Balatong / Waiting

I waited a lot when I was a kid after school. Some kids got out of class and their parents would be right outside the door ready to take them home. For me, I would be the last one to be picked up sometimes. I’d wave to my classmates goodbye and watch my teachers leave campus - each of them with a face riddled with pity. Eventually, the school’s office secretary had to fetch me so that I can make a phone call home. After a few minutes, Tatay would be in front of the school and I was thrilled see him.

Tatay brought me to and from school. Our routine would be the same every morning: he'd wait for me as I changed into my hideous green jumper uniform, Inang made me pan de sal and coffee, we got in the car, drove to school, I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and got out of the car. A lot of the time I would be late, too. We never would abide by the 8:25-3:00 rule. Nope, we were there at 8:35-3:15. Or better yet, 8:45-3:30. Tatay and I were a team, he’d bring me to the corner store where he’d buy me Juicy Fruit gum. I chewed so much of it as a child that my teeth enamel started deteriorating. Off to the dentist I went in Tatay's car and he waited for me to get silver cappings on eight of my front teeth. Come to think of it, I don’t think we were always on time to those appointments either. He’d wait for me to finish watching my cartoons or I’d wait for him to finish watching “Bonanza.” We waited for each other and we were cool with that. I believe we enjoyed each other’s company anyway.

Something that I wish I didn’t wait for was 10 years.

It was 10 years before I decided to go back to the Philippines. Tatay had traveled back and forth between San Francisco and Umingan in Pangasinan, PI; however, due to his health and age, the family thought it would be best for him and Inang to remain in their homeland. I kind of let time pass by until it hit me, “What the hell was I waiting for?” I agreed to go back with my mom and sister in 2007 for Tatay and Inang’s 83rd birthday party. I also went back to the Philippines in 2009, this time bringing my boyfriend. By the end of the trip, that boyfriend would be my fiance as he asked Inang and Tatay for their blessing. It was truly one of the happiest moments of my life to see them smile and nod their heads in agreement. A girl waits for this moment her whole life and I am lucky to have shared it with them.

Last year in May, Tatay passed away. I still can’t believe he’s gone, but obviously he’s not gone from my memories. After his death, my mind was full of regret. “I wish I spent more time with him” “I wish I didn’t get him mad all the time.” “I wish I hadn’t waited THAT long to see him again.”

I could only wish that I made him proud in the 26 years I've known him. And Tatay, I still don’t abide from the 8:25 rule either. Yup, I’m still late to everything and usually have coworkers waiting for me in the morning. Besides, somethings are worth waiting for…

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Balatong aka Mongo is one of those dishes you can’t rush. When I prepare it, I usually soak the mung beans as I sautee the “good stuff” which flavors the whole dish - onions, garlic, and pork, sometimes chicken. Once that mixture is cooked, add the mung beans, maybe some patis or bagoong, and wait…and wait…and wait…it would be the longest 30-45 minutes in my life. I never really know the exact time it takes for it to cook. I just wait and look for that consistency I prefer - thick and almost velvety.

This is one of the dishes that my mom taught me to cook, which only means that Inang taught her how to cook it as well. I also learned that patience is important, especially in stews like Balatong. Once I reach that point of perfection, I add spinach and get my bowl of rice ready. I like getting a ladle-full pouring it over the rice only to mix the whole thing together. Now THAT, my friends, is home. Comfort. Something worth waiting for. All the work. All the effort. All the waiting. That first bite is as satisfying as a grandfather’s hug. Again, comfort and security. The waiting - it’s worth it.

Mom, Inang, My Sister Sherri, Tatay, and Myself
at Inang and Tatay's 83rd Birthday in the Philippines 2007

Auntie Lolit/Pinapaitan

Yesterday, I sat in my Auntie Lolit's kitchen. I had a giant cup of pinapaitan and rice. Each bite I took sent a stinging burn from the heat and chili peppers. Each bite made me think of how things used to be - when I was child. When we were all children with no worries in sight.

Auntie Lolit was in bed. Sleeping. She was breathing with the aid of an oxygen tube. Her chest rising and falling. It was easier for her to sleep than to be awake.

Our family had gathered at her house because she was losing her fight with her leukemia which had been diagnosed in 2008. Mother's Day. We knew she suffered since that day when she asked me, "what is chemotherapy?"

I work in the medical field in San Francisco. In oncology. Coming into this job, I knew it was going to be rough. I had to protect myself and wear a thick skin. I had to find a way not to get attached with my patients. If I didn't, I'd fail at my job.

But nothing prepares anyone when they find out the person they cherish has cancer. My Auntie Mina passed away due to breast cancer right before I turned 18. I wanted her to be at my debut so bad. She missed it by a couple of weeks. She came to my mind when I went in for my job interview. I can do this job. I can do this job and help people like my Auntie Mina. My heart broke when I heard the news Auntie Lolit had leukemia.

