In memory of Sir Yeto--he who lived, loved and laughed well. And left us with memories of high school, a dreamy kitchen and growing up in a small town.
Sir Yeto generously shared this in a feature in Food: The Magazine of Good Cooking.
2 kilos stewing beef, cut into pieces
10-12 cups water
1 kilo pork liver
2 cups grated Cheddar cheese
2 cups tomato sauce
1 cup vinegar
1/4 cup brown sugar
salt to taste
2 cups sliced pimientos morones or fresh baguio pepper
2 cups pitted green olives
1/4 cup olive oil
3-4 cloves garlic, crushed
1 cup sliced onion
1 small can or two long pieces chorizo de Bilbao, cut crosswise into 1/2" slices
salt and pepper to taste
Put beef in a large casserole and pour enough water to cover. Cover casserole and bring water to a boil then lower heat immediately to simmer. Let simmer about one hour.
Meanwhile, broil pork liver until medium rare. Grind or chop liver finely.
Combine liver with cheese, tomato sauce, vinegar, sugar, salt, pimientos morones and green olives. Stir until smooth. Set aside.
In a large skillet, heat olive oil and saute garlic, onions and chorizo de Bilbao. Stir in liver mixture and simmer for about 15 minutes, or until mixture turns lighter in color.
Pour liver mixture into the beef in the casserole and simmer for 15 minutes or until mixture thickens and beef is completely tender. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
Showing posts with label My Sorsogon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Sorsogon. Show all posts
September 11, 2010
July 2, 2010
Promdi
This week, I came face to face with my inner claustrophobic. En route to my sister's place, with four of us squeezed in the backseat, I felt a shortness of breath followed by something close to panic. It was like being sucked into a black hole, like the time I came this close to drowning. It took me a couple of minutes to get past the panicky stage.
Come to think of it, I am the type who needs to have space--physically and otherwise. I gave up big-city living because I needed breathing space. Because I realized that Sorsogon Street was merely a stand in for the real thing. I wanted to be where there are still big, sheltering trees, where the beach isn't just an ad on a travel magazine but a 15-minute drive.
Four days in Manila is more than I can manage. Time enough, I guess, for a party, or a trip to the bookstore. For gelato and affogato and catching up with the family. Time enough for things urban, including stewing in traffic and not feeling guilty for a cup of coffee that costs more than the average worker's daily wage.
I could have stayed for a few more days, but restlessness was setting in, and I couldn't risk another anxiety attack. The concrete jungle is no match to highways framed by rice fields.
I am officially a probinsyana.
Come to think of it, I am the type who needs to have space--physically and otherwise. I gave up big-city living because I needed breathing space. Because I realized that Sorsogon Street was merely a stand in for the real thing. I wanted to be where there are still big, sheltering trees, where the beach isn't just an ad on a travel magazine but a 15-minute drive.
Four days in Manila is more than I can manage. Time enough, I guess, for a party, or a trip to the bookstore. For gelato and affogato and catching up with the family. Time enough for things urban, including stewing in traffic and not feeling guilty for a cup of coffee that costs more than the average worker's daily wage.
I could have stayed for a few more days, but restlessness was setting in, and I couldn't risk another anxiety attack. The concrete jungle is no match to highways framed by rice fields.
I am officially a probinsyana.
March 20, 2009
Ahh, Summer!
Summer started while we were out on field. All throughout the morning, the beach was a constant presence. We could hear the waves--could even feel the soft breeze--from where we were. But there was work to do, and the beach had to take a backseat.
At 1p.m., when the crowd started thinnning out and nothing remained of the just-in-from-the-sea lunch, we rounded the corner and there it was: the white sands of Paguriran.
It was low tide when we got there. The bigger outcrop--which on high tide becomes a lagoon--was within wading distance. The powder-fine sand was a treat for sore feet. The afternoon sun was just perfect, and so was the catch.
Paguriran could very well be Boracay, except that it has none of the the crowds, the amenities, the nightlife and the commercialism of it all. Which is just perfect, if you ask me.
For the past days, we'd been drenched by heavy rains. With a quick trip to the beach and an hour of watching the turn of the tide, summer is finally here!
At 1p.m., when the crowd started thinnning out and nothing remained of the just-in-from-the-sea lunch, we rounded the corner and there it was: the white sands of Paguriran.
It was low tide when we got there. The bigger outcrop--which on high tide becomes a lagoon--was within wading distance. The powder-fine sand was a treat for sore feet. The afternoon sun was just perfect, and so was the catch.
Paguriran could very well be Boracay, except that it has none of the the crowds, the amenities, the nightlife and the commercialism of it all. Which is just perfect, if you ask me.
For the past days, we'd been drenched by heavy rains. With a quick trip to the beach and an hour of watching the turn of the tide, summer is finally here!
