During my youth time was never on my mind. I had plenty of time to do things. I never considered time to be short and passing. I set goals that had no timeline…why would I? I had plenty of time ahead of me. I am not 80 years old, but I’m not 18 either. I am at an age that understands time is fleeting. I need to take advantage of it while it’s here, and while I am able. If only I could prevail against my worst adversary: procrastination. I’ve had my victories, but not enough…

It seemed I waited too long for summer to arrive, only to wake up one day and realize that the season is about to change again. For my son, today is the last day of summer. The new school year starts tomorrow. While there are still technically five weeks left of summer, I know that I will wake up one day soon with the cold autumn winds lightly swishing my face and I will be surrounded with hard squashes and the scent of fall apples filling my soul.

Summer might just be my favorite season. I look forward to trips to the beach on weekends. I love the sun on my skin. I love the carefree feeling summer brings. Our days as a family are definitely less hectic when school is out. I love being able to spend lazy days with my family and unhurried evenings with later bed times. At the top of all these, I also love the summer crops! The ripest tomatoes, the sweetest corn, the best berries, the tastiest eggplant, the juiciest peach, the perfect watermelon…it’s quite a long list! I will surely miss these summer treats, and I’m afraid I didn’t eat enough of them! And could I wait another nine months?

Last night we had my nephew and his girlfriend over for dinner. They are young artists with the slender bodies of early twenties dancers, and do not consider food much of a priority. They were obviously hungry. I know what that’s like, as I was there once. I decided to make spaghetti Bolognese, Caesar salad, stuffed mushrooms, toasted breads and burrata. I remember being grateful to be fed well when I was that age…most times I lived on instant ramen, good old Totinos pizza rolls, and Hot Pockets. It was a terrific dinner and we were full. They asked if we had dessert and I gave them choices: two types of ice cream, cookies, and watermelon. I ended up serving ice cream and watermelon. The watermelon was just right…sweet and juicy! We all commented on how much we love watermelon, which prompted me to tell a story about my childhood and my love for watermelon.

I was reminded of the time when my grandparents owned farmlands in the Philippines. My grandparents planted rice, corn, and melons. Some of the farms were just a short walk behind their house. My childhood was rich with outdoor activities and many cousins, with whom I shared everything. This was the time when we were allowed to be outdoors without adult supervision. This was also a time when sunscreen wasn’t even an afterthought, let alone the priority I’ve made it for my son. By the end of every summer I had cracked, dark brown skin. It was a simpler time but maybe just a bit careless, too. My cousins and I spent a lot of time together during the weekends at my grandparents’ house, but in the summer we had the entire season together. I remember those wonderful times: hot, humid, carefree, and full of love. We ate steamed corn, sucked on sugar cane stalks, split twin pops, shared halo-halo, roasted cashews over bonfires at night, consumed unimaginable amounts of mangoes, and cracked watermelons. Watermelons were the best treats during those hot summer days in the tropics. I remember trekking a narrow dike to the watermelon fields with my cousins and sister, armed with a spoon in our pockets. Someone from the team could tell if a watermelon was ready for eating by snapping his fingers on the melon’s skin with his ear pressed against the rind. I was told that a certain sound indicated the ripeness of the watermelons. We would cut several of the ripe watermelons from their vines, take them into our hut, and crack them open. Then spoons were taken out of our pockets and we ate until we were full and satisfied, juices running down our chins and arms…it was the best!

My nephew and my son seemed mildly amused by this story. It was way before their time, perhaps even too primitive for them to understand. After all, watermelon can now be bought pre-cut in a container (with a spoon!) at any supermarket. And seedless! It was simply a different time and place, and I was lucky enough to be there.

I like eating watermelon just as they are, but they are also great in salads and beverages.

Here are some watermelon recipes to enjoy during your carefree summer days.

Fresh Watermelon with Mint Yogurt and Sumac

1 medium watermelon, peeled and cut into large cubes or wedges

Mint yogurt (recipe below)

2 teaspoons Sumac spice

Fresh mint leaves, roughly chopped

1 cup toasted sunflower seeds

Sea salt

To compose the salad:

Place the yogurt dressing in a large salad plate and spread throughout the entire surface of the bowl. Place the watermelon pieces on the top of the yogurt dressing. Top the watermelon with sumac, fresh mint leaves, toasted sunflower seeds, and a touch of sea salt. Eat.

Mint Yogurt

Makes 2 cups

1 pint of low fat Greek yogurt

1 tablespoon chopped mint

1 tablespoon of honey

1 teaspoon orange zest

Salt to taste

Cracked black pepper to taste

Combine all the ingredients in a bowl and mix until well combined.

Watermelon Spritzer with Rosemary and Citrus

2 cups watermelon chunks, seedless

1 tablespoon of sugar

2 cups of white wine

1 cup of carbonated water or club soda

Fresh rosemary

Watermelon and citrus wedges to garnish

Place the watermelon chunks and sugar in a blender and process until well blended. Pass the processed watermelon through a strainer. Discard the watermelon pulp and place the strained juice in a pitcher. Add the wine and club soda to the juice. Serve over ice and garnish with rosemary, watermelon, and citrus.

Chef Tip:

**Sumac is a Middle Eastern spice with peppery and citrus flavors. It is great sprinkled on grilled or roasted meats, fish, and vegetables.

