My mother's daughter

I sat at the communal table, looking at the woman in front of me. Her story, partly unfolding between us, the rest left up in the air for me to fill in the blanks.  I was eating perogies at the market, much needed after a tough Bikram class, and she was on her lunch break from the butcher's.

But there won't be much guessing from my end. Her story, much like the other stories I've grown up with, they seem to be cut from the same cloth, written with the same ink. 

As a child, I had the opportunity to see many sides of this world, from the mountains and seas of my homeland to the desert of the Middle East to the prairies of North America.  Some travels not by free will but of economics.  Some by need, not want.  And I always knew that my parents did it all for us.  I always knew my mother did it for me. 

This woman, she has my mother's eye colour, a shade slightly darker than mine. The worry, buried within the lines of her face, traces a familiar path.  Those lines I knew very well.  They carry the burden of family, of tradition, of obligation, only further complicated by migration.

As I listen to this woman, who also sounds very much like my mother, list her concerns over her own mother's health, her son, the coffee and sugar that she has collected over the months to send back home, I become torn. 

Torn between anger and empathy like I always do when I hear my own mother say these words:

'They have nothing back home.  We have everything.  We moved here so you kids can have a better life.'

Though it did not show in my face, my cheeks flushed unnoticeably.  Why was I angry as I sat across the woman whose eyes shone like my mother's?

Because this is not the first time I have heard this story.  Because it will not be the last time I will hear this story.  Because I knew, that even if someone asked this woman what she needed for herself, she will never tell them.  There are others who are more important, she will insist.

I also know that with all the sacrifices she had made, she will be too tired to take care of herself, too guilty to enjoy herself, too selfless to want something for herself.  She will become unhealthy because the health of everyone else comes before her.  She will be too worried to see the sun still shines as bright as it did when she was a child.

She will be buried under the shadows of gendered obligation, of responsibility.  After years of taking care of others, she will forget she needs it too.

I was angry because these women once dreamed of the stars, of seeing the world, of changing the world.  Those dreams they shared with their daughters, so we, their daughters, can shatter glass ceilings, melt iron walls, and break the chains of status quo. 

But because of duty and obligation written by the cruel hands of tradition persists, all those dreams, their dreams, get left behind. 


I say I am angry, but you and I know, after you read this, that anger is the mask that sadness wears. 

You and I also know that anger inspires hope.  So you see, as much as mothers say their children are their lives, there is nothing their children would want more than for their mothers to follow their dreams, too.

I will never be ungrateful for what I have been given because my mama did not raise me to be so.  But I wish, women whose eyes shine like hers, would find those stars once again.

Pieces left behind

In the past month, I threw myself in more yoga, more sweat than ever.  I attended the advanced classes, did doubles, dreamt of yoga while I slept, and watched hours of yoga competition online.  Last week, I showed up at the studio like a stray, with nothing but a soggy jacket drenched from a wet winter storm.

I had not planned on going to class that night because of work (but managed to leave early) so I had no yoga clothes, no towels, no mat.  But it didn't matter.  I wanted to be in there.  I needed to be in there.  And so off to class I went, dressed in the most uncomfortable borrowed-from-the-very-clean-lost-and-found-bin outfit I've ever worn.  I shall spare you the details of which parts of my dignity had spilled out of those girdle-looking yoga shorts because even I convinced myself that it didn't matter what I looked like, as long as I made it to yoga.  Of course, that is partly true.   My friend Jezebel, aptly described this bin-rummaging as....excessive.  I can't say I disagree.

But I also knew better.  When I started dying during the floor series, it finally dawned on me what I was doing in the room.  I was so busy trying to get to be so hard, so good, and so strong that I didn't see the rubble I had left behind.  Pieces of me I've ignored and neglected, pieces I refused to see in the mirror because my pride was in the way. 

It didn't matter the admission price, or how much I had to sell my soul, as long as I was in there.

After that disastrous class, I decided to take a day off, I told myself to take a breather. Okay, that's a lie.  It wasn't really a breather, it was mere logistics that made it impossible to make it to class.  Really, had my day opened up like the Red Sea after Moses was through with it, I would have been in class front and centre.  Still, I told myself it was a break.  And I was back the next day.

Of course, when our egos gets in the way, crash and burn is just around the corner.   We get excited, and in that excitement, we get sloppy, daring, reckless.  We injure bodies and forget to take care of ourselves.  In my yoga daze, yesterday's class became the straw that broke the camel's back.

My breath betrayed me, luring me into flight mode.  Within a few minutes, my head was spiraling into dizziness and my limbs were on fire.  Racing faster than my heart, my mind couldn't be slowed down.  Suddenly I was mapping out escape routes from the heat, from the torture.  I silently begged anyone to pull the fire alarm.  I even secretly wished for someone to get sick (but not me!), so the instructor would open the door...and this piggy can get a taste the cold air.

  

Oh pride, how beautiful art thou in thy madness?

As I crawled out of the studio after class, the instructor tells me to take it easy.  And suddenly, finally, I heard somebody else besides myself.  Today, I may or may not make it to class.  And if I do, it wont be for my ego but for the pieces I've neglected and left behind.

'Do it now. Courage will soon follow'

The best words one can receive when they find themselves at a crossroad.

Thanks to a great Bikram instructor for the drops of wisdom.  Now it's time to take a leap...

From The Ballerina Project: http://ballerinaproject.blogspot.com and find/like them on FaceBook!

