Friday afternoon I left work a little early and went sniffing around Pike Place Market. It was a gorgeous Seattle day, the kind that starts out nice enough, grows subtly, steadily warmer and sunnier each hour until it all-of-a-sudden explodes into something bright, hot, and irresistible. After a week of heavy rain, it was a revelation. The Market was in a good mood, alive and buzzing and awesome (I wasn't even annoyed by slow-moving tourists). In a daze, our well-stocked fridge receding quickly from my consciousness, I went on a spontaneous shopping spree--ramps, jars of my favorite spicy pickled green beans, clams, mussels.
I found myself taking a detour on the way out. First Fero's, where I carefully considered every meat and cut in the case, then finally bought a pound of chorizo though I didn't really need it. I lingered at Shy Giant, trying to talk myself into a frozen yogurt craving. But there was no kidding myself--I had gone to this area of the market on purpose: to eavesdrop on the ladies at Oriental Mart who serve up Filipino food, lunch counter style, with a generous side of conversation. My real craving was to hear some Tagalog being spoken, to hear some Filipinos talking.
Like the city, my brain spent most of the week cloudy and covered. I made it through the days just fine--work got done, food got made--but mostly I was going through the motions, skimming by on the surface of things. All week long, in the back of my brain, what I'd really been thinking about was the Philippines. For me "thinking about the Philippines" is a not a simple thing. It's a heavy and loaded thing, filled with all kinds of questions about identity, history, family, as well as a giant web of feelings, more powerful and even trickier to navigate. I've carried these things around my whole life; I always will. But this week I had a chance to try and make sense of some of it, to work through and articulate, for the first time, a few thoughts and beliefs that had mostly just existed in my head. The opportunity came, of all things, through writing a story about boxing. (You can read the piece here if you like. It's about my experience going to the Manny Pacquiao-Ricky Hatton fight in Las Vegas with my family, and what Pacquiao means to Filipinos.)
While doing research into Manny Pacquiao, I found out that his workout regime includes, among other incredible things, doing 2,000 sit-ups a day. I can only begin to imagine what his diet is like, and I'm trying to track down more information about that. One thing I did find out was that Manny's favorite food is tinola, a simple soup made with chicken and chayote squash, flavored with ginger and fish sauce (and a favorite of mine too). So, in honor of Manny Pacquio, Filipino icon and "The National Fist," I offer you some tinola. It's a light soup that works really well this time of year, but I find the gingery kick is perfect and comforting on cold, gray days, as well as when you just need a little pick me up.
4-6 pieces chicken, with skin (I usually buy a whole fryer chicken that is already broken down at the store, picking the pieces that I want, and freezing the rest for later use. During leaner times, a few chicken backs work well, though you have to work a little harder for the meat)
2 finger-size pieces of ginger, peeled, cut into thin matchsticks 3 chayotes, peeled, seeded, and cubed (You could also use green papaya) 2 bunches watercress 1 small white onion, diced 2 cloves garlic, minced patis (aka fish sauce; I prefer Rufina brand)
lemon (optional)
In a large Dutch oven, brown the chicken pieces on both sides in a little oil. Remove and set aside.
In the same pot, fry the garlic, ginger, and onion until soft and fragrant. Add back the chicken, plus a couple teaspoons or so of fish sauce. Cook for 3-4 minutes, letting the chicken absorb the fish sauce flavor
Add the chayote, plus enough water so that chicken pieces are just covered. Add a little more fish sauce. Simmer 25 minutes or so, until chicken is fully cooked and chayote is tender. Turn off heat, add watercress, and allow remaining heat to wilt and cook the greens
Serve immediately with rice. (Personally, I like to flavor my individual bowl with some patis and lemon and fresh ground black pepper, but it's up to you.)
My boyfriend Will and I recently began living together. This is a first for me, as I really enjoy living alone.
(Recent conversation with my mother:
Mom: “Are you ready for Will to move in?”
Me: “Yes. I’m excited.”
Mom: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Mom. Yes."
Mom: "Well, good. Because I know you don't like people around you and in your space. Don't make it hard for him!")