**Variations for this salad: 1) by add fresh avocado and heirloom tomatoes. 2) add thinly shaved good quality salami.

If you have been following my blog you would know by now that I am an immigrant and a parent, and as immigrant parents do, I tend to remind my kid how lucky we are to be here in the U.S.A. and to have the life that we have…even though he was born here, at Cedars-Sinai Hospital, in the shadow of the Beverly Center. He is eight years old now and I am certain that pretty soon I am going to lose my only audience to my one-woman show of “how life was when Mommy was growing up in the Philippines in the 70’s and 80’s.” My stories are almost always unrelatable to him because of the light years’ gap in our age and the modern world we live in. Our conversation last week was about milk, and how we should be thankful that milk is readily available to us when we want it. He gave me a puzzled look and, possibly, a slight eye-roll.

Two weeks ago, I taught one of my cooks how to make ricotta cheese by simply bringing the milk to a simmer and adding acid for it to curdle. A process so simple and yet so rewarding…homemade cheese! While we were doing this, I was reminded of the first time I made cheese. I might have been six years old at the most. Back then my grandmother still had unpasteurized cow’s or goat’s milk delivered to her house. The milk would come in a recycled family size Pepsi glass bottle corked with rolled fresh banana leaves, still warm from its natural source. It was in the seventies, but it might as well have been the 1800’s. Back then, pasteurized milk was unheard of in the Philippines. I grew up on powdered milk, and on special occasions, the fresh cow’s milk, which had to be boiled before consumed.

The only real cheese I had ever known as a child was a ball-shaped, semi-hard cheese we called queso de bola…also known as Edam (made in Holland). This cheese was a delicacy in the Philippines usually served with jamon and pandesal (a traditional Filipino roll) during the Christmas holiday. I don’t know why a Dutch cheese would become a traditional Filipino cheese (instead of something Spanish, like Mahon or Manchego), considering the Spaniards colonized the Philippines for hundreds of years. That didn’t matter. I looked forward to indulging on queso de bola every Christmas and New Year at my grandparents’ house. It was a real treat. All the other cheeses I knew as a kid were processed cheeses. Boy, did I love Velveeta and Cheese Whiz. Butter also didn’t exist in my life until I came to the U.S.A. I grew up on margarine!

So, I introduced homemade ricotta cheese to my team last week. The image of my six year old self and my mom’s youngest brother (who would have been in his late teens at that time), standing in front of the stove at my grandmother’s house came back to me so fast and so vividly. My uncle walked me through the process as he brought the goat’s milk to a boil, removed it from the heat, and added vinegar. He and I watched as the milk turned into curds. My uncle scooped the milk curds with a spoon, transferred it onto a plate, and seasoned it with a little salt and cracked black pepper. He warmed up some dinner rolls and we ate our freshly-made cheese with it. I could still taste the gaminess of the goat’s milk in that cheese, and I don’t think I liked it very much. But I loved that moment because it was with my uncle.

We served the house-made ricotta at the restaurant as a topper on our avocado toast, along with market beets and some orange. It was simply delicious. I was happy to show a new trick to a cook and he was proud to have an added skill in his toolbox.

Avocado Toast with Ricotta

Homemade Ricotta Cheese

I have come a long way from my time of unpasteurized milk in recycled Pepsi bottles. I now have all kinds of milks available to me…even the non-dairy ones! And my knowledge of cheese has since greatly improved. I especially love ripened French Brie and long-aged Gouda. But old habits are hard to break, as I still enjoy the occasional treat of processed cheese in my diet; it would be difficult to move away from it completely. Margarine has somehow completely disappeared from my life since I met butter. European butters and the ones speckled with black truffles have now also spoiled my palate, and as we all know there’s no going back to mediocre butter after that.

What inspires me about food and cooking? The answer is rooted deeply by these three things: my childhood, my family, and my grandmother’s kitchen. It’s a strong foundation no culinary schools could possibly match. I am grateful for all of it and milk, too.

Homemade Lemon Ricotta

Makes 2 cups

Ingredients

1/2 gallon of whole milk

1/3 cup lemon juice

1 teaspoon salt

Instruction

Pour the milk into a 4-quart pot and set it over medium heat. Let it warm gradually to 200°F, monitoring the temperature with an instant read thermometer. The milk will get foamy and start to steam; remove it from heat if it starts to boil.

Remove the milk from heat. Pour in the lemon juice and the salt.

Let the pot of milk sit undisturbed for 15 minutes. The milk should have separated into clumps of milky white curds and thin, watery, yellow-colored whey. Add another tablespoon of lemon juice if it looks like there are still milk that hasn’t separated. 

Set a fine strainer lined with cheesecloth over a bowl and pour the curds through the strainer. Let the curds drain about 20 to 40 minutes depending on how wet or dry you prefer your ricotta. You have now made ricotta cheese!

Tips:

Fresh ricotta can be used right away or refrigerated in an airtight container for up to a week.

You can flavor your ricotta before serving with chopped fresh herbs and spices. They go really well with toast and salads.

When serving creamy brie, let the cheese sit for 20 minutes or until it is at room temperature before serving to allow the cheese to soften a little bit and the flavors to bloom.

Rice is the one thing in my chosen food groups that I can’t seem to go without. I can give up bread, sugar, chocolate, cheese, and even alcohol for short periods of time, but rice is the one thing that I ache for when I go on my “once in a blue moon” low-carb diet. It is a need I am incapable of evading, and I’m pretty sure my attachment to the grain is rooted in the Filipino culture in which I was born. I grew up eating rice with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There were also times when our snacks were made from rice. I lived in a world where rice was the staple item that built my nation’s economy. As long as we had rice, we wouldn’t go hungry. It was definitely a starch-heavy upbringing, and it’s a wonder that in all my childhood and teenage years I was so thin. Rice is my first choice for carbs with most of my proteins… even steak! I love rice in all forms: simply steamed; stir-fried with egg and cured sausage; puffed and sugared; balled and rolled; deep-fried; dried like paper; mushed in porridge; topped with raw fish or spam; baked as cakes; crisped as chips…all of it is great in my opinion.