Auntie Lolit helped raise me since I was born. Momma went to work with her at the hotels near SFO cleaning rooms. I bet she was there at home waiting after Momma gave birth to me. A couple years after I was born, Auntie gave birth to my cousin Terri Star, who is more like a sister than a mere cousin to me. They have been an integral part of my life. Uncle Bill, Auntie's husband, would pick me up every Saturday to go to the Flea Market at the Cow Palace and then I'd sleep over Auntie's house where she'd make pot roast or our favorite: Hamburger Helper!

We shared so many memories in that kitchen. Terri and I would play with her brother's Super Nintendo and then run to the kitchen for some grub. Auntie Lolit always treated me like her own daughter.

So here we were in the kitchen again. The pinapaitan was made by her brother, Uncle Joe. It's delicious and hot and a reminder of our childhood. I grew up with this soup of beef bile, meat, and tripe. The list of ingredients are sickening to most but heaven to me. Inang used to make it all the time.

I couldn't help but think back on our memories and stories we made in that house. I see my year-old niece, Jayla running around and dancing to the sounds from the television. Auntie Lolit knew all of us cousins when we were that young. She was at all our birthdays and family parties. She watched all of us grow up. We also watched her grow with time.

It was getting late and we had to leave. I went to Auntie's room, held her hand, whispered, "Bye Auntie, I love you...", and kissed her goodbye.

******

Auntie Lolit passed away at approximately 12:30 a.m. June 23, 2010 - 2 years and 1 month after her initial diagnosis.

She may be gone, but her spirit and her smile live in all of us. For that, I thank God for blessing us with such a beautiful and selfless woman.

Rest in Paradise, Lolita Boston Wong.

We love you and miss you already.

...sigh...

Inang, I miss you so much...

Beef Nilaga –“Lauya”/McDonald’s Cheeseburgers

When I was a kid, Inang would bring me and my little cousin Star to Serramonte Mall. There used to be a store there called “The House of Fabrics,” but Inang would pronounce it as “House ob Pubrik.” Inang made her own clothes even when there were hundreds of clothing stores around us. She was old-fashioned. She never utilized an iron with an automatic spraying gizmo. All she used was a damp terry cloth towel and wiped it across the piece of clothing before ironing.

But, when it came to food outside of the house, she stuck with whatever was convenient and fast – which meant McDonald’s. I had always wanted a Happy Meal and Star had always wanted Chicken McNuggets, but Inang always bought us the same thing time after time after time. Cheesebugers. I ate them only because I would have no food otherwise. Star hated cheeseburgers and to this day she refuses to eat them. Poor Star. I remember taking out the pickles and eating them each trip to the mall. No wonder I ballooned into a chubby kid! It’s all that greasy beef!

Speaking of beef, at home, Inang would make the best beef soup known as “nilaga,” but I remember Inang calling it “lauya.” (“Nilaga” is used for the beef version and “lauya” is used for the pork version, but Inang used it interchangeably.) It’s a rich beef broth with big meaty bones, huge chunks of carrots, potatoes, and wedges of cabbage. I loved pouring that hot soup over rice and eating the meat. She had boiled the heck out of the bones that the meat was so tender. It can get cold in the Bay Area, but a bowl of this is pure comfort. I can still hear the sound of Tatay sucking out all that bone marrow that was hiding in the bones. He really got his hands on that bone. Yes, that marrow had no chance.

We were no where close to being “well off” back then. Momma and Auntie Glo were still working out in South San Francisco and Inang took care of me at home in our little in-law along Mission Street. We didn’t have fancy dinners at fancy restaurants. We had the bare minimum – a few pieces of meat and the most basic of vegetables that she would buy from Alemany Farmer’s Market in San Francisco, but Inang would make the most delicious food with what we had. She never once used a measuring cup or a thermometer or an egg timer. She used her gut instinct to make her dish. That’s a real chef right there – taking only what you have available and creating masterpieces with natural talent. Yes, my Inang was the best.

Inang, myself, and Momma in our bedroom in our house on Liebig St.

Tupperware Lunch/Longanisa and Dinuguan

From Kindergarten through 3rd grade, I went to Catholic school. Yes, Catholic school. I had to wear a disgusting forest green jumper with white knee-high socks. No, it was not as sexy as Britney’s uniform. Catholic school was a lot different from public school because you were with the same 30 people year after year after year until you graduated, as opposed to switching to different rooms every year.

Everyday at lunch, I gawked at the other kids’ brown paper bags and plastic lunch boxes. Daisy always had a box full of Ziplocked bags. One with a sandwich on white bread and another with orange wedges. David had the best lunch of all: LUNCHABLES! Customizable cracker sandwiches and a CapriSun! I had always begged my mom for one whenever we’d be in the refrigerated section at the supermarket, but she always said, “No! It’s too expensive!”

