I'm neither one nor the other, but I totally agree. I've heard this phrase countless times and everywhere from every city I've ever been to and from every local cooking show I've watched. Locals will always have a special dish of their own - Pangasinan's Pinakbet, Zamboanga's robust seafood, and Cebu's Anthony Bourdain-praised Lechon - but when it comes to all-around, all occasion cooking, Kapampangans reign superior. And in spite of the majority's claim of this to be true - I know so. Why? Because I come from a family of Kapampangans.
My mother's parents, although pure-blooded Ilokanos, have spent a majority of their lives in San Fernando, Pampanga. Since my grandfather used to be a soldier in the Air-Force, my mom's family of five had to stay in Basa Air Base. And in Pamapanga is where they built their whole lives on. My grandmother, with her natural talent in the kitchen, got to learn the ropes of Kapampangan cooking quickly.
I can still remember the way she used to make Espasol, and the way she chuckled while looking at her rice-flour-dusted nose. Her rellenong bangus still leaves a delicious after-taste in my tongue, that even after 8 years of being unable to taste the dish, it's something my palate will always yearn for.
She was the very best cook I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. Until know, I can see bits and pieces of her impeccable taste through my Tito Harold's Kilawin, my Tito Abe's scrumptious and creamy goat kaldereta, and my Grandfather's Laing. These are the only remaining pieces of her that I can still cherish, apart from her memories.
I never really got to know her in a more intimate level, but I know enough to conclude that she was a woman with a great spirit and a big heart. Apart from that, I never really knew my place in her life. Until yesterday.
My mom told me something that made me realize I'm so much closer to my grandmother than ever before. It was that one sentence that completed the puzzle on where I stood in her short life.
"You're the only one to take her passion for food. If she were still here, she would've been proud of you."
And because I'm close to tears right now, I'll end this note with an article I've written shortly after she died years ago. I wish I could have learned so much more from her. But if it were her, I'm sure she'd tell me that sheer determination and passion is all it takes to excel.
Mamang was her not name, but it was what we called her. she was my grandmother, but she was not, as most grandmothers usually are, old and wrinkly, short and stubby. she had the elegance of a woman who prided herself on her femininity, even though she was different from the delicate flowery women in the rest of my family. tall and slender like a crystal vase, willowy like an ivy vine, her features marked the arrogance of her spirit, and the tiny lines along her face revealed the strength she had throughout her life. a native of Northern Luzon, she would occasionally visit us in Iligan, bringing with her boxes of Pampanga’s finest delicacies. she always reminded me of sweetened pork and crab fat, of anchovy and shrimp paste, of herbs and freshly sliced tomatoes. she fussed about in our kitchen, her unending fascination over the many, many things she could buy at our place, as compared to her hometown where commodities cost twice as much. she loved to make dishes foreign to us - espasol and relleno -things that were passed on to her by her ancestors of the bygone era. there was a feeling that you could get away with anything around her, but her ever watchful eye and fixed stern look would stop you from doing anything "improper". a simple girl from the barrio, she caught the eye of a rich man’s son with her dalagang filipina features,and she was married at a very young age,naive about the world, but nonetheless, filled with love and affection. and those things were passed on to us, even to me, her direct descendant. she’d pull me into my bedroom where she slept, opened her giant suitcase which smelled of mothballs and camphor, the elemental scent of her home in Pampanga. out came little wads of tissue containing miniscule treasures; rings and gold bracelets, pictures of her and Papang along with their five children in a faded black and white photo, scapulars and other religious items. she also gave me the freedom to succumb to my guilty pleasures- letting me eat raw Spam, giving me rockhard yema after i brush my teeth at night, buying me softdrinks and candies and coconut wine until i was red in the face for having drank too much. and she would just laugh it off; her notes were always in the highest decibels possible but very much unlike the melody of tinkling bells. it was more of the clucking of chickens hungry for food and she talked that way. she talked fast and irritating but i loved listening to her stories. she’d tease how my mother had gotten so used to Cebuano, that even her attempts of talking back in Tagalog or Ilokano were taunted because of the loss of her native accent. she was unstoppable; her sense of right from wrong was like a slap in the face, but of the good kind. that was years ago.
i never went to see her dying. my first semester in college had just begun when she stopped going to therapy. her cancer had gotten worse, and there was nothing else for the accomplished oncologists and the best big money could buy, to do. surrounded by her great walls and children and grandchildren, she chose to spend her last days in her mothball and camphor filled home.
three days after her 64th birthday, she died. my mother allowed me to travel alone for the first time, so i flew all the way to the place i spent so many happy childhood memories of. i saw my cousins, titos and titas and even relatives i never knew existed. i looked at Mamang in her rest, still stern and arrogant looking, but drained of the life she once had. this dead woman had once been alive, had once cooked espasol and relleno for us, had once laughed like a chicken and had once been loved by a little girl who feared her strength of character.
she was buried on the day i turned 17. people did not know if it was alright to greet me a happy birthday, but i wished they’d focus their attention to Mamang. i wished that everyone had a grandmother like her, brave and strong. i wished everyone would have someone to allow them to sneak into the kitchen and steal cans of Spam and pieces of yema. i wished for a Mamang for everyone.
