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.

Welcome

Some people collect coins.

Others collect stamps.

Hell, some collect ex-spouses.

I seemed to have started a blog collection.

This one will be about the experiences I have had with my grandma. Our family calls her "Inang," and I believe with my heart of hearts that she is an integral part of my love of food.

Her chicken adobo is still my favorite dish.

I miss her so much, and I dedicate this to her.