In preparation for cohabitation, I rid myself of hundreds of books and seemingly hundreds of pounds of stuff and emptied my storage unit in the basement to make room for his skis, tents, and assorted outdoor gear (including, to my surprise, a pick axe). We rearranged the furniture, purchased shelving units, invested (I say "invested" because holy hell these things are not cheap) in a beautiful handmade rug that better outlive the both of us. It's been an adjustment, but so far so good. I do love having him around, even if I secretly worry that it is not a good idea for our dirty clothes to be commingling in the same laundry basket. Currently, we have no real routine, certainly not one that includes cooking and eating dinner together every night. Or even a two nights a week. That's the goal, but lately the business of everyday life isn't making it any easier. (It seems appropriate that my mother is so concerned about Will because, besides her, he is easily the kindest and most hard-working person I know. He's the director of an organization doing social and economic justice work. The work is endless, hard, and necessary. His commitment is one of the things I like most about him; it's also what keeps him out of the house, in the office, and out of town often.)
One morning last week, we were distressed when we realized that it had been nearly a week since we cooked dinner together. As soon as we decided that we'd do it that night, he realized that he'd have to work late on a grant application, and I remembered that I had a board meeting after work. Still determined, I offered to pick up groceries after my meeting and we agreed to meet at home around 7:30 to cook a late-ish dinner. But at 7:30, as I rushed out of the meeting and turned my phone back on, I found this text message waiting for me: "things exploded here. xxx just fired yyy, zzz upset, have to deal with stuff. will let u know what's going on later."
I headed to the store, hoping at first just to have enough time to have dinner ready before he got home, then wondering how long I'd be able to hold out on eating if he was running really late, wondering if we'd get to eat together at all.
Will did make it home, spent and defeated, just as I was putting the final touches on a big platter of spicy, tomato-y couscous, rich with the scent of seafood and chili, topped with prawns and scallops, and laced with ribbons of kale. It was well past 10:30 when we finally ate, but we dove in, sitting at our tiny kitchen table in two newly purchased IKEA bar stools. There wasn't much we could talk about without talking about difficult things, so we ate mostly in silence and I tried not to freak out about how sad he looked and if there was anything I could say or do. I watched him eat and eat his way through several large helpings of couscous and the better part of a cucumber salad, grateful.
As we lay in bed that night, quiet and staid, the next day looming heavy, I tried to convince myself that the leftovers I would send him off with for lunch tomorrow might at least make the day a little better.
Spicy Seafood Couscous Adapted from Bon Appetit
This recipe is bastardization of a bastardization. The recipe I found trumpets this as the "traditional dish of Trapani," which I discovered, post-googling, is in Sicily. During my research, I also read that tradition would mean spicing this up with harissa, but the recipe calls for SE Asian sambal oelek. I made it with the sambal oelek because that's what I had on hand, but I would love to try this with harissa.
3 tbsp olive oil 1 large onion, chopped 1 carrot, thinly sliced 1 celery stalk, thinly sliced 1 serrano chili, sliced (optional, really, depending on how spicy you like it. you could also seed it for a little less heat) 4 garlic cloves, chopped 1 14 1/2 oz can tomatoes in juice 2 cups fish broth (i made a quick batch with dashi) 1/2 cup white wine
2 cups plain couscous
2 bay leaves up to 2 lbs assorted seafood (I used prawns, bay scallops, and ling cod, but you can use whatever you like. The original recipe called for clams and mussels, which calls for an extra step of steaming separately. I was lazy.)
1 bunch lacinto kale, cut into thin strips 2 tsps hot chili paste (such as sambal oelek), or to taste
Heat 3 tbsps oil in heavy large pot over medium heat. Add onion; saute until soft. Add carrot, celery, garlic, serrano; saute 5 minutes or so. Add tomatoes with juice and fish broth and bring to boil. Reduce hit and let simmer 10 minutes or so. Add wine; simmer a few minutes more. Transfer mixture to food processor and blend till just smooth. Return to pot.
Place couscous in large bowl or a pot with a tight-fitting lid. Bring tomato broth back up to boil; add 2 cups to couscous along with a good glug of olive oil. Stir. Cover and let stand until liquid is absorbed, about 10 minutes. About five minutes in, add kale to couscous, stir, and cover.When done, mix chili paste with equal part tomato broth, stir, and add to couscous. Salt and pepper to taste.
Meanwhile, add bay lay leaves to remaining bubbling tomato broth. Add seafood and let cook thoroughly. Turn off heat.
Mound couscous on platter. Top with seafood. Spoon some tomato broth over to moisten. Sprinkle with fresh chopped parsley if you like.
This will likely yield a few extra cups of spicy seafood broth. I use my extras to make another batch of couscous a day or so later.