Longganisa: A trip to the past (Filipino Sausage)

The mountains, a few small rivers and a couple of waterfalls, then the sea, the plains, and finally, the volcanoes (yes, plural)!  In a mere couple of hours I'd get to see my lolas (grandmas) and lolos (grandpas), run amongst the trees of guava, avocado, and my favourite, chico.  Oh yes, there was jackfruit and star apple too, sweet and shy neighbours to the shady arms of the tamarind tree.

No, I am not describing some tropical paradise from a book or the latest episode of a dating show, nor did it come from an ancient storybook. 

These were the sights I would see every time my mama and papa would take us down from the city of pines to my grandparents to Tarlac, and eventually, Pampanga to pick up some cured meats we sold back in the city.  Of course half the time, my head would be buried in a bag, retching, because of the downward spiraling direction of the highway on the mountainside and the car's rocking back and forth (motion sickness sucks!).  But every now and then I would come up for air and feel the slow stickiness growing on my skin that only comes from the humidity of the lowlands. 

I also had a few landmarks I waited for.

The waterfalls by the cliffs.  A group of trees on top a rocky mountaintop.  The woven basket and wooden furniture vendors.  The sea.  My favourite goto-han (soup/noodlehouse of sorts) that served the best arroz caldo and mami in the world.  The dried seafood and green mangoes by the treelined highway.  Tarlac's centre town.  The sugar cane village tucked in Hacienda Luisita where my ma grew up.  Then when we keep going, we would pass the ghost towns of Mt. Pinatubo, where the only signs of life were the roofs of the many churches, rising ever so slowly from being buried from the volcanic ashes.

This would usually be when this little girl would fall asleep until we pass by the farm fields leading up to Pampanga.  I'd wake up just in time to see the beautiful Mt. Arayat in all her glory.  I would strain and stare, until she disappeared and we were deep into my papa's city - a sleepy town 20 years back.

Nowadays, you cannot and will not get me in a car for a 'long drive'.  It just isn't the same.  I dislike long drives in the prairies for this reason.  Nothing to see for miles and miles.  Blech.

Despite my lingering over these memories, my post isn't about the beauty of the islands. 

My family do these trips a few times a year so my ma can pick up her supplies for her livelihood.  Selling tocino and longganisa.  She would fill our truck with all shades of pork to bring back to sell in the city until we left for Canada. 

I would help her make small and meduim packages of cured meat, mostly requested by the mountain city's college population.   The packaging of the tocino was much more complicated for me at the time, so instead, I would count and recount the sweet and sometimes spicy sausages then seal them with my little hands.  Little did I know I would be making my own 20 years later.

So you see, tocino and longganisa doesn't just remind me of yummy Filipino breakfast food.   It was my childhood.  And by default, I am and will always be picky about these meats.  If I can dig my vivid memories of the scenery from those trips, I hope I can trust my tastebuds just as well.

One thing I feel I must say is that there is absolutely no reason why people should add food colouring to these meats.  The curing process (traditionally, with salitre) creates the natural reddish hue to the meats.  I am not using salitre but instead am using aswete, a perfectly suitable red-coloured spice that complements the meat well.   See?  No need for chemical Red #32 or whatever.  The existence of food colouring on the ingredient list makes me wary of how they made their meats.  And being wary isn't a good sign when it comes to meat, right?

Skinless Pork Longganisa (Sweet, Pampangga style)

makes approx 24-30 sausages, depending on size

1 lb ground pork

6 cloves of garlic, finely minced

1/4 cup brown sugar

1-2 tbsp sea salt (less if desired)

2 tbsp ground black pepper (less if desired)

2 tbsp aswete, sifted (annato powder)

splash of cane vinegar (white will do, too)

oil, for shaping sausages

Sift the aswete over the brown sugar, sea salt, and black pepper and mix thoroughly.  Combine with the ground pork, minced garlic, and the spalsh of vinegar.  Cover and let sit for at least one hour in the fridge, overnight is better.

When marinated, shape them into 4 inch sausages, or whatever size you prefer, using oiled hands to smooth them out.  I personally find it easier to cook smaller links.  If you plan to freeze some of them, lay them out on a baking sheet, lined with plastic wrap or waxed paper and let them freeze individually.  Then just place layer them over each other, plastic and all, then seal in a container.  Otherwise, they'll all stick together and it's not so fun prying them off each other afterwards!

If cooking fresh, pan fry on a lightly oiled skillet until golden brown and inside is thoroughly done. Some caramelization will occur due to the sugar. Trust me, you want that.

If cooking frozen ones, put a small amount of water to slightly boil the longganisa until the water dries up. Add a splash of oil and continue pan frying them until a golden, caramel colour.

Best serve with rice. My favourite way to eat these is with steamed jasmine rice, steamed greens, and a dipping sauce of kalamansi and bagoong (anchovy sauce) with siling labuyo. 

*Note: Meat can easily be replaced, the salt/sugar/pepper ration can vary to your preference. Don't be scared of the 2 tbsp of black pepper, it cuts through the richness and sweetness of the meat.  Sifting the aswete will ensure you don't end up with clumps of orange-red specks in your longganisa.

By the way, if you ordered tocino and your rice becomes stained with a weird shade of reddish pink, you cannot eat that again. That is, quite literally, all shades of wrong. Take it from the longganisa and tocino girl. The only colours that your ulam should leave behind on your rice is the caramelized sugars, a lil bit of the oil, and the spices.  

Not a lipstick stain.