My Cousin—The New Cook
Returning home to Bukid-non on December 6, 2012, I felt overwhelmed just five days later, more than I had in weeks before leaving for Manila.
The house wasn’t the way it was when I left for Vienna, which made me feel nostalgic. The living room setup was not how I remembered it, now cramped with more furniture: the massive chairs and the center table, the steel garden set, which were on the terrace when I left, now define the living room’s interior design—I can hardly walk through the maze without getting bruised. To save them from the element, my cousins told me.
Cousins are Aurora and Nora—unmarried sisters in their early 70s. They stay with me in the house when I am home, and they were kind enough to look after my property while I am away. They are with me during the day, go back to our family house before dusk, and come back to mine the next day. A home is not safe when there’s no one living there, the sisters said. Oh, let me correct that! A home is not secure even if someone is living there. But why invite intruders? Hence, my cousins keep house tirelessly, shuttling back and forth daily, come what may. But now they live permanently in my home. I have no clue when this happened, which makes their dedication even more remarkable.
My cousins take great care of my house, hiding valuables to prevent intruders, but their memory of where they hide things is often unreliable, which adds a layer of humor and charm to their efforts.
Excuse me, but I needed to go to the bathroom. Where’s the toilet paper? “Oh, sorry, we meant to get some from the grocery store,” my cousins said in unison. They thought of buying before driving to the airport to pick us up, but in haste forgot all about the precious toilet paper. Never mind, I have a bunch of banana trees in my backyard. Dry banana leaves can do the same job as toilet paper. Think organic!
Now we’re hungry. The food was nice, but it was cold. “I cooked them before Aurora, and Nora left for the airport.” That was Gloria, my new cook. Touchdown was at 10 a.m., and my cousins left the house as early as 7 a.m. We got home shortly before 1 p.m. Again, never mind, there’s always the microwave.
“Asin!” That was Walter, my Viennese friend who, like me, escapes the winter season and travels with me to the Philippines, telling people in my neighborhood, “Filipino ako!” (I am a Filipino.) He has to have his salt shaker on the table at every mealtime. “We ran out of salt this morning,” Gloria said again. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us!
Ila, my regular cook, was on leave. Her mother died a week ago, and she won’t be back until after the wake is over. Search me, but the wake lasted for nine days, during which my two cousins hired a replacement—Gloria—to cover the period Ila was away. Gloria, the new cook, is my first-degree cousin on my father’s side of the family, 72 years old and counting.
She was a good cook in her heyday. Still is, but something is not “in Ordnung” with her. Something is wrong, observed Walter. She used to be A-OK, but this time she is hard of hearing and gets tired easily, she told me. She would ask me to switch on the TV set for her noontime telenovelas (soap operas) from noontime until around 3 p.m. Then comes “Willing Willie!” This one is lost in translation, sorry, but it is actually a variety show.
Dinner time. Gloria was cooking Walter’s all-time favorite: eggplant omelet. She was happy, I noticed—doing her job as diligently as she could. I saw her flipping the omelette as expertly as a 5-star chef would, holding the eggplant omelette by its stem, and, with oil still dripping, transferring it to the serving plate on the table behind her. How would you do it, otherwise? I would typically hold the serving plate as close as I could to the skillet, then swoop the omelet onto the dinner plate. It was just a miracle that she didn’t trip stepping on the greasy floor.
For dessert, we got Magnolia ice cream in ube-macapuno and mango flavors (purple yam with coconut and mango), served in coffee cups. Yes, Virginia, ube-macapuno swirl ice cream and mango-flavored one in glass coffee cups, thanks to the most resourceful cook of the year, my cousin Gloria.
Why not use ice-cream cups? I asked. We have lots of them. “Where do I find them?” That was Gloria. Where else, but in the aparador (pantry cabinet), I said. She opened the aparador, but she could not find the cups. I smiled—the same smile I usually give Lina, a good friend and another neighbor in Vienna, whenever she gets more than I can handle, you know what I mean.
There, I said, pointing with my pursed lips to the little thick glass bowls my mom would use when serving desserts, ice cream especially. “Oh, those!” my cook once again. “But they are for patis (fish sauce)!” Right! How could I forget the time of my childhood when I would get ice cream and ginatan—another Filipino dessert in coconut milk served on those quaint little bowls made of thick glass, but also used interchangeably for condiments like fish sauce? Goodbye, Vienna! Hello, Bukid-non!
The next day, my sister and her husband came home from Sydney, where they live, for Christmas. As is true with every Balikbayan (returning expat), my sister craves local food specialties, especially paksiw—milkfish stewed in vinegar and ginger—and sapsap pinangat, a small silvery fish usually prepared with salt and tomatoes, a staple in Filipino cuisine. My cook could not find sapsap and settled for a handful of the tiniest fish she could find at the market, those used to make bagoong (shrimp, fish paste). “Those were the best,” she said. Paging the Bureau of Fisheries!
For lunch, I asked her to find me tulya (Venus mussels) in the market. I had spaghetti alla vongole in mind. I went shopping and was home a couple of hours later. Lunch was ready—fried bangus for me and eggplant omelet for Walter. My cook surprised me with a bowl of piping-hot soup with tulya sauteed in tomatoes, chilli leaves, and ginger—an authentic Filipino recipe; it was, maybe, not bad, but what about my vongole? Oh, she meant well, you little snob. Pass the rice, please!
Walter made pizza for dinner. My cook placed knives and forks, and spoons on the table. And a bowl of rice! “Don’t we need rice?” she asked. No, Virginia, you don’t eat pizza with rice. You may, but you will not like it, trust me! Cook was not happy with the pizza. “This should be good with ketchup,” she whispered to Aurora, who was sitting next to her, but Walter heard her.
“My dear, you may add sugar to make it sweet like your spaghetti.” That was Walter on the brink of a nervous breakdown.
December 25, 2012