February 4, 2009
My Way
Yet more reasons why I love traveling this road: blue mountains, green trees and zero traffic.
Going home at the end of the day is one stress-free ride.
September 21, 2008
Fiesta Fever
The day started with the pitiful sound of a pig being readied for slaughter and ended with "Alone Again, Naturally" from the Video Singko from across the street. In between were the seemingly endless stream of people weaving in and out of houses, the beer-and-brandy-induced laughter, the neighborly exchange of fiesta fare and, much later, the wobble and shake of those who have had one drink too many.
Today is our tiny village's fiesta, and not even austerity nor the threat of Typhoon Hagupit could get in the way of tradition. Yesterday, there was a parade along our otherwise quiet streets, and the reigning village beauties waved and smiled their way under the scorching midday sun. For nine days, we trooped to the neighborhood chapel for the novena to the Virgin of Penafrancia, in the same way that the more worldly among us trooped to the improvised cockpit right on our block.
I must admit that I am new to this fiesta thing. We did have our share of fiesta fever in the old house, but between moving to Manila and beyond and coming home for good,what the fiesta was for was lost on me. It was only when I moved to this tight-knit, neighborly community four years ago that I realized that the fiesta was for thanksgiving, for celebrating life and all its gifts.
"Alone Again, Naturally" is not really the appropriate finale to this happy, happy day.
Today is our tiny village's fiesta, and not even austerity nor the threat of Typhoon Hagupit could get in the way of tradition. Yesterday, there was a parade along our otherwise quiet streets, and the reigning village beauties waved and smiled their way under the scorching midday sun. For nine days, we trooped to the neighborhood chapel for the novena to the Virgin of Penafrancia, in the same way that the more worldly among us trooped to the improvised cockpit right on our block.
I must admit that I am new to this fiesta thing. We did have our share of fiesta fever in the old house, but between moving to Manila and beyond and coming home for good,what the fiesta was for was lost on me. It was only when I moved to this tight-knit, neighborly community four years ago that I realized that the fiesta was for thanksgiving, for celebrating life and all its gifts.
"Alone Again, Naturally" is not really the appropriate finale to this happy, happy day.
September 13, 2008
Water Therapy
I grew up by the sea. Technically, that is. While the house I grew up in was right in the heart of what was then a small town, there was always a body of water nearby. A few steps away, and there was a creek we would wade into. The beach was just a 15-minute ride away. The school I went to had windows that framed a pretty view of the bay. I only had to look out, and suddenly I'd be sailing past those boring lessons.
My mother believed in the therapeutic power of fresh air blowing in from the sea. There were the early morning drives to the beach so that we'd have "strong" lungs. A few sniffles and the onset of colds merited a trip to the pier. (It was here, I recently learned, that our younger selves slugged it out to settle some "guy" issues back in high school.)
I have since discovered the wonders of "water" therapy of the not-so-physical kind. There's nothing like the sight of calm waters to soothe frazzled nerves. Or to wash away the stresses of the day.
When I need a quick getaway from the depressing dose of dog bites and death certificates, I head out to my favorite lunch spot: by the baywalk, in one of those faux bamboo sheds. And when I feel like winding down, it's back to the bay for one of those colorful, calming sunsets.
Truly, there is nothing that water can't heal.
My favorite lunch spot
(Yet another) Sorsogon sunset
My mother believed in the therapeutic power of fresh air blowing in from the sea. There were the early morning drives to the beach so that we'd have "strong" lungs. A few sniffles and the onset of colds merited a trip to the pier. (It was here, I recently learned, that our younger selves slugged it out to settle some "guy" issues back in high school.)
I have since discovered the wonders of "water" therapy of the not-so-physical kind. There's nothing like the sight of calm waters to soothe frazzled nerves. Or to wash away the stresses of the day.
When I need a quick getaway from the depressing dose of dog bites and death certificates, I head out to my favorite lunch spot: by the baywalk, in one of those faux bamboo sheds. And when I feel like winding down, it's back to the bay for one of those colorful, calming sunsets.
Truly, there is nothing that water can't heal.
My favorite lunch spot
(Yet another) Sorsogon sunset
September 1, 2008
Blue
Blue skies, blue waters, blue mountains. This is Sorsogon Bay, on a lazy, hazy Saturday morning.
July 28, 2008
Changing, Changing, Changed
I took the longer, more semi-urban route to the office today, and I noticed something I hadn't seen in years: the bahay na bato on the fringes of town. I went to grade school with the daughter of the house. I can picture her still: a haughty mestiza who had way too much of everything, from yayas to Sanrio to excess poundage.
Alas, the house is now dilapidated beyond repair: a crumbling heap of memories of days long gone. There is nothing about the structure that hints of grand parties, or of Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo. The vast acreage beyond has been sold and resold, divided and subdivided. The daughter of the house has since left for cooler climes. And from the looks of it, she will not return.