I was almost ashamed to take out my lunch. Instead of Ziplock bags, I had Tupperwares filled with leftovers from the previous night: rice and some type of ulam. I loved eating it at home, but not in front of my friends.

One day, my teacher sent me to the 8th grade classroom to heat up my lunch. Unfortunately, the only microwave in the school was in the 8th grade class. I hesitantly climbed to the second floor and walked into the room. I felt everyone’s eyes on me and I was terrified. A 1st grader in a room full of staring 8th graders? C’mon, wouldn’t you be scared? I walked straight to the teacher and handed her my red Tupperware. Before she proceeded to put it in the microwave, she lifted the lid and made the most disgusted look I have ever seen, and I knew why…

Longanisa and dinuguan.

By this time in the day, the sausages were cold and the dinuguan (or “chocolate meat” as Inang put it) had set up like gelatin. Without words, she expressed her displeasure with my food. I’m surprised I didn’t run out of the room sobbing. I mean, who gives their kid spicy pork sausages and pork blood stew for lunch?

Whenever I had another Tupperware lunch, I’d lie to my teacher and say I didn’t have lunch nor did I have money to buy anything from the cafeteria. I would steal a piece of ham from David and an orange wedge from Daisy. As the day went on, my stomach would be growling and I was starving.

I was rather upset with my family for making me take Filipino food to school. I wanted what everyone else had, so I persuaded my mom to give me money to buy microwaved bean burritos or chicken nuggets or turkey sandwiches on white bread. Soon, I was just like everyone else. Not just the chubby kid who ate blood for lunch.

Now…

I miss Inang making me lunch. I know I was a kid at the time, but deep down I knew it upset Inang when I came home with none of my food eaten. Ironically, the first thing I did when I got home was throw that Tupperware in the microwave and eat it anyway.

Back then, I guess I was a kid just wanting to fit in and be just like everyone else. I guess at the time, I didn't see how much effort was put into preparing my meal. Perfectly boiling the longanisa until they were tender and then browning them in their own fat. (Yum! Pork fat!) Or cutting up the pork meat in perfectly-sized cubes for the chocolate meat. Or washing and cooking the rice to the perfect doneness. Or perfectly portioning out the rice in the container and spooning the perfect amount of chocolate meat sauce over the rice and perfectly placing the sausages next to the rice. Or the way she neatly put the plastic container in the lunchbox with real silverware which she scolded me for if I ever lost them. Come to think of it, that was the most perfect lunch I could ever think of.

She didn't have to make lunch for me, but she did because she wanted to make sure her grandaughter had a good meal. Quite honestly, ham on crackers never satisfied me as much as a juicy longanisa with steamed rice.

Back then, I took for granted all the things Inang did for me thinking she would always be there. But now, I would give anything for just one more chance for Inang to make me another Tupperware lunch.

Momma, myself and Inang enjoying a day in Golden Gate Park

Another Accident/Chicken Tinola

“Hello, Mrs. Boston? Yes, this is Nurse Lyon from Holy Mother Catholic School. Joanne seemed to have had another accident in her class. Will it possible if someone comes to bring her home? Okay, she will be in the nurse’s office when her grandfather gets here. Thank you.”

Nurse Lyon was a gentle woman in her late 50’s. She always scolded me for something. One day, I was wearing my Mickey Mouse dangly earrings and she told me not to wear them because when I play during recess, someone can pull on them and yank my earlobe off. Another day, when I was playing during recess, I slipped on the gravel and skinned both knees. Nurse Lyon cleaned and bandaged them. She said I should not have been running in the first place. A week later, I did the exact same thing, but again, Nurse Lyon was there to help. Another time, I was flustered during math. I hated math with a passion and I started to fail my math tests. I told Sister Mary Catherine I was sick, and she sent me to Nurse Lyon to take my temperature.

I loved Nurse Lyon. She was the only one in the school who took care of me.

This time I did something that no one else in the class has ever done. It was just after the bell rang at the beginning of the school day. We put our coats in the coat room, our lunchboxes in the lunchbox room, and took out our assignments from our assignment bins. Then all of a sudden-

“Ew! Mrs. O’Donnell! Joanne threw up!”

“Mrs. O’Donnell, it stinks!”

I swear, I tried to hold it in. Look at my hands! I covered my mouth, but the throw up went through my fingers! I’m sorry!

I tried wiping off my soiled hands on my green plaid jumper, but the smell of sour hydrochloric acid, coffee, and pan de sal had already permeated in the room. I knew where I was going already.

Mrs. O’Donnell walked me to Nurse Lyon’s office. I was pretty excited to go home. Maybe I would be home to catch the last half of Electric Company. When we walked in, Nurse Lyon looked at me with that “you again” look. The previous week, it was unusually hot for Daly City, and I had a nosebleed. I tried rolling up twigs of bathroom paper towel and stuck them up my nostrils. It didn’t work and the blood soaked through my white Peter Pan-collared blouse. Not pretty.