It’s no surprise that on my first trip to Rome, risotto was on the must-eat-foods list. In the 18 years of my life in the kitchen, risotto has been a mainstay on my menus. Risotto is simple and complicated at the same time. Simply stated, it’s brothy rice. But it takes time and attention to execute perfectly. I would typically make a version done up with whatever vegetables were in season. My personal favorite is a spring risotto with asparagus, sweet peas, and morels, with a just a touch of pecorino.

Before my trip to Rome, an Italian friend of mine insisted that I have a “true” risotto in her homeland. So on our second day in the city, my two sisters and I strolled down Fontana di Trevi, took a shameful number of selfies, and then had lunch at Ristorante Angelina, which had been recommended to us. My mom stayed at the hotel to rest up after a full day of walking the Vatican. Among the tableful of items we ordered was a seafood risotto, which came in a bowl big enough for a newborn baby to bathe in. This enormous dish was full of rice in creamy seafood broth with fresh herbs. There was no seafood visible in the mixture, but the flavor was bursting out of it. The texture of the rice was just right: toothy and tender at the same time. It satiated hunger in my stomach and my soul. In the few days we spent in Rome, this was one of the instances I felt submerged in the moment…I was in Rome with family, having the best risotto in my life, and recognizing how lucky I was to be here, with them, doing this.

A couple of weeks ago I watched Big Night, a movie about two Italian immigrant brothers who open a restaurant in the US. I have a great love for this film, but hadn’t seen in over ten years. There’s a great scene in which a woman unfamiliar with Italian food orders the chef’s signature risotto at the brothers’ restaurant, Paradise. She is disappointed in her order once it is in front of her, because she doesn’t “see” any seafood. Watching this scene, I got frustrated with her, and wanted her to just drop her expectations and enjoy. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t care to learn. She doesn’t want to “submerge.”

Instead, she orders a side of spaghetti to go with the risotto. She also wants meatballs with the spaghetti, and is shocked to find out that the spaghetti doesn’t come with meatballs. According to the restaurant’s manager, “Sometimes the spaghetti wants to be alone.” The chef is enraged to hear this request, as it is not one, or two, but three insults to his simple-but-complicated masterpiece. He says, “What? Why? It is starch and starch. Maybe I should put mashed potatoes on the other side.” It’s a perfect scene in a terrific movie, and it compelled me to put a risotto on the menu at the restaurant last week. It also partly inspired this piece.

The risotto I made for the restaurant is not quite the classic I would have found in Rome. When crafting the idea I really wanted to do a hybrid of congee (an Asian rice porridge) and risotto. The recipe uses Arborio rice and is prepared in the traditional Italian way, but it is cooked with kombu, ginger, miso, and white wine. It is a vegan dish with snap peas, shiitake and enoki mushrooms, and scallions, finished with a drizzle of pure sesame oil. The texture is just right and loaded with flavor. Romans will frown on my latest version of risotto but it is just right for me and to our guests who have ordered it.

The risotto I had at Ristorante Angelina will remain the best classic risotto I’ve had. But there’s no doubt that the dish’s flavor was improved from fantastic to sublime by sharing it with my sisters in a place as magical as Rome. It was a meal as testament to exploring a city, reconnecting with loved ones, weaving new memories made only for us, and finding some of our old selves from the time long ago, before we all decided to grow up. This trip also showed me that the truest best friends I will have in this lifetime are these two women. My confidants, my true fans, my heroes, my constants.

I hope you enjoy this recipe as much as I have! Happy cooking.

Wild Mushroom and Miso Risotto

Make Miso Broth:

4 square pieces kombu

3 quarts water

1 cup white miso

1 half of a ginger, peeled cut into large pieces

Soak the kombu for 30 minutes in water using 4-qt sauce pan. Place the pan over medium heat and bring to a simmer, add the ginger and miso. Bring to a boil and simmer for about 15 minutes.

Make Risotto:

1 cup of canola or olive oil

1 cup, sliced shiitake mushrooms

4 ounces enoki mushroom, ends trimmed

Salt and pepper

½ cup finely chopped shallots

1 cup Arborio or Carnaroli rice

½ cup dry white wine

2 ½ miso broth

• Lightly sauté mushrooms in 2 tablespoons of oil until tender. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.
• In heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat, add the remaining oil and shallots. Cook the shallots until translucent, add rice and stir until the grains are coated with oil. Cook the rice, stirring, until lightly toasted but no color.
• Add the wine. Cook, stirring until the wine has been absorbed by the rice.
• Ladle a cup of miso broth to the rice and stir using a wooden spoon. Keep stirring until the liquid is almost absorbed by the rice but not completely. Add another cup of broth and stir.
• Continue adding broth, stirring constantly, until rice is mostly translucent but still opaque in center. Continue cooking until rice is al dente, but not crunchy. As rice is almost done add smaller amounts of broth. The mixture should be creamy and thick enough but not soupy.
• Add the sautéed mushrooms and blanched snap peas. Stir and season to taste with salt and pepper.
• Add pea shoots and scallions. Serve with a drizzle of sesame oil.

Chef Tip:

Use hot broth when making risotto to ensure even and continuous cooking of the rice.

