My Cook
REMEMBER MY COOK? She is the one singular sensation reminding me I am in the Philippines. Never a dull moment with her. Without her, I cannot imagine what life in my Bukid-non would be like. Like today:
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THE loud whispering coming from the living room, accompanied by the sound of something heavy being dragged away over the floor, made me jump out of bed and rush downstairs. There I saw my cook, a cousin of mine, pulling a big bayong (buri bag) at 5 in the morning. Behind her was another cousin, struggling to help by pushing the heavy stuff towards the house’s front door. Both women are in their 70s, yet their determination and resilience were a sight to behold.
The cook decided to sell 40 kg of calamansi (citrus) harvested from my garden in the town market. She talked about how the price of calamansi soared to a record high at Christmas time all day yesterday, and she was already excited about the profit she would make. But there was no way my other cousin would help her drag the bayong up the main road in the dark and wait for a tricycle to the marketplace. Not at 5 a.m.! The street where I live, leading to the main road, takes about 15 minutes to walk and is challenging to use, especially after the rains when it gets muddy. And it rained last night.
I was beyond surprised that she didn’t arrange for a tricycle pickup. She said she didn’t think of it, so I feigned surprise. I could not use the car to drive her to the marketplace. My driver’s license expired in November, and I have yet to renew it. And waking up Walter to drive her was like inviting murder in the wee hours of the morning.
“So, how would you sell your calamansi?” I asked my cook while we carried the bayong – the weight increased with every step we took, like we had tons of lead. Yes, I was her instant kargador (stevedore)! “You mean you will just squat there? What if the market stall checker finds you there without a permit?” I got no reply. She just laughed, her humor adding a light-hearted touch to the situation. Oh, right, your daughter-in-law was the market stall checker, I was quick to add. More laughs from her. She was silent when I asked how much she intended to sell the calamansi per kilogram. No one knows how much she makes, my other cousin told me. They don’t ask. Duh!
She returned around 7 a.m., smiling, her bayong bulging with rice cakes, pork meat, and pork blood. “Buchi for our merienda and dinuguan for lunch,” my cook happily announced, her joy in sharing her success warming the room.
Dinuguan, my foot! I wanted to scream. But at least she was in high spirits this morning. What are we getting for breakfast? I wondered.