Oven Fresh

I know I could not match her expertise. She was the best there was. She devoted so much love with the bread we love. All those times that she was sifting, beating, kneading and molding and baking, her heart beat for passion. Her skillful hands would glide smoothly with the dough kneaded against the “duwang”, a wooden kneading basin generously oiled. The routines of her hand were even as they were following a rhythm.

            Dong, always remember to meet the right consistency when you knead. Not too soft, not too dry, not too oily and of course not rough. You’ll know when you get there because you can feel it. The oil would really help a lot in the kneading process, but not too much of it as it will cause bubbles.

            Still, I do not understand. I have worked with her especially with bulk orders. But when I am the one kneading the dough, I would not know when the right consistency is achieved. When doing the “luli” or molding, I had the hard time making the bigger ones. However, she was all the more encouraging that my work will improve over time. There is so much skill to employ and so much patience to spare.

            Torta was Nanay Bebie’s forte along with her ensomada and graciosa. They were made from an original recipe she inherited from her mom. We call them Pan Bisaya referring to an old and traditional way of making bread baked from pugon or clay oven. She and her siblings had their own story to tell of putting the recipe by heart and sharing it to their children.

            Nanay was right. It was more than a pen and paper thing.  Writing a recipe of her torta was way difficult than demonstrating the procedure. She wants us to memorize the recipe and the procedures by heart. She wants us to understand that there are things that cannot be written but can only be kept in one’s mind and heart. There are no secret ingredients. There are no secret tools. There are no secret oracions. All that we were told was to WATCH, LEARN and PRACTICE.

            I must admit Torta would be one of the most cherished memories I have of Nanay. For two things: first, that of its distinct taste (unlike the commercial breads we can buy at the bakery) and second, the experience that I had with her in making them.

            Out of the blue, one Saturday, I got up, took the basket to Queens, bought ingredients, went home and prepared the materials. I had to wash the molds, the duwang, clean our little improvised pugon, brought out sifter, the spatulas, scrapers, beater, ladle and all.

            Signaling my brother I said, “Karon, maghimo tag torta!”

            Ok. Nananghid na kang Nanay?

            Humana! Now na!

            We were supposed to be making only a few pieces just to satisfy the want of it. But not realizing the events, we were able to make almost a hundred of them ~ just like the usual amount Nanay would make in one baking.

           

            I was hyperemotional. The first batch of molds came out from the oven. My brother and I were quite apprehensive of the outcome. We could not wait to taste it.

            Payter! Nakuha nimo ang timpla ‘Nyo.

My brother was smiling.

            Kuwang sa masa, kuya. Pero duol na.

            One more bite and we are closer to the bone!

            Tatay was quite emotional too when he found out of the reminiscing experience we had that day. He likewise appreciated the taste. And like he always did with the past tortas Nanay made, he would only eat the top sugary part. The rest will now be eaten by me.

            So much of it, we could not help but share some of it to the neighbors and all those who missed the torta. How emotional it turned out when the gesture reminded some of them of Nanay.

            This was our first attempt to relive the torta, almost a year after Nanay’s passing. We just want to keep the baking tradition. Not much for business, but more importantly for the memory of her.

            Salamat Nanay.

Freezing the Pain

A mortal sin to someone who has been trying to keep the scale at 130 lbs or lower. A temptation an insulin shot-dependent would want to avoid but is dying to indulge with. A pleasure to every kid even at the sound of the bell the sorbetero rings as he passes by the block. How could one resist an all-time favorite dessert? Ice cream.

When I was in grade school, eating ice cream (flavor of the road, dipped in chocolate syrup) was something I looked forward to every day. A prize for the day's hard work in school or a bribe so I would no longer cry. I used to wonder how the frozen delight simply took my worries away and dried up all my tears. When the ice cream's all gobbled up, I have forgotten all about the pains, the hurts, the disappointments, and the worries. I don't know why.

I thought this ice-cream-ease-the-pain formula was only applicable for me 20 years ago. I was wrong. When I am sad, I eat ice cream. When i am disappointed, down-trodden, discouraged, down... I eat ice cream. When we lost Nanay, I didn't know how to handle the pain. Only God knows how He managed to soothe that pain, I just found myself indulging in ice cream.