The sky’s the limit on variations of risotto. Get creative! Asparagus, peas, squash, tomatoes, lobster, pork…the list is endless. I even like to top it with a poached egg!

My first experience with gardening was in fourth grade, when gardening and home economics were still part of the curriculum in public schools. I grew up in one of the rural cities in the Philippines, where schools had plenty of real estate for running, playing, and yes, gardening. It was a high poverty school but it taught me plenty…and it had good teachers, whom I remember to this day. At this school, each student from fourth to sixth grade had a 3 feet by 5 feet plot of land to till, plant, and harvest. Some of the crops we grew were radishes, daikon, potatoes, yams, peanuts, greens, and okra. I think that I liked the harvesting part of gardening, but tilling the soil and the constant caring for the crop were not the most fun for me. Shovels, hoes, and rakes were not the kind of stuff that thrilled me at age 11. While I am pretty sure that the humidity and heat in the Philippines in the early eighties were just as bad as it is now, I am certain that I didn’t appreciate then the point of it all and the knowledge it gave me. We were also allowed to bring home the crops that came from this small garden harvest for our family meals. The objective of this class is now clear to me: teach me where food comes from, teach me to eat healthy, teach me to work hard, teach me commitment, teach me gratitude, and teach me independence. I know now that that 3 feet by 5 feet piece of land was a grand privilege, and I am thankful for all that it gave me.

A couple of weeks ago I had the opportunity to do a cooking demo at a local grade school in Los Angeles, to feature the crops that they have at their garden. This particular school (much like my son’s school) has a garden. They have a brand new, decent-sized plot, and some really nice crops. Beautiful artichokes, radishes, mizuna, lacinato kale, all sorts of herbs, leeks, cabbage, and much more. It was a sunny winter day too, so we held the demo at the garden. It was students from third to eighth grade.

I shouldn’t be nervous to do a cooking demo to a bunch of kids, but I was. I was nervous because I was going to prepare a salad with kale, mizuna, and herbs. I know many adults who would not be interested in that, and I have failed miserably over and over again in introducing vegetables to my son’s meals. So, yes, I was terrified that these kids would not eat what I had planned to prepare. But once again, luck saved me. The kids’ attention was on me when they heard the two big places I’ve had the privilege to work, and they certainly kept their interest when I answered their question about the biggest celebrity for whom I’ve cooked: The First Lady Michelle Obama. I think that they would have tried fried frog legs after that.

It was a terrific experience for me, and one that got me inspired. Who knew that kale and mizuna would be such a hit in this age group?

We had a really nice and simple salad recipe. Adding fruit to salads also make it easier for young people to get over the slight bitterness of the greens. Making the dressing in a mason jar is also a lot of fun!

I hope that you enjoy this recipe as much as grade schoolers did.

Crisp Mizuna and Kale Salad with Tart Apples, Pears, Orange, and Parmesan

Lightly tossed in herbed-lemon vinaigrette

Ingredients

6 ounces mizuna

6 ounces kale, chopped

2 granny smith apple, thinly sliced

2 Anjou or Bartlett pears, thinly sliced

Segments of 2 oranges

1 cup shaved parmesan

A pinch of salt

1/3 cup of herbed-lemon vinaigrette

Direction:

Combine all ingredients in a large mixing bowl and toss lightly with the vinaigrette.

Herbed-Lemon Vinaigrette

1 tablespoon of Dijon mustard

3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

¼ cup lemon juice

1/4 cup finely chopped parsley

1 tablespoon chopped thyme leaves

1 tablespoon chopped rosemary

1 tablespoon of honey

Salt and black pepper to taste

Place all ingredients in a mason jar and cover tightly. Shake the mason jar until all ingredients are combined together.

I love the beach, which is odd for someone who can’t swim. I love the sound of the waves and the smell of the ocean. I love the feeling of warm sand between my toes. I love the touch of the cold water when you first dip in, and how it slowly gets warm as your body acclimates. I love watching kids play. I love just being there. The beach gives me solace, and all of my little worries and frustrations dissipate. The infinite horizon of the water reminds me that the earth is vast and that my little self is lucky to be in it.

One of our family beach trips this summer was in Santa Cruz. We spent some time at the boardwalk, which was one thing I had never really done. My son and I took the trip with my mom, my two sisters and their kids. It was terrific and the kids really enjoyed it. My attention, though, was drawn to the food scene. There were so many food stalls…ranging from barbecue to burgers, churros to ice cream, foot-long corn dogs to tacos. But the one thing that caught my attention was the grilled corn. All dressed up with mayo, lime, parmesan cheese, and chili powder, this cob was well worth a fifteen minute wait… at six American dollars a pop… three times in one calendar day!

Corn is my favorite summer crop. I grew up on corn. Some of my fond childhood memories involve corn. My grandfather would take us on long drives during the summer in his 1970 VW Beetle, which my mother still owns to this day. These drives would consist of stories and life instructions from my grandpa, as it was his way of finding out what we were up to as kids. During these drives we would pass by acres and acres of cornfields, and there were always steamed or grilled corn vendors on the road. It was an inexpensive and delicious treat. We always stopped and ate until we were stuffed.

Making my grandmother’s corn soup is one of the things I do to celebrate the beauty of summer. It’s a recipe consisting of a little oil, garlic, onions, corn, and broth…garnished with spinach. It is the simplest thing, but absolutely divine to me. There’s magic in the memory of my grandmother making the soup, and in the process of making it myself, I honor her memory. She didn’t have an electric blender, so she used a box cheese grater to get the puréed consistency of the corn. I helped her many times in making this soup when I was a kid and this was possibly my favorite dish growing up. I own blenders now-different types, even-but I still use a box grater when I make this corn soup at home. It’s a habit I am not willing to give up yet.