I have always had affinity for old houses. My grandpa's house was right beside the municipio, where he served as judge. On the days when we visited, my cousins and I would race through the house and up and down the town hall's twin flights of stairs. Often, we would steal away to the cathedral, which was but a quick dash away.
But for the cathedral, the structures of my childhood are but shadows of their former glories. The old municipal building has long served its purpose: it is now much too small for a growing city. Lolo's house has already traded ownerships so many times I've already lost count. What was once a respectable lawyer's house-cum-office is now a bar of the seedy kind. (How it got from prime property to red-light establishment is the stuff of telenovelas--you know, the kind peopled by stepmothers, stepsons and half siblings.)
Every time I see an old building giving in to the ravages of time--or to modernization--I always feel a certain loss. Change is always good, a friend likes to say. But there is something about old houses that makes me wish change didn't have to creep in into places of memories.
Alas, the house is now dilapidated beyond repair: a crumbling heap of memories of days long gone. There is nothing about the structure that hints of grand parties, or of Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo. The vast acreage beyond has been sold and resold, divided and subdivided. The daughter of the house has since left for cooler climes. And from the looks of it, she will not return.
I have always had affinity for old houses. My grandpa's house was right beside the municipio, where he served as judge. On the days when we visited, my cousins and I would race through the house and up and down the town hall's twin flights of stairs. Often, we would steal away to the cathedral, which was but a quick dash away.
But for the cathedral, the structures of my childhood are but shadows of their former glories. The old municipal building has long served its purpose: it is now much too small for a growing city. Lolo's house has already traded ownerships so many times I've already lost count. What was once a respectable lawyer's house-cum-office is now a bar of the seedy kind. (How it got from prime property to red-light establishment is the stuff of telenovelas--you know, the kind peopled by stepmothers, stepsons and half siblings.)
Every time I see an old building giving in to the ravages of time--or to modernization--I always feel a certain loss. Change is always good, a friend likes to say. But there is something about old houses that makes me wish change didn't have to creep in into places of memories.
June 21, 2008
Storms
Storm signal number 3 is up over Sorsogon as I write this. School’s out, meetings have been called off and the work day (yehey!) has been cut short. I am not sure if the electricity will be out as well, and for how long. With the shadow of Milenyo still hanging over the city, we are doing the best we could to cushion perceived blows.
I am no stranger to storms. I have, in fact, learned to live with them, as I am sure the rest of Sorsogon has. At the first signs, we shift to autopilot mode: roofs are checked for leaks, leaks are plugged, windows are boarded up. Pets, possessions and papers are secured. In backyards and in front yards, the precious sili is propped up on sticks and carefully sheathed in plastic.
We continuously look at the skies for signs and turn to the weather report for affirmation. We stock up on the staples: candles, canned goods, water. And when the storm lands, we sit it out, praying, hoping that it won’t be that bad.
The day after is for sizing up the damage and for picking up the pieces. The day after is usually clear, and as the sun shines on and through the spoils, we dry out, keep what can be kept and discard those that must be discarded.
Storms, as I'm sure the wizened and the weather-worn among us have found out, are indeed the perfect metaphors for life.
Note: I was just about ready to click on the publish post button last night when the lights came out. Power was restored just now, and typhoon Frank is headed somewhere else. The siling labuyo survived.
I am no stranger to storms. I have, in fact, learned to live with them, as I am sure the rest of Sorsogon has. At the first signs, we shift to autopilot mode: roofs are checked for leaks, leaks are plugged, windows are boarded up. Pets, possessions and papers are secured. In backyards and in front yards, the precious sili is propped up on sticks and carefully sheathed in plastic.
We continuously look at the skies for signs and turn to the weather report for affirmation. We stock up on the staples: candles, canned goods, water. And when the storm lands, we sit it out, praying, hoping that it won’t be that bad.
The day after is for sizing up the damage and for picking up the pieces. The day after is usually clear, and as the sun shines on and through the spoils, we dry out, keep what can be kept and discard those that must be discarded.
Storms, as I'm sure the wizened and the weather-worn among us have found out, are indeed the perfect metaphors for life.
Note: I was just about ready to click on the publish post button last night when the lights came out. Power was restored just now, and typhoon Frank is headed somewhere else. The siling labuyo survived.
May 18, 2008
My Kind of Green
The road leading to the office is flanked by fields in varying shades of green. This is my favorite shade thus far: the refreshing green-ness of rice waiting to be transplanted.
Suddenly, the rice crisis, the NFA queues, the family access cards seem so alien, so far-fetched.
Always, I feel so blessed to be traveling this road.
March 22, 2008
A Traditional Good Friday
I had two options: to sit it out or stick to tradition. Despite the really strange weather, tradition won. So off it was to the Good Friday procession.