No one has told me what's in the ice cream that gives me that sigh of relief. The thought of it is already a delight (oh, now I know why it's called frozen delight). But one thing I've learned when eating ice cream:  the pain isn't really gone. It's just frozen in some place only-God-knows-where till you can feel it no more. When the frost is gone, I already know what to do. Either a real solution  or another cone of ice cream.

Now you know how I feel when you see me eating one.

Redeem

It was less beautiful than I expected.

It was my first time to be there though I have heard stories and numerous admiration of its grandeur - like one friend who considers the place to equal St. Paul's Cave and Subterranean River in Palawan. I've never been there too, so I can't compare. My impression of the place didn't cause me to drop my jaw in awe.

I am NOT saying it was not beautiful. Probably, it was just a pinky-finger less beautiful than how my imagination used to wonder how this place really looks like. I've seen pictures of friends posing in front of the mouth of the cave whose facade is somewhat like that of the Cathedral of the Sagrada Familia. The trench-deep lagoon boasts of its blue-green water that folds in as it becomes disturbed with the rapids of the cascading waterfall. The lush vegetation nearby and cool shade of the trees complement the place this city boasts as one of its wonders.

I should attribute my dismay to the overcrowd. It failed to make me notice the place and scrutinize its beauty. I could not appreciate the interiors of the cave, which according to them is filled with breathtaking collection of stalagmites and stalactites. We didn't have enough artificial light inside to make the stone formations glow. I could not see the acclaimed beauty, instead the void and dark ceiling seemed to convince me that I am getting blind while I keep myself afloat with my life jacket as we groped through the cold waters with only a few headlamps worn by the guides. Chamber after chamber, we were lead to nicely carved waterfalls and some little lagoons that were reminiscent of jacuzzis and water massage tubs. As our feet started to weary and getting concerned of the frail lighting equipments we had, we decided to go back regretting the chance to see the light at the other end of this cavern. Yet, it was a better decision than to find ourselves stranded in the dark.

To give myself the complete thrill, I braced myself for a big splash in the lagoon as I jumped from the top of the waterfall. It was the best for my day.

While I was in the cave, it bothered me how am I gonna write something about that rather not so remarkable experience. I know the place has a real beauty of its own that is worth the visit. It's just that my first experience was definitely something not to brag about. There are things that need to be improved or services that has to be provided. Safety gears, ample lighting facility, tourist orientation, and all other things that could enhance the tour. I know there are a lot of things to do about this place sans the artificial transformation and destruction of its natural beauty.

The story doesn't end here. I will revisit the place and see what I must see - the splendor Guinsohotan Cave is known for! I must redeem this post.

Linguistics

I am impressed at how my brother, my one and only brother, Toto, learned a new language in less than a month. It envies me realizing that it took me over three months to learn basic Deutsch and some of its sentence composition and still have not mastered them. This amazing feat of him is evidenced at how he consistently manages to say the lines without fault or if there’s any, at an unnoticeable level. His wife, Divine is also leveling with him in this language they are learning, while the rest in the household are also adopting with this trend. Surely, we can master this in no time, in just a blink of an eye.

He used to be challenged with language composition writing way back in school due to problems with grammar. He would rather sit down to work with logarithmic equations or calculate for a project cost and estimates than writing a brief article entitled MyMostUnforgettableExperience. In public speaking, he would rather be part of the public than the one speaking. Least would be expected of him to study a new language than learning a new method of silk-screen t-shirt printing.

But the adoption of the new language is inevitable. No one is forcing him (and us) to do so. He finds this rather odd language a new way to express himself. He musters all his skill to come up with the words that could best communicate his emotions.

            “taddaa, tiddi, taadddaahhh, dada didi dida”

            “aaannggg aliinng alliillinng.. daaarrinngg,, rrinngg lang lang lang”

            “achikachi chi bah! Chi baba chicikaachii”

            “adung gadung tididi, adung tadang tidida… (this is with some sort of tone/rhythm)

He knows that this language makes him sound funny but he didn’t mind taking all possible embarrassment he could ever think of just to mumble those words to one person at home who is the reason for all this linguistic infusion... his daughter Zyisha Gertrude. The sound of a father talking to his little angel might sound funny. Yet, the sound of it warms the heart. This language, many calls baby talk, is one of the many things my brother has brought out of himself despite his quite un-squashy personality. And that makes it more impressive!

Way to go Daddy Toto!