I made my Grandmother’s corn soup the other night for two reasons: corn was on sale: five ears for $1, and, more importantly, my fighting spirit needed to be revived. Making and eating her soup fixed me up just right. She was always capable of making me feel good, and it’s amazing how 33 years after her death she could still somehow take care of me.

Last weekend for Labor Day my son and I had an opportunity to visit my family in Northern California. I made the corn soup for my family along with other favorites. I think that they too were revived from whatever little things that were troubling them unknowingly at the moment. For a brief second, we were all quiet, which is unusual for my family…just sipping on some delicious corn soup.

 Nanay’s Corn Soup

Serves 6

5 fresh ears of corn, off the husk, silk removed

4 cups of corn stock

1 tbsp. grape seed oil or canola oil

¼ cup chopped yellow onions

2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced

Salt and pepper to taste

1/3 bunch fresh spinach

Grate the corn kernels off the cob using a box cheese grater; place the grater on a mixing bowl to catch the grated corn. Reserve the cobs for stock.

To make the stock: place the grated corn cobs in a 2-quart stock pot, add 4 cups of water and let it simmer for 20 minutes. Remove the cobs and set aside the stock.

Heat up the oil in a 2-quart stockpot on medium heat. Add the onions and cook until soft and translucent but not brown. Add the garlic to the pot and cook just until fragrant. Pour the grated corn to the stockpot and stir. Add the corn stock and simmer for 10 minutes. Season the soup with salt and pepper. Turn off the heat, and add the spinach. Serve while hot.

Simply Grilled or Boiled Corn

5 ears of corn

Melted butter

Salt and pepper

To grill: Place corn on the grill and cook for about 15 minutes, turning every couple of minutes. Remove the husks and silk. Brush the corn with melted butter and season with salt and pepper.

To boil: shuck the corn and remove silk. Place the corn in a large pot of boiling water. Cook the corn covered over medium for about 7 minutes. Remove the corn from the pot using a pair of tongs, brush with butter and season with salt and pepper.

Try a taste of Mexican Street Corn by basting it with mayo, then sprinkling with grated parmesan cheese, a touch of cayenne or chili powder, and a squeeze of lime wedge. It’s a real treat.

Sitting at the bar at 3 p.m. at Jimmy’s Pub slowly sipping on a very chilled martini I recalled the moment of my kindergarten graduation when I proudly recited on stage that when I grow up I wanted to be a nurse.

Perhaps it was the martini or the occasion, but something got me to talking about my childhood to my husband. I told him about the richest kids in my school…so rich they came to school with bodyguards and nannies. I also remembered that girl during my first week of high school whom I shared the same school bus. She told the kids in school that I lived in a house made out of wood, implying that my family was poor. This was a new knowledge for me, as I never considered our lifestyle as poor, and it seemed house construction and architecture just placed me on a disadvantaged point in the high school social clique in the mid 80’s. This was out of my control, I was only fourteen and my parents didn’t even own a home. Before then, I never worried about or thought of social classes in school.

That house made out of wood was my grandparents’ house. It was undoubtedly the best home of my childhood and no amount of money could replace what it had given me. For me it was the richest and I spent most of my younger years in that wooden house.

My grandmother passed away on a Tuesday afternoon in September of 1984. My family was living with my grandparents at that time. My father had just left us weeks ago. I was in 6^th grade and going to the public school, which was walking distance from my grandparents’ house. That afternoon when I got home from school I went to my grandmother’s room, where my grandma was tending to my two-month old sister and nursing a terrible headache. She told me she wasn’t feeling good and minutes later she died of a heart attack in front of me. She was my champion. She believed I could do anything and be anything I wanted to be. She was so proud of my little accomplishments in school and was always bragging about me to her friends and neighbors. The day she died was the saddest day of my life.

I don’t recall exactly what the next order of events were but I remember my grandfather telling my mom that we keep the same set up after my grandma’s death since my school is so near his house and that he could look after me. So I lived in his house made of wood up until my first year in high school. He made me breakfast in the morning and was there when I came home from school. BTW, in our town, the Cristobals were actually considered a well-to-do clan not by material possessions but rather the intrepid character my grandfather possessed…he was sort of the town’s Godfather. This memory made me tear up today at Jimmy’s Pub… the loss of my grandmother and the memory of my grandfather insisting that I stay in his house. I suddenly longed for him.

My grandfather died in 1994, I was 22 years old, 8700 miles away and too broke to fly across the universe to say goodbye and to thank him for all he had done for me. Two years before his death, during my visit from the USA, my grandfather and I had a disagreement and lost touch because I was stubborn and selfish. I had chances to fix that but I didn’t take them. Perhaps, I was too proud and didn’t take into account that life is short. I regret that now and it’s a struggle that hits me from time to time. I mourned his death alone, faraway from my family, thousands of miles away from the only people who could comfort me.  I don’t think I ever really stopped grieving this loss…

Last week one of our old neighbors in our little town in the Philippines posted on her social media an old clipping of my grandfather’s campaign flyer from a time perhaps before my existence. I once again had the longing for my grandpa’s presence.

Today on my 45^th birthday, I wish I could tell my grandparents I turned out fine and that despite the turbulent first two decades of my life in the US, my forties actually turned out pretty awesome. I didn’t become a nurse. I became a chef, a wife, and a mother.