Just before I left Seattle, I read Jonathan Kauffman's terrific feature about attending a pig slaughter (and eating the pork-filled dinner that followed). It's a great read--vivid descriptions of the event and a very clear, thoughtful look at the complicated decisions we make and feelings we experience when we eat meat. It's been on my mind ever since (along with a slight pang of regret for not having known about it and going myself). Little did I know that on my first full day here in the Philippines I'd have my own opportunity to witness the death and gutting of an animal that I'd be eating for dinner. And that I would be the one pulling the trigger.
One of the perks of being a guest at my grandmother Ima's house (which is above the family business, a massive supermarket that also houses a cantina that serves food) is that we can request specific dishes for our meals. (My first request was for daing na bangus, milkfish marinated in vinegar, then fried and served with salted preserved duck eggs, chopped tomatoes, and rice. It's my favorite thing to have for breakfast and impossible to recreate in any respectable manner in the states.) Archimedes made a request for tinola, a clear soup made with chicken, green papaya, pepper plant leaves, and ginger--and demanded it be made from native free-roaming, Filipino chickens. My uncle (Diomedes, nickname "Bong") was more than happy to oblige. All we need to do, he explained, is drive to the rice mill and shoot one. "Do you want to come?," he asked. "Ah! You can shoot the chicken!" exclaimed Archimedes.
"Fuck yes." (Ok, I didn't actually say that but that's exactly what I thought.) It then occurred to me that, aside from drunken games of Big Buck Hunter, I'd never actually held or fired a gun before. "Tito Bong, do you think I can shoot a chicken?"
"Well," he laughed, "you can try."
After a brief stop at his house to pick up his rifle and two of his young grandchildren, Brian and Tria, we were off. On the drive over, I remembered why I've never shot a gun: they scare me. Any of the fears about using one that started to creep into my head as we drove along were soon displaced by the fear that one of the kids would find the gun in the far back of the car and accidentally blow their face off. I kept this silent, intense fretting going the rest of the way. (See? Guns = Scary.)
A half hour later, we pulled into Garbes Dizon Rice Mill, which is no longer an actual functioning rice mill, but a place where they raise horses and carabao and feed the ducks, turkeys, and chickens that wander through the area. Weirdly, the place felt so familiar and my memory of it so immediate and strong. I can't say the exact year that I was there last, but I know that it was with my grandfather, Tatang, who died in 1991. It was a long time ago and I was a very young girl, but I looked into a horse's stall and right away recognized it as one that used to house pigs. I remembered being a kid in that stall with my both my brothers and thinking that laying in the mud seemed like a reasonable thing to, it being so hot out. And I remembered that Tatang had been watching us from nearby, sitting in a chair and smoking cigarettes. And then I remembered how when I was a little and even more prone to crying, he used to tease me mercilessly, getting in my face and saying over and over "Oh Angela, you're so beautiful when you cry." I was too young to get the joke and it scared me and this just made me even more hysterical, which would make him laugh even more. Thinking of Tatang, I realized that I would kill the chicken.
Of course, there was the matter of my slight incompetence with the gun. After Tito Bong showed me how to hold it (specifically NOT to rest it on my shoulder as I initially tried to do), I realized that I was unable to isolate and close just my left eye so that I could mark my target clearly--a big problem. I suggested that I wear an eye patch, a crude one which we made from a piece of cardboard from a Benson & Hedges carton we found lying around. When the chickens finally showed (it is apparently true that the majority of hunting is spent just sitting around, waiting), Tito Bong pointed out our targets: two brawny young roosters milling about the property. He handed me the gun, cocked and ready to go, and gave me these instructions: "Either one is fine. Aim for the head. Don't shoot a horse. Or a person."
The rifle was heavier than I imagined it would be; its length and heft felt good in my hands, though. I stalked the chickens around the yard for a few minutes, getting comfortable with the rifle. Tito Bong flapped his arms and gestured, I looked at him through my glasses and cigarette carton eye patch, confused until I realized that he was telling me to point the gun at the ground when not getting ready to fire, as opposed to pointing it in every direction as I wandered around. Eventually, the birds moved into an open cement courtyard. I positioned myself behind a cinder block half-wall and rested my left elbow on it and fixed one of the rooster heads in the scope. I didn't think about anything, I just fired. I dropped the rooster with my first shot. It fell, shook for a few seconds, then went limp.