Mom

She never found interest in electronic gadgets (except with the mp3 shuffle I bought her when she turned 60) and computers (except in playing the solitaire). She found the typewriter more convenient than using the computer to make her reports (oh, she was one of the best typists I've ever known.)  Internet wasn't her cup of tea. She heard about Yahoo or Facebook, but I am pretty sure it would never cross her mind to create an account. She admitted, things such as these would just complicate her simple lifestyle.

As I write this note about her, I know that she, despite being not an FB-fan,  is reading this. Just the way how she used to read my articles and would be all-praised about my craft. I used to remember how proud she was when I was chosen as columnist for the school organ when I was in grade school and was  sentimental when she read the winning article. After all these years of jotting down my thoughts, my triumphs, my pains and joys, I could not remember writing a note about her. Probably because I couldn't find the right words to start that write-up about a woman who made most of the best things in my life happen.

She knows I am proud of her. I know at  some point in her life, I disappointed her or made her cry. My radical way of thinking was the usual reason of our argument. But she knows I love her more than anything else... more than a high paying job, more than any pleasure this world could offer. That's why it pains me to lose the one who, again, made most of the best things in my life happen.

It was in July 1, 2010 when  I realized she had the signs of cancer as confirmed in CT Scan. She had to undergo an exploratory laparotomy a week before my brother's wedding, an event important to him which she could not attend. What was supposed to be happiest for my brother turned out be somehow  quite wanting. We missed her during the celebration. She had to be confined in the hospital for recovery.

She knew about her illness. Peritoneal Carcinomatosis, Stage 4. Cancer of the serous membrane that forms the lining of the abdominal cavity.  She overheard about it when the doctor explained to me her condition during the explore lap. I could not hold back my tears. The biopsy results also prove positive. She knew I did not have the confidence to tell her so she managed to tell it to me straight.

                Dong, naghilak ka?

                Wa man, Nay.

I tried to pull myself up so she won't notice an emotional setback. But a mother knows the feeling of a son. Afterall, I came from her. All the more she would know my emotions more than anybody else.

                Kumusta man ang biopsy? Sakto tong giingon ni doctor nga Stage 4 Cancer? Kuhaon na ko ni Jesus, dong?

I was flabbergasted. Here's a woman, diagnosed of Stage 4 cancer, managing herself to break the news indirectly and finding way to make me feel comfortable in a very awkward, emotion-filled conversation. I could not lie. I mean, how could I lie to someone who was knowledgeable about what's going on? 

                Tinuod nay. Stage 4. Pero di ko makatubag sa imong last nga question. Pero dawaton ra ni nato tanan, Nay. The best that we can do is to thank Him for this.

                Aw, di pa man sii pod ko kuhaon ni Jesus, dong. Wa pa man ko nija ingna.

                 Then we both smiled and laughed a bit.

When we did home care, I had to be her private nurse. We joked at the fact that balance sheet and syringe are really different fields. But I had to quickly adopt a sudden change of field. My father and brother also had to adopt the changes. Afterall, we are a team. 

The doctor's calculation of 3 months was quite precise. We had to re-confine her to the hospital when she had been bile vomiting for over three weeks. All he could advise was for us to stay close with her. Attend to her needs. Spend more time with her. Enjoy every moment with her. And most of all Pray with her.

                  Dong, mata dong. She woke me up like she would usually do when she needed anything.

                  Ngano man, Nay? Gigutom ka?

                  Di man, dong. Lingkod ra diha sa ahong tapad. Guniti ahong kamot kay naa koy isulti nimo. Kuha-on na ko dong. Kuha-on na ko ni Jesus.

                  Ha? Kinsa may ingon nimo, Nay?

                  Si Jesus. Mianhi na sija naho.

               ( Flashback: She once told me she still won't go because Jesus has not told her yet. Now, she is telling me Jesus will now take her. OMG!)

                  Neither of us could hold back our tears. But she was crying with a smile. She asked me to hug her really tight. And we prayed.

                  That was the last conversation I had with her. Her speech started to fade. In the next three days, all she could murmur were "Jesus, I trust in You"... then she went to comatose for over two weeks and finally rested on October 07, 2010, the feast of the Our Lady of the Holy Rosary.

                   She was 60 when she joined her Creator. It was a life well spent. Her years remind me not of how old she had aged but how long she had been an inspiration to others during her lifetime. But the memory of her will always be an inspiration to live by. 

                   GERTRUDES SIBI GADO. My Mother. My Best Friend.

                   I love you and I miss you so much, Nanay Bebie!