I also wish I could go back to that girl in high school to tell her that materials used in housing are irrelevant in constructing the love for the people in it. That house nurtured 16 kind and loving grandchildren. And I will forever be grateful for my life in the house made of wood.

I have lived in the U.S. for almost 30 years and the last time I visited the Philippines, my birth country, was in January of 2003. My mother goes to visit every year. She tells me that the country has changed so much in the last decade, and it continues to grow. She says I wouldn’t recognize the town we lived in. Local markets and restaurants have sprung everywhere and that there are now shopping malls in the province, leaving very little need to do the dreadful drive to Manila. The views of rice fields and vast farmlands on the highways are now of modern condominiums and apartments. My mother’s news always gives me a feeling of nostalgia. I have many fond childhood memories running through those fields in the afternoons with my cousins. During the summers these fields would be filled with ripe watermelons and cantaloupes. I remember the excitement as we would crack a watermelon, pull out spoons from our pockets, and eat these juicy fruit under a shade of a tree. Those were the simple times, and by necessity, full of patience and imagination, void of the iPads and iPhones and instant messaging. We barely watched TV and toys were scarce. I recall a lot of outdoor games and running around. I remember it being fun.

Perhaps it is part of growing old that my past comes back to my mind more often these days. I’ve been having many flashbacks of my childhood as early as when I was four years old. My grandparents and great-grandmother have been in my thoughts lately, too. Is it possible to get homesick about a place I haven’t lived in for 30 years? And of loved ones who have left this world for decades now? Is it possible to miss certain foods from my childhood to the point that I could almost taste it when I close my eyes? I plan to visit soon with my husband and son. I want Max to know where I came from and for him to have some connection to his Filipino heritage. For now, I will fulfill this longing with cooking Filipino food, which usually puts some bright rays to my day when the sun is not so sunny.

My number one favorite street food from the Philippines is Okoy. It is a fritter traditionally made of bean sprouts, acorn squash or sweet potato, shrimp, and cornstarch batter. It is served with soy-vinegar dipping sauce. This treat could be found on any street corner at the market, fried to order and drizzled generously with this special dipping sauce. When done right, it is unbelievable. I usually make my okoy vegetarian but this recipe has krab (with a “K”), just because we had some at home. Unfortunately our local grocer didn’t have any beans sprouts. So, my version today has yellow onions instead.

Acorn and Krab Okoy

Serves 1 or 4

Ingredients

1cup cornstarch

2 medium eggs, beaten

¼ cup cold water

2 cups grated acorn squash, peel on

1cup julienned yellow or white onions

3 cloves minced garlic

4 oz. shredded krab or peeled shrimp

salt to taste

cracked black pepper to taste

3 tablespoons canola or grape seed oil

Dipping sauce

½ cup soy sauce

¼ cup palm or rice vinegar

1 clove minced garlic

¼ cup finely chopped green onions

chopped jalapeno

1 tsp. granulated sugar

Make the batter by combining cornstarch, egg, and water in a mixing bowl. Mix all the ingredients well then add the vegetables and krab. Season the mixture with salt and pepper.

Heat up a frying pan over medium heat and add the oil. Place a small mound of fritter batter on the pan, do not overcrowd. Fry the fritters on each side until brown, about two minutes on each side.

Sauce: combine all ingredients in a small bowl and mix well.

Eat while hot.

I woke up feeling a little under the weather today. I wasn’t surprised at all as some winter virus has infected almost every single one of my family members since just before Christmas. Of course my turn happens to be the day before I go back to work. I can’t stand being sick, so with a little nudge from my husband I decided to go to the doctor. I am now on 3 different kinds of medication guaranteed to fix me in no time.

As I curled up in a blanket on my comfy recliner with a book, waiting for the meds to kick in, I felt a sudden homesickness for the cooking of my mother and grandmothers. These women had a way of driving away pain and sickness with their food. Whether it be the rice noodle and squash soup that is perfect after a painful visit to the dentist, the creamy chicken noodle soup that can heal broken hearts, or the rice porridge with hardboiled egg and ginger to make you feel whole again, all of it works perhaps even better than z-pack and antibiotics at times. So I decided I would make one of the legendary family dishes that cures all ailments, in the hopes that it will have the same effect if I made it. We had some left over turkey from a roast that I made yesterday, so the first thing that came to mind was to make lugaw. It’s a rice porridge that I can never get enough of.

Lugaw is my favorite. It is so simple, and yet can be so good. It’s really about the broth and the toppings. It is considered poor people’s food in the Philippines because it is made mainly of rice and both, but it can be elevated with the addition of toppings like pork rinds or egg. I have served this dish at one of my Pinoy pop-up restaurants, as well as parties I’ve catered, and it is always a total hit. I will make this dish a mainstay when I open my Cali-Pino restaurant because I’ve always felt loved when my Grandmothers or Mom made this for me.

Leftover Turkey and Egg Lugaw

Serves 4

1-tablespoon canola oil

¼ of white onions small diced

3 cloves of minced garlic

1 tablespoon peeled and finely chopped ginger

1 ½ cups jasmine rice or short grain rice

1 qt chicken broth

1 cup pulled cooked turkey meat or chicken

Salt and pepper to taste

A pinch of saffron (optional)

Toppings:

Chopped scallions

Hardboiled egg

Crispy onion

Other Favorite Toppings:

Pressed Tofu

Fried Chicken Livers

Chopped pork rinds

Direction:

Place the soup pot on medium heat and the add oil. Once the oil is hot add the chopped onions and sauté for 1 minute; add the garlic and ginger and sauté just until fragrant; add the rice, cook for about two minutes coating the rice with oil. Add the broth to the rice and stir, making sure that the rice isn’t stuck to the pan. Reduce the heat to low, cover the pot and simmer until the rice is cooked, checking every five minutes, stirring, making sure that there is plenty of broth and the rice is not sticking to the pan. Add the cooked turkey to the porridge and season with salt and pepper. Serve while hot and top with whatever you want!