Negotiating the still-wet-from-the-downpour road in bare feet took some getting used to. But as I slowly picked my way, past familiar landmarks and forgotten side streets, I knew that this was another chance to round up, and to reconnect with, the old hometown.
Funny how each year, Sorsogon seems exactly the same and yet different. There’s a new building where a turn-of-the-century house stood last year. The school where two of my sisters went to has taken on a colder façade. And there’s this bar tucked away in a quiet neighborhood whose banner is both a name and a statement: Gay-Friendly Bar. And unabashedly open on Good Friday, too.
This year’s crowd is as varied as usual. There are the pious and the devout, the lost and the restless. There are those reciting rosaries and those exchanging phone numbers. There are punks tripping on a group of fully made-up gays. There are fresh-from-the-big-city school girls feigning difficulty with the dialect. There are those waiting in the wings to strip the carrozas of their precious flowers. And there are those who, like us, are in this for the tradition, for the re-connection.
The procession presented a lot of photo ops. But when you’re in the thick of things, you don’t get that many opportunities to do the shooting. Besides, there’s always next year. Or the next.
Negotiating the still-wet-from-the-downpour road in bare feet took some getting used to. But as I slowly picked my way, past familiar landmarks and forgotten side streets, I knew that this was another chance to round up, and to reconnect with, the old hometown.
Funny how each year, Sorsogon seems exactly the same and yet different. There’s a new building where a turn-of-the-century house stood last year. The school where two of my sisters went to has taken on a colder façade. And there’s this bar tucked away in a quiet neighborhood whose banner is both a name and a statement: Gay-Friendly Bar. And unabashedly open on Good Friday, too.
This year’s crowd is as varied as usual. There are the pious and the devout, the lost and the restless. There are those reciting rosaries and those exchanging phone numbers. There are punks tripping on a group of fully made-up gays. There are fresh-from-the-big-city school girls feigning difficulty with the dialect. There are those waiting in the wings to strip the carrozas of their precious flowers. And there are those who, like us, are in this for the tradition, for the re-connection.
The procession presented a lot of photo ops. But when you’re in the thick of things, you don’t get that many opportunities to do the shooting. Besides, there’s always next year. Or the next.
January 28, 2008
Sorsogon Sunsets
One of the (many) things I love about Sorsogon is the sunset. It's amazing the way the setting sun bathes the sky--and the sea--in a variety of colors. From the palest pinks to the breath-taking reds. From powdery blues to fiery oranges. Basking in the after-five glow, I am glad that I am where I am: home.
December 21, 2007
Stories of Christmases Past
Story 1:
It is the (mid) 1970s. I am grumpy because I did not get the (usual) box of curly tops during our school exchange gift. In fact, I did not get anything at all because I left the (usual) soapdish at home, and the (usual) exchange gift went on without me.
Because I am (probably) getting on Ma's nerves, she decides to have an impromptu exchange gift, with all of us combing the house for "gifts." I spy a bagful of red kiamoy and I wrap it up in elementary-school fashion. Our boy comes in carrying a big, beautifully wrapped present. The brat that I am, I decide to have that gift no matter what.
We draw lots, and I see that I'm about to get a "thing" wrapped in brown paper bag. My younger sister is about to get the gift. I bully my sister into trading lots with me.
The sister opens the brown paper bag and gives out a delighted yelp: there are sweets aplenty--Kendi-Mint, Bravo, White Rabbit, N-Nut, Big Boy Bubble Gum. I open the gift and I roar.
Inside the beautifully wrapped package is a bunch of freshly harvested kamoteng kahoy!
Story 2
It is 1989. My sister and I are at the bus terminal, trying to wheedle tickets for the trip that would take us home to Sorsogon for Christmas. All seats for the air-conditioned coaches are taken, the booking agent tells us. There is an extra trip, though, she continues.
And so we clamber aboard the rickety, ordinary bus, picking our way past cans of biscuits and baggage. The bus is packed. And smells of sweat and who knows what else. But there is an undercurrent of happiness, of excitement over going home for the holidays.
Four hours into what is projected as a twelve-hour ride, the engine coughs, then dies. We spend four hours in the middle of nowhere as mechanics try to resuscitate the otherwise dying bus. When it is clear that it won't go any farther, the conductor flags the next Bicol-bound bus, and asks if it would take us in. Or if we would take it.
We take the equally packed bus, and we are crammed--along with two others--into a three-seater. We are among the lucky ones. Others are standing along the aisles, separated from their travelling companions. The bus is so crowded that when someone is left behind at a pitstop his companion doesn't find out until four hours later, at the next pitstop.
For the entire trip, the tale of the lost companion becomes a running joke.
The bus breaks down twice, and we are--again--stranded. Somebody passes around a tin of biscuits, and soon, there is a mini roadside party of sorts. We watch as locals out to attend the dawn masses file past.
