telephone. The mobile phone was not mainstream. )
No Instant noodles. ( I had probably eaten the last batch several nights previous)
No, that night was the beginning of my real introduction into cooking.
Now you have to understand, I was a selfish brat growing up.
I hated cooking.
I hated helping in the cooking.
I hated it so much that I would make the extra effort to guarantee I got kicked out of the kitchen. ( My family would testify to this).
My dad is so good at it, I would find the most creative ways to avoid pitching in.
Mind you, I didn't mind eating (as evident in both past and present pictures!) but I was especially picky as a child. (I'll probably have to return to this discussion at a later date, as I digress.)
I guess I got too used to it.
In any case, that was the first night my dad properly took me to task with cooking.
The dish?
Beef steak, with pan-fried potatoes and onion rings.
I think I still remember the basics.
The Beef steak.
Lean cuts of beef steak, cut thinly. Each cut would be the size of my palm. (And I had big hands. Still do)
The marinade:
Dark Soy Sauce. (Silver Swan, the most common brand)
Rock Salt (From a sack. Fresh from the ancestral salt farm.)
Ground black pepper corns
Calamansi (native Filipino citrus fruit for those uninitiated. A small lime.)
Vinegar.(Cane vinegar, with that post cane wine flavour)
Potatoes:
Peeled, washed and sliced in even rounds.
Onions:
Peeled, sliced in rings.
Garlic:
Crushed, sliced.
Now, we didn't do things with measurements and all that jazz. This was on the fly cooking, especially that late at night. Pa taught me to work quickly and trust my own judgement in taste. The meat was cut to even sizes. The marinade was mixed together, liquids in equal amounts every thing else depending in taste. Steak was then left to soak.
"Heat up the wok," Pa said.
The family wok was a beast of a cooking pan. Every family should have one. It had a history of flavours burnt right into it, every dish ever cooked had left part of itself. As well as inches of our burned skin as this was a heavy cast iron cooking utensil, handle included.
A generous amount of oil was left to heat.
"Watch the smoke," Pa pointed to the heating oil.
There was a point to learning how to read the flames from the stove, knowing when the pan was hot enough without having to look too much. Patience, even when hurrying.
"Brown the potatoes,"
Potatoes would always take longer to cook, so part cooking them was a smart idea. This is where careful preparation paid off. The more even you slice the potato rounds, the more likely they will cook at evenly and at the same time. Once, they had slightly browned, remove from flame, drain and put to the side.
"Fry the crushed garlic."
Now almost every other Filipino I learnt to cook would start with the frying of crushed garlic. There was just something about the scent of garlic hitting hot oil that makes me hungry immediately.
"Add the meat."
I remember beaming as I watched the meat begin to cook.
" Add the potatoes."
I was wondering why we only half cooked the potatoes. I was still looking at them as individual dishes and not as part of a whole.
" Add the onions."
I guess the onions would cooks so easily, you didn't want to over cook them and end up with burned mush. The layers of meat, potatoes and onions seemed so inviting. I was ready to shove them all on a plate and dig in...
"Slow down the flame." Huh, weren't we done yet? I thought.
" Add part of the marinade to the mix." Weren't we done with that? I queried.
"Now get a cup of hot water." I wasn't thirsty. Maybe Pa was.
" ...and a teaspoon of corn starch(corn flour)." Eh? Now I was getting confused.
"Mix them corn starch with hot water." This didn't sound like a drink I fancied.
"Now add to the cooking."
Oh.
OH! So adding the corn starch mixture to the already cooking meat, potatoes and onions would make a thicker sauce to compliment the dish!
I quickly began to set the table for the very late dinner that we would be having. My father's irritation had now begun to settle into bemusement. I was beginning to lick my lips anticipation.
" So did you cook the rice?" Pa asked warily.
Crap.
We finally did get around to having dinner at some point.
I definitely ended up with doing the dishes.
But from that day onwards, I stopped fearing the kitchen. I began to practise bit by bit from breakfast dishes to small dinner sets. Pa finally got used to the idea that I could survive in the kitchen to a degree. Even if it took a couple of sessions of undercooked rice to get there.
Pa would always say that better a small table overflowing with food, than a large table that was empty. I'm still learning to cook to this day, reading the odd recipe and modifying it. The family pretty much says I have a tendency to spare the salt, but other than that, I do fine.
Before my parents went off to go to the Philippines this year, I insisted on cooking a roast lamb dinner for them. My dad loves lamb and I really wanted to cook something nice. Also, Pa had only liked one dish I made, mashed potatoes. So getting the thumbs up that night was gratifying.
Pa is still the best cook in our family, bar none.
We will gladly be pulled in to help prepare a meal and also not complain when he chases us out of the kitchen. It is impossible to go on a proper diet when he cooks, but we don't really complain too much.
So this piece is for Pa.
I'll be cooking this dish just for you even if you are halfway across the planet.
I'll be keeping your share warm.... just until I decide to have it for myself.
Happy Birthday Pa! Love from across the seas!