As an end to 2016, I decided to reach out to my Dad and arrange a meeting. It had been almost two years since I saw him. I also found out that his kids and wife are now in the US, too. Reaching out to him to meet up and meet my half-brothers and -sister was not an easy decision to make. I thought about my mother first, and how this meeting could hurt her feelings. And then I thought about how I would explain the complicated family set up to my six-year-old Max, and then remembered that we live in Los Angeles, and Max has been exposed to an environment where kids have two moms or two dads and divorced parents at his age. So, I decided to do it because I am also a grown-up and this is what grown-ups do. Life is also too short to not give a shit about things that I should give a shit about. My father was nowhere near perfect, he was absent for the most part in my life and my memories of him are few and fuzzy. But he is still my father, and whatever happened between him and my mom was their business. The kids ended up with scars by default though none of it was our fault…a reality that took a while to manifest. I am also my mother’s daughter and she raised me right, so I picked up the phone and called my Dad.

I reunited with my father three years ago after 15 years of nothing. He lives about 25 miles away from me and it took me a long time to bridge that 25 miles gap. Parenthood changes people. I want to be transparent with my kid, and in order to do that, he has to know who I am. So three years ago I told him that we were going to meet with my Dad. He was surprised to hear that I have a father since I never talked about him. Max was great during the first meeting. No inhibitions, just happy to have another person to love and to love him. The remote control helicopter from my Dad also helped break the ice. There were two more meetings after that.

The night before our meeting yesterday I told Max that my Dad would also be bringing my brothers and sister, who I have never met. He said he didn’t know I had other siblings other than his aunts. I explained that my Dad married someone else many years ago and had four kids with his wife. I also told him not to expect any presents but if he does receive any make sure to be grateful and thankful for it. That was the end of that conversation and I was glad it went as well as it did.

On our way to The Grove to meet my Dad and his family, Max asked me why Grandpa and Grandma split up? Was it because they didn’t love each other anymore? And why did they stop liking each other? I was shocked, but then again not so much, as he is my son after all. I said I am not sure why they split up. I told him that I know they loved each other very much at some point in their lives, but people change and sometimes part of that change is that people fall out of love and then they find love again like what happened to Grandma and Grandpa. He seemed okay with that answer and I was relieved. I knew a little bit more than that explanation but really not much more. Of course I remember moments during that time but I don’t think either one of my parents thought it was important to tell us what was about to happen…it just sort of happened. We dealt with it the best way we knew how.

Meeting my Dad’s family was a bit awkward. We were strangers to each other and there was a bumpy feeling that even bloodline couldn’t fix just yet, only time. The kids were very shy and barely spoke. They are clearly homesick for the Philippines, and a bit culture shocked. They reminded me of how my sister and I felt when we first arrived to the US. I told them that the homesickness would eventually pass. They will, in time, pick up the lifestyle and fit in. And once they do they will love it. Just like my sister and I were at their ages, they are also full of hopes and dreams. My Dad’s wife looks older than she actually is. She is no longer the young woman I recalled from my youth. She is more subdued than my mother ever was or would ever be. What I saw that was somewhat similar was that she was clearly her children’s hero much as my mother is ours. She was friendly and I felt the kindness bestowed to my son and me was genuine. She spoke the most out of the bunch and asked questions about my life and my sisters. My dad is pretty much the same…silent for the most part, and didn’t quite know how to express his feelings. At times I wondered what was on his mind. He asked about my sisters and the grandkids. He looked well and I felt that he is thankful to have his family close to him. He looked more rested than the last time I saw him. I could also tell that he was happy to see us. And that was good enough for me. He had a brand new bike and helmet for Max. Max was very grateful and wanted to ride the bike in the parking lot. It was the same bike that my mother gave him for Christmas. I thought it was quite ironic that my distanced parents would pick out the same exact bike for my son. I felt that Max thought the same.

Max’s conclusion of our meeting was that it was nice to see Grandpa. He likes his new bike and helmet. He had a good time. He liked my Dad’s kids. He said that they were so quiet unlike my sisters and me. He followed that comment with a laugh because he knew I knew he was making fun of me.

On my part, it was surprising to care about people you didn’t expect to care about. I didn’t expect myself to have a feeling of connection, nor did I plan to put in much effort, but I did on both accounts, and I walked away feeling good. It was comforting to know that my Dad is not alone and that his kids do care about him. I want them to have a good life too. I want them to be well and to grow up to be decent adults. And I hope they do.

I will mend the gap and forgive the past. I no longer want to live with regrets and resentments from this part of my life. My life turned out pretty wonderful in spite of my parents’ break-up, or perhaps even because of it. I do intend to keep the few fuzzy memories though. Those memories keep me grounded at unexpected times.

In the end, I thought of my mother and how lucky we were that we ended up with her. The three of us inherited her personality, determination, drive, and guts. We also have some of our Dad’s traits in us, just enough to keep it balanced, but we are mostly made from my mother’s genes…a fighter for life and down to the youthful skin.