We transfer to yet another bus, and we spend the rest of the journey home standing. The twelve-hour ride stretches into a full 24 hours.
It is the longest bus ride of our lives. But it is worth it. After all, what is Christmas if it is not spent in the comforts of home?
Note: this is a Christmas meme I picked up from An Apple A Day.
What to do: Just share a warm, fuzzy Pinoy Christmas story or anecdote or photo or whatever it is you love about Christmas (as a Filipino). Link to this blog post for details.
It is the (mid) 1970s. I am grumpy because I did not get the (usual) box of curly tops during our school exchange gift. In fact, I did not get anything at all because I left the (usual) soapdish at home, and the (usual) exchange gift went on without me.
Because I am (probably) getting on Ma's nerves, she decides to have an impromptu exchange gift, with all of us combing the house for "gifts." I spy a bagful of red kiamoy and I wrap it up in elementary-school fashion. Our boy comes in carrying a big, beautifully wrapped present. The brat that I am, I decide to have that gift no matter what.
We draw lots, and I see that I'm about to get a "thing" wrapped in brown paper bag. My younger sister is about to get the gift. I bully my sister into trading lots with me.
The sister opens the brown paper bag and gives out a delighted yelp: there are sweets aplenty--Kendi-Mint, Bravo, White Rabbit, N-Nut, Big Boy Bubble Gum. I open the gift and I roar.
Inside the beautifully wrapped package is a bunch of freshly harvested kamoteng kahoy!
Story 2
It is 1989. My sister and I are at the bus terminal, trying to wheedle tickets for the trip that would take us home to Sorsogon for Christmas. All seats for the air-conditioned coaches are taken, the booking agent tells us. There is an extra trip, though, she continues.
And so we clamber aboard the rickety, ordinary bus, picking our way past cans of biscuits and baggage. The bus is packed. And smells of sweat and who knows what else. But there is an undercurrent of happiness, of excitement over going home for the holidays.
Four hours into what is projected as a twelve-hour ride, the engine coughs, then dies. We spend four hours in the middle of nowhere as mechanics try to resuscitate the otherwise dying bus. When it is clear that it won't go any farther, the conductor flags the next Bicol-bound bus, and asks if it would take us in. Or if we would take it.
We take the equally packed bus, and we are crammed--along with two others--into a three-seater. We are among the lucky ones. Others are standing along the aisles, separated from their travelling companions. The bus is so crowded that when someone is left behind at a pitstop his companion doesn't find out until four hours later, at the next pitstop.
For the entire trip, the tale of the lost companion becomes a running joke.
The bus breaks down twice, and we are--again--stranded. Somebody passes around a tin of biscuits, and soon, there is a mini roadside party of sorts. We watch as locals out to attend the dawn masses file past.
We transfer to yet another bus, and we spend the rest of the journey home standing. The twelve-hour ride stretches into a full 24 hours.
It is the longest bus ride of our lives. But it is worth it. After all, what is Christmas if it is not spent in the comforts of home?
Note: this is a Christmas meme I picked up from An Apple A Day.
What to do: Just share a warm, fuzzy Pinoy Christmas story or anecdote or photo or whatever it is you love about Christmas (as a Filipino). Link to this blog post for details.
September 29, 2007
365 Days Later
It's been a year since Milenyo. A year since I woke up to the glare of the after-the-storm sun and saw these:
But the day after was not just about destruction and loss. It wasn't just about the prospect of dark, "powerless" nights and--as a visiting friend put it--shoulders weighed down by hopelessness. The day after was for drying out, for picking up the pieces and sponging out the mess. It was about surveying the scene and deciding that the loss is not that insurmountable.
Before Milenyo, storms in these parts were measured against Sisang, a particularly strong typhoon that hit ground 20 years ago. I wasn't around then, but I was told that the destruction was just terrible. Now, whenever there's talk of yet another storm, we pray that it won't be another Milenyo. And we prepare for the worst.
I don’t know, but where I come from, storms do have a way of drawing people together. Maybe it’s the cloud of uncertainty; of not knowing what the next day would be like after the destruction. Or maybe it is a matter of perspective: at the end of it all, it is not what was lost that is important: it is what remains.
A year later, we are back to normal. The leaves are back on the trees, houses have been repaired and we are all the wiser with memories of yet another of life's storms.
But the day after was not just about destruction and loss. It wasn't just about the prospect of dark, "powerless" nights and--as a visiting friend put it--shoulders weighed down by hopelessness. The day after was for drying out, for picking up the pieces and sponging out the mess. It was about surveying the scene and deciding that the loss is not that insurmountable.
Before Milenyo, storms in these parts were measured against Sisang, a particularly strong typhoon that hit ground 20 years ago. I wasn't around then, but I was told that the destruction was just terrible. Now, whenever there's talk of yet another storm, we pray that it won't be another Milenyo. And we prepare for the worst.