She cleaned me up and called Inang, my emergency contact. Momma was at work at the hotel again. She left even before I woke up. Inang dressed me up in the morning and gave me my usual breakfast of coffee and pan de sal. I did not particularly like the coffee because I was only six, and this was for old people. I wanted orange juice, or even better, chocolate milk! But no, I had to drink what Inang and Tatay were drinking.

“What did you eat for breakfast, Joanne?”

“Coffee and pan de sal.”

“Coffee, huh? What is pan de sal?”

“Bread…”

“Is it good?”

“Yeah…”

“Does your tummy hurt, Joanne?”

“No…I ate a lot of pan de sal, and then came to school and then I throw up.”

“Tomorrow, tell grandma not to give you too much bread, okay?”

There was a knock at the door. Maybe another sick kid? Nurse Lyon opened the door and I saw Tatay standing there.

“Howdie!”

Tatay, Momma’s father, brought me to school every morning. He dropped me off at 8:15, and came back at 8:45 to pick me back up.

“Mr. Boston, Joanne said she had coffee and bread for breakfast. It might have made her stomach ache. If she is okay, she can come back to school tomorrow.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Okay, Joanne. Feel better.”

“Okay, Nurse Lyon.”

When I got home, Inang had a pot of chicken tinola on the stove bubbling away. For some reason, every time I ate something that Inang cooked, I felt a whole lot better. Her chicken tinola had an aromatic broth that was infused with ginger, garlic and onions. The soup is like a medicine in itself. The ginger stimulated digestion and also cleared any clogged sinuses. Sometimes she would change things up and add green papaya or chili leaves.

She scooped some white rice in a bowl and ladled the steaming hot soup and chunks of chicken over it. I let the grains soak in the liquid for a minute and took a bite.

It felt like…home.

Like a warm hug from the inside.

Though it was blistering hot, one bite cleared my senses and I was able to take in a deep breath of fresh air.

I heard of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup, and how it is supposed to make you feel better, but nothing beats Inang’s tinola.

Tatay, Inang, and I at Fisherman's Wharf in SF.
I am about 4 years old in this picture.

Birthday/Pancit

It was a few days before my 24th birthday, and I realized I was at the age when Momma gave birth to me. So at the dinner table, I asked…

“So how did you tell Inang you were pregnant with me?”

“I didn’t.” Momma said almost nonchalantly.

“What?!”

“She found out just after I gave birth…and once she saw a picture of you, she wanted to come to the States right away.”

“How old was I when she arrived?”

“Maaaarch…April, May, June…3 months old.”

“Wow…”

“You and me waited at the airport for her. I put you in your stroller and put the shade over you. When she came to us, she didn’t even look at me. She just asked, ‘Where is she?’ and then I took the shade off you, and she pinched your foot and said, ‘Ukininam! Nag pintas ka!’ She picked you up and carried you out of the airport, and she took care of you ever since.”

“Ohhh, I love Inang…”

“Me, too.”

*****

Ask anyone. Anyone. Ask them what their favorite Filipino food is and most of the time they will say “pancit.” Pancit is a noodle dish that is a staple on a Filipino buffet. It is vital to have it on hand especially on a birthday because the length of the noodles signify a long life for the celebrated.

Inang always made pancit for my birthday. I remember her standing in the kitchen slicing up carrots, celery, and green beans on long, skinny, biases so that they would be easier to eat with the noodles. I remember her sauteeing the onions and garlic. The sound of the onions sizzling with the oil and the aroma of the cooking permeating the air of our modest little basement kitchen.

Back then, life was a struggle. Momma was a single mother. Very young. Inang came to the States to help her daughter take care of me. Our living conditions were not the best either. We lived in my Lolo's (Granduncle) lower level of his house along Mission Street on the border line of San Francisco and Daly City. He made the garage a living room and the in-law had a kitchen and a bedroom. Inang was in that kitchen cooking and making coffee way before I even woke up. She was best at making entrees, and pancit was one of them

I have been told that Inang is a perfectionist. Every vegetable has to be uniform. The noodles had to be cooked to the perfect doneness. I have tasted so many forms of pancit throughout my life, but Inang’s stands out as the best. Yes, I may be biased, but it’s true!

I feel a special connection with my mother and my grandmother because each of us was born in the year of the Rat. Inang in 1924, Momma in 1960, and me in 1984. Each of us is a Pisces because Inang was born on March 8, Momma on March 7 and Me on March 16. See that little trend we got going here? Every birthday is special. Every year lived is a blessing, and I hope I get some pancit on my next birthday.

Inang cooking for another celebration in our tiny kitchen.