A friend reached out to me for advice. She is a woman born in another country, whose family fled to the United States in the 1980’s. Her parents uprooted the entire family for a better life. Today, she was defeated and deflated just like most of the people in America but what makes her really sad is the fact that she just learned that her mother voted for Trump and was joyous of his triumph. The mother told one of her siblings today that “the people have spoken…it is time for a change and Trump will bring progress to this country. If your Grandpa was alive he would have been so happy with the result of this election.”

They have a weekly family dinner scheduled every Thursday, which makes me a bit jealous every time I hear stories about these dinners as I don’t see my Mom and sisters often enough. My friend doesn’t want to go to this dinner tomorrow night but didn’t know how to tell her mother the real reason for her absence. She doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. We talked for a while and I learned more about her in 45 minutes than the last eight years I’ve known her. She was in my thoughts last night as I thought of a topic for my blog: I thought of what she might write to her mother…

Dear Mother,

I had a conversation with Ari early today and he shared with me that you called him this morning to let him know how happy you are with the result of the election. Ari didn’t want to get in the argument with you so he ended the conversation quick. He told me how pleased you are about Trump’s election as commander-in-chief, and the great changes that are about to come. Ari was devastated and more so now that he had spoken with you. Now I am torn whether I should see you tomorrow night for our weekly family dinner or not. You see, I’m worried that now that I have this information about you, I might say something that will end up hurting both of us in the end…and I don’t want that to happen. After all, you are more important to me than any asshole elected as president or any intelligent, capable, classy woman who should be the leader of our great nation. I should let you know that this news makes me very sad, confused, and quite ashamed.

Many questions, thoughts, and memories came to my mind. How could my mother vote for someone like Trump? I understood when you voted for Bush and McCain…after all, you’re a life-long Republican. It is America, and you cast your vote any way you want. But your vote yesterday meant something else than simply voting for a Republican candidate. I can’t comprehend how my immigrant mother could vote for a bigot, a bully, someone disrespectful to women, someone who makes fun of the disabled, has no regard for the veterans, hates homosexuals, and thinks that immigrants and Muslims should be vanished from this country. How could my mother vote for someone who plans to set us back for decades by changing the laws that protect women, minorities, religion, and gender equality? In my mind you voted for everything that is the opposite of what America is about.

I want to jog your memory a bit and also give you some information about your family. Not that it matters now: you’ve already voted.

Do you remember when Lena got pregnant at 17 by some guy she just started dating? That was 20 years ago. You took her to a clinic to get an abortion because it wouldn’t be right for her to be a mother at 17. My friend’s daughter Jasmine got pregnant last year and her mom and I took her to a clinic to get an abortion. She was just about to start college too. Didn’t Aunt Stella get an abortion during her late 30’s because she didn’t want any more kids with the new boyfriend? Wow, what a mess we are. We sound like a bunch of careless human beings…although this probably happens to more women than we think. But we had to do what we had to do for different reasons. Regardless, I am thankful that we had the choice and the resources to take care of our lives and didn’t have to sneak into some unsafe illegal clinics. What a scary thought. Even during those tough moments in our life, we were silently grateful that there were means to our woes.

I also thought of your gay friend Leo. Did you think about him when you voted for Trump? But I don’t even have to go that far. Ari is gay…one of your own kids! Did you think about him when you voted for Trump? Remember when he came out a few years ago and we all said that we love him and want him to be happy? Happiness and love, that’s all. But we know that life will be a little tougher for him. You just voted for someone who will be biased against your son because of who he loves.

I know that you believe that Trump will make America great again. It was never “not great” in my opinion. So, now I think that what you think will make America great again is a President who is white and male. This makes me weep.

I love you, Mom, and I always will. But a part of me feels shattered because I want so much to look up to you as my role model, and to tell your grandkids that their grandmother is someone who fights for what’s right. Don’t worry they love you to death and I will make sure that doesn’t change. Although, one of them asked me whom you voted for…I told him to ask you.

So, Mother I hope you understand if I don’t come to dinner tomorrow night. I just need a little time to get through this. Just a few days to mourn and find ways to move on and look ahead. This is not intended to hurt you in any way but it probably will and for that I am sorry. I know you’ll think I’m being very melodramatic but the truth is, this has really affected me gravely…and also many people in your life.

And I do hope that you are right and that great changes come. I hope that America gets stronger than ever and that our rights as people of all color and gender remain protected. I hope that the economy booms and people’s fears of nuclear war or Russia remain at a distance. I hope…I hope.

I will see you soon. And when I do, I will be finished with my laments. But who knows, maybe then it’s your turn to tell me how it is…but remember you kind of already did when you voted yesterday.   I love you, Mom.

Love,

Your daughter

P.S. I don’t think that if Grandpa were alive he would have been happy with the result of this election. I like to think that he of all people would know better. I could be wrong (one of us is wrong for sure), but Grandpa and Grandma were my heroes and I choose to keep it that way…so, I’ve decided that they would have voted for Hillary.

I know that many people in the United States are at a loss because of the outcome of this election. Many people I know including myself have been devastated with the results and I am certain that many family dinners across America are being missed or canceled because of our differences in political views. We will get through this as we always do…no matter how seemingly foggy the road ahead. Love will prevail and families and the country will be united. We don’t stop loving and caring just because the new appointed leader is despicable. We rise above it. Our faith in people and the goodness in them shouldn’t change. As a matter of fact we should be more kind and forgiving because I know that anger will not restore our feelings of defeat. We also have to remember that democracy is about accepting that we are all different in so many ways and that those differences make us great if we see them without judgement. We have to believe in people and believe that people are good and that people are capable of change. And most importantly, LOVE. Love, love, and love some more.