I don’t know, but where I come from, storms do have a way of drawing people together. Maybe it’s the cloud of uncertainty; of not knowing what the next day would be like after the destruction. Or maybe it is a matter of perspective: at the end of it all, it is not what was lost that is important: it is what remains.
A year later, we are back to normal. The leaves are back on the trees, houses have been repaired and we are all the wiser with memories of yet another of life's storms.
September 16, 2007
My Town
You know what they say about small towns: one blink and it's gone. In a way, that's what Sorsogon is. The commercial center is made up of two main streets branching into little side pockets. When the planners laid out the town 50 or so years ago, they probably had little idea that "Berlinas" and wheels would eventually take control of the road. Or that Sorsogon would eventually be a city. Which explains why traffic can be a little off-putting during rush hours.
But there is much, much, more to Sorsogon than its seeming smallness. Beyond the L-shaped commercial district are open spaces that point to a wide, wide world. Venture just a little farther from Rizal Street and you get a heady view of the the sea and the mountains.
The road leading to my office is flanked by fields of green, with the majestic Bulusan Volcano looming right ahead.
From where I blog, the beach is but 10 minutes away. Going there doesn't take much planning; you just decide to go, and there you are.
When I was younger, I felt hemmed in by what I thought to be a small town. There was something very limiting about the way the rays of the sun slanted at 5 p.m. As if marking the end of yet another blah day.
But now there's some comfort--and a lot of promise--in the same slant. It makes me look forward to going home, and to another beautiful day.
But there is much, much, more to Sorsogon than its seeming smallness. Beyond the L-shaped commercial district are open spaces that point to a wide, wide world. Venture just a little farther from Rizal Street and you get a heady view of the the sea and the mountains.
The road leading to my office is flanked by fields of green, with the majestic Bulusan Volcano looming right ahead.
From where I blog, the beach is but 10 minutes away. Going there doesn't take much planning; you just decide to go, and there you are.
When I was younger, I felt hemmed in by what I thought to be a small town. There was something very limiting about the way the rays of the sun slanted at 5 p.m. As if marking the end of yet another blah day.
But now there's some comfort--and a lot of promise--in the same slant. It makes me look forward to going home, and to another beautiful day.
June 12, 2007
How Sili Can You Get
Mention Bicol and the word "hot" easily comes to mind. Hot, as in the lava that flows from Mayon Volcano. Hot, as in the steam that spews out from the geothermal fields of Albay. Hot, as in the men and women who, if we go by surveys and statistics, seem to have no regard for family planning. Hot, as in the siling labuyo that grows in just about every backyard, ready for the picking.I don't know exactly why, but the Bicolano tongue seems to have a higher "spicy" threshold. Sinigang isn't complete without its dip of crushed siling labuyo in fish sauce. Grilled fish is a bore without the requisite soy sauce spiked with sili. Even veggies--especially if they're swimming in coconut milk--have a certain bite to them. A bite that will send the non-initiate running for a glass of water.
My tolerance for the hot and the spicy did not manifest until when I was already out of Bicol. Call it the latent Bicolano in me, but I never really thought that I have the "hot" tongue. Until my dormmates pointed out that my soup seem to be hotter than theirs. Or that my dip is a lot spicier. Or that I seem so happy wiping the sweat from my brow while eating spicy ginataang santol.
The sisters and the cousins who have since moved elsewhere are one in saying that they miss the sinus-clearing cuisine of home. Talk about scorching, but we do pride ourselves in eating Bicol Express, a truly fiery concoction where the chili is not merely flavor enhancer but main ingredient. It's one dish that is definitely not for the faint of heart: I have seen one too many first-timers getting all teary and sweaty.
There are, of course, tamer versions of the fabled Bicol Express (which, I believe is named for the train that used to penetrate the heart of Bicol) with a lot more meat than chili. There are also the pinangat and the laing--both made from taro leaves. For me though, and for most of the fire-eating Bicolanos, it has to be hot, hot, really hot.
June 9, 2007
Counting the Whys
My friends were totally floored when I decided to get out of the city. “Why leave?” they asked. “And why Sorsogon?” Years later, people invariably ask me the same thing. So why am I here? Let me count the whys…
Easy drives. The nearest beach is but 20 minutes away, and I don’t have to stew in traffic to get there either. On longer trips, I get spectacular views. There are no factories spewing poison, no smog blighting the landscape.
St. Joseph’s Church. The past calls out from the walls, from every corner of the Barcelona Church. It’s like being caught in a time warp: I expect Padre Damaso to pop out of the convent any time.