"You got it." Tito Bong seemed pleased with me. And I was pleased with myself--for doing it successfully. I didn't feel much else--no guilt, no pride, no inner conflict--which didn't actually surprise me at all, though I did wonder--still do, a little--if I should be troubled by this apparent indifference. Complex feelings, which I'm sure I'd be more tempted to have if I had been watching--or even doing--all this at a farm on, say, Vashon Island (and had paid money for the whole experience), seemed wholly unnecessary--irrelevant, even useless--here. The whole experience was very matter of fact: Archimedes wanted chicken for dinner; we went and got one. It's what you do. This is what people do.
A few of my cousins showed up and shot a duck. Tito Bong shot another chicken and we all watched the birds get feathered and gutted. (I would have liked to do this myself, but I had no idea even how to begin and, after 4 hours at the rice mill, my jet lag was kicking in and all I wanted to do was lay down and sleep for 100 years.) This guy, though, was a pro, dipping the birds in hot water, pulling the feathers out rapidly, then going to work on the carcass right there on the ground. He pulled out the intestines and the gizzard effortlessly, then rinsed the carcass out, all while answering our questions, and enduring the delighted "ewwws" of children and my hovering and filming video.
Gutting the chicken:
Cleaning the carcass:
When I got back to my grandmother's house around 6 p.m. with the chickens, Archimedes was asleep in our room. I laid down and we slept straight through dinner. When we woke up at 10 p.m., we went straight to the kitchen for late night tinola, which we slurped up with kalamansi (deliciously small, round lemony-orange-limey citrus) and patis (fish sauce). Ima sat at the table with us and ate fruit. She seemed horrified, then happy (or so I like to think) to hear that I had killed a chicken. My dad got the head in his bowl, though he told me he wasn't going to eat it--he only likes fish heads whole. We split the liver. The Filipino chicken is tastier than any bird I've had in the States--meatier and richer, a little tougher, more flavorful, with a thick, incredibly soft and slippery, fatty skin. Even the white meat tastes a little dark.
I can say for certain that dinner does taste better when you kill it yourself. And I wish I could eat this way at home in Seattle.
I'm lying on my stomach in bed at my uncle's house in Angeles City, Pampanga. My computer tells me it is 3 p.m., Sunday, January 27. My cell phone, now equipped with a Filipino SIM card, tells me it is 7 a.m., Monday, January 28. After a full day of travel (3 hours sitting in Seatac Airport, 12 hours on a plane to Seoul, 4 hour layover in Seoul, the final 4 hour flight to Clark Airfield), my body is telling me that it has no idea what time it is, that it can't sleep for longer than two hours at a time, and that, yes, it is hungry.
Even in this jet-lagged, foggy-brained state, I can taste that my trip to the Philippines will be a good one. We flew here on Asiana Airlines, a Korean airline offering modest rates and the best airplane food I've had in my life--bi bim bap, which came accompanied by an adorable, personal-sized tube of red pepper paste. In the Seoul airport, Archimedes had an ultra beefy bone broth soup filled with buttery soft pieces of meat.
I had a bean paste pot stew full of seafood, including the tiniest, cutest purple baby octopus I ever did see. (In a mild state of delirium, I decided baby octopus was a sign of great things to come.)
As soon as we got to my uncle's house (Arisitedes, for those of you keeping track of the ancient greek Garbes sibling names), he offered us two special dishes: native venison tapa (sweet and salty marinated and fried meat) and fried stuffed frogs.
The frog bodies were stuffed with a mixture of ground pork and a spice called tanglad (at least that's what I think it's called--peppery, clean, tangy. I need to look into this), and their skinny fried froggy legs tasted basically like tough chicken. They were good, but it feels a little like these guys were mainly just vehicles for ground pork, which needs no special vessel to be delicious.
Octopus and frog aside, the real sign that this will be a great trip came at 2:30 a.m. when, after a long overdue shower, exhausted, I attempted to brush my hair with a round hairbrush and somehow, in a matter of seconds, ended up with it knotted and tangled and attached, inextricably it seemed, to my head. My cousin Deck, a patient young man who I haven't seen in years, graciously spent 30 minutes carefully extracting the hairbrush, saving me a slight nervous breakdown, many tears, and an amateur hack job with kitchen shears.
I'm looking forward to this month with my family. Now I'm off to drink some warm, fresh carabao milk.
Posts