The twilight zone. Dusk from where I live is a truly magical thing. The air is nippy and carries now and then the smell of bonfire, of leaves and twigs and paper burning. Overhead, ridges of fiery orange and bright pink wash the sky before the pale gray, and later, the yellow-studded black take over. There’s the sky stretching on and on. Feeling lost in such huge, endless space is perhaps the best feeling in the world.
Bulusan Lake. Forever cool and misty and serene, Bulusan Lake invites solitude. In there, there are no deadlines, no pesky whispers, no politics. There is just me and the lake and our shared secrets.
P100 can go a long way. I don’t have to panic every time I am down to my last P100. I can always find my way home anyway. If there’s no food in the fridge, there’s bound to be some in the neighbors’…
The view from Pepita Park. Like a sparkling jewel, Sorsogon Bay glistens in the tropical sun. The view from the grotto is worth the steep climb: there’s the sea weaving its way through islands laced with coconut trees and tiny houses, nourishing Sorsogon.
Food, cholesterol-rich food. Never mind that it’s bound to show in the hips, or end in ugly bulges. The kinunot and fat, juicy, aligi-rich crabs are simply to die for.
Moonrise in Bacon. Full moon by the beach, with the gently swaying tide echoing through the stillness, is one of the best reasons for staying. How many full moons are there in a lifetime? Not that many, really, but in Bacon, it’s perfectly all right to let out the little lunatic in you and me.
Easy drives. The nearest beach is but 20 minutes away, and I don’t have to stew in traffic to get there either. On longer trips, I get spectacular views. There are no factories spewing poison, no smog blighting the landscape.
St. Joseph’s Church. The past calls out from the walls, from every corner of the Barcelona Church. It’s like being caught in a time warp: I expect Padre Damaso to pop out of the convent any time.
The twilight zone. Dusk from where I live is a truly magical thing. The air is nippy and carries now and then the smell of bonfire, of leaves and twigs and paper burning. Overhead, ridges of fiery orange and bright pink wash the sky before the pale gray, and later, the yellow-studded black take over. There’s the sky stretching on and on. Feeling lost in such huge, endless space is perhaps the best feeling in the world.
Bulusan Lake. Forever cool and misty and serene, Bulusan Lake invites solitude. In there, there are no deadlines, no pesky whispers, no politics. There is just me and the lake and our shared secrets.
P100 can go a long way. I don’t have to panic every time I am down to my last P100. I can always find my way home anyway. If there’s no food in the fridge, there’s bound to be some in the neighbors’…
The view from Pepita Park. Like a sparkling jewel, Sorsogon Bay glistens in the tropical sun. The view from the grotto is worth the steep climb: there’s the sea weaving its way through islands laced with coconut trees and tiny houses, nourishing Sorsogon.
Food, cholesterol-rich food. Never mind that it’s bound to show in the hips, or end in ugly bulges. The kinunot and fat, juicy, aligi-rich crabs are simply to die for.
Moonrise in Bacon. Full moon by the beach, with the gently swaying tide echoing through the stillness, is one of the best reasons for staying. How many full moons are there in a lifetime? Not that many, really, but in Bacon, it’s perfectly all right to let out the little lunatic in you and me.
May 2, 2007
My Sorsogon
It was my age of innocence, when Lapu-Lapu was legal tender and Loida Theater smelled of freshly soaped leatherette. I never did have any reason to venture out of Molave Street. My friends were there, the komiks-for-rent was just a walk away and the street doubled as a field for our brand of football. On moonlit nights, we would scare each other with stories of ghosts and manananggals, and on sticky summer days—after the visiting cousins’ welcome had worn off—we would fly kites and pick fights with the kids from the other street. Weekends we would spend in Bacon or Pepita Park or Palhi or San Benon.
Then it was time to leave. School was waiting, and there were other more important things to do and learn. The trips back home became farther and father apart. Ties were forgotten: I became too wrapped up in the business of making my own adventures—of walking the earth—to keep in touch. There were mountains to climb, islands to discover, seas to explore. Never mind the fact that I couldn’t quite put a finger to what I really wanted. I was on the move, and that was what mattered.
Two years ago, I saw the old hometown for the very first time. I was assigned to write about the place I grew up in, and I realized that I was practically a stranger. And so, for three days, I went back to my roots. Riding on the waves on our way to Buenavista. Watching the sunset from the Rompeolas. Driving down to Gubat amid the surreal glow of the aurora. It was then that I marvelled at the history-rich walls of the Barcelona Church, trekked Bulusan and discovered the enchantment of Palogtoc. I have been to other places since, but none so moved me as the thrill of coming home.
And so, 17 years after I first left for the city, I am home. Much of Sorsogon is what I remember it to be—the sheltering sky, magical moonlight, the town bedding down at 7 p.m. Of course, people still gossip, as they are bound to do elsewhere, but I am happy in my own space. The wandering spirit has been tamed. Who was it who said “A man travels the world over in search of what he needs, and returns home to find it.”?
Note: This was written 7 years ago. Just thought I'd "resurrect" this from my files...
Then it was time to leave. School was waiting, and there were other more important things to do and learn. The trips back home became farther and father apart. Ties were forgotten: I became too wrapped up in the business of making my own adventures—of walking the earth—to keep in touch. There were mountains to climb, islands to discover, seas to explore. Never mind the fact that I couldn’t quite put a finger to what I really wanted. I was on the move, and that was what mattered.
Two years ago, I saw the old hometown for the very first time. I was assigned to write about the place I grew up in, and I realized that I was practically a stranger. And so, for three days, I went back to my roots. Riding on the waves on our way to Buenavista. Watching the sunset from the Rompeolas. Driving down to Gubat amid the surreal glow of the aurora. It was then that I marvelled at the history-rich walls of the Barcelona Church, trekked Bulusan and discovered the enchantment of Palogtoc. I have been to other places since, but none so moved me as the thrill of coming home.
And so, 17 years after I first left for the city, I am home. Much of Sorsogon is what I remember it to be—the sheltering sky, magical moonlight, the town bedding down at 7 p.m. Of course, people still gossip, as they are bound to do elsewhere, but I am happy in my own space. The wandering spirit has been tamed. Who was it who said “A man travels the world over in search of what he needs, and returns home to find it.”?
Note: This was written 7 years ago. Just thought I'd "resurrect" this from my files...
April 7, 2007
Semana Santa
I joined Sorsogon’s Good Friday procession after an absence of two years. There was the initial discomfort of going barefoot on the highway, of navigating through a sea of equally sweaty bodies. But after stepping on chewing gum and God knows what else I knew that things were back the way they were.
This year’s procession had an even more ritualistic feel. I took Gianna with me, and somehow I felt that we were starting our own tradition. The little girl took in everything with wonder: the carrozas, the girls dressed up as angels, the candles, the crowd. She didn’t want to be carried by Papa, so it was practically me all throughout. Talk about penitencia!
Going around—on sidestreets that I have not been to for two years—I couldn’t help but marvel. Some houses are the same: my favorite green house along J. Reyes, the white house near Colegio and the Chacon compound near Pilot. Others have obviously embraced change: the house that Tita Terry once lived in is no longer the wood-and-nipa bungalow of my childhood. Milenyo, which ravaged Sorsogon in September, has also irreversibly altered some neighborhoods.
I myself am not the same. The Santo Entierro doesn’t scare me anymore, and I have gone from uprooted to firmly rooted Sorsoganon. I have wavered between two opposing ideas of Holy Week—of Holy Week as piety and Holy Week as pleasure—and see the merits in both.
For the better part of the year, I consider myself a lapsed Catholic. On Good Friday, though, I walk the walk, talk the talk. I pick my way through rough concrete, rosary and candle in hand. I stay on the safe side as fanatics elbow out each other for a flower or a leaf that adorn the carrozas. And as the procession winds down at the Cathedral, I say a prayer.
Tomorrow, I will be crossing over to the other side of Holy Week: school reunions, cholesterol-rich indulgences, a trip to the beach.
For now, I savor the stillness. The marble floor soothes the feet, and the hush soothes the soul. I have made it through another Semana Santa.
This year’s procession had an even more ritualistic feel. I took Gianna with me, and somehow I felt that we were starting our own tradition. The little girl took in everything with wonder: the carrozas, the girls dressed up as angels, the candles, the crowd. She didn’t want to be carried by Papa, so it was practically me all throughout. Talk about penitencia!
Going around—on sidestreets that I have not been to for two years—I couldn’t help but marvel. Some houses are the same: my favorite green house along J. Reyes, the white house near Colegio and the Chacon compound near Pilot. Others have obviously embraced change: the house that Tita Terry once lived in is no longer the wood-and-nipa bungalow of my childhood. Milenyo, which ravaged Sorsogon in September, has also irreversibly altered some neighborhoods.
I myself am not the same. The Santo Entierro doesn’t scare me anymore, and I have gone from uprooted to firmly rooted Sorsoganon. I have wavered between two opposing ideas of Holy Week—of Holy Week as piety and Holy Week as pleasure—and see the merits in both.
For the better part of the year, I consider myself a lapsed Catholic. On Good Friday, though, I walk the walk, talk the talk. I pick my way through rough concrete, rosary and candle in hand. I stay on the safe side as fanatics elbow out each other for a flower or a leaf that adorn the carrozas. And as the procession winds down at the Cathedral, I say a prayer.
Tomorrow, I will be crossing over to the other side of Holy Week: school reunions, cholesterol-rich indulgences, a trip to the beach.
For now, I savor the stillness. The marble floor soothes the feet, and the hush soothes the soul. I have made it through another Semana Santa.
(Thanks, John P for the photo.)
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