Bread and Rice: Staples of a Blended Family

My brother Paolo deserves an apology.

In my first blog (Volt, age and currants: Part 1), I poked fun at his chicken adobo–the national dish of the Philippines.  As a purist, I had commented that one should never blend in cumin and coriander with the rest of the ingredients.  All that was needed was to slow cook the meat in equal parts soy sauce and vinegar, a handful of garlic, a crush of peppercorns and bay leaf.  Nothing else, I had written.  However, I was wrong.

Oddly enough, it tastes great with feta cheese.

Mama Ching’s marvelous chicken

It was widely known in Surigao City–at least on our block of Amat Street–that my maternal grandmother, Mama Ching, made the best adobo.  Whether it was made with chicken, pork, the rich combination of chicken and pork, the daring mix of gizzards and chicken liver, beef liver, squid or kang-kong (Philippine watercress), hers was incomparable.  Her chicken adobo was indubitably the most lauded.  The perfection of her version was evidenced in the unmistakable odor of vinegar and garlic that permeated across the kitchen into the living room and then inisinuated itself in nooks, crannies and under closed doors of bedrooms and closets.  Mothballs and closet fresheners were helpless against the scent.  And so were our senses.  Bedroom doors opened;  cold air from air-conditioners struggled against the dulling humidity of Surigao.  Closer to the equator, Surigao is located on the northernmost tip of Mindanao, the largest island in the Philippines.

“Kaon na!”  my mother’s voice was a muezzin call to eat.

My brothers and I, smelling the adobo, would elbow each other down short flight of steps and glide across gleaming tiles, burnished to a shine by several turns of our housekeeper and her floor scrub, an inverted husk of half a coconut.  We slid; we raced; we vied to get the best parts of the chicken.  Niccolo, younger than me by 12 years, never won, but then he loved all parts of the poultry.  He ate chicken everyday for years.  My grandmother even secretly made him adobo or her special fried chicken, when everyone else ate whatever blessing was placed at the table.

I gave Mama Ching extra kisses when we had chicken adobo, atsara (or sweet and sour pickled green papaya) and steamed rice.  Heaven was spooning the tangy saltiness of the sauce and fork tenderness of the meat onto the plain, unadorned rice.  One bite of the dish was a journey home.

Slaying Dragons in Princeton

Many people have asked me where I grew up.  I always respond with, “at home.”  Home is the tight coccoon of family, extended relatives, and close friends who have helped raised me throughout the years.  Wherever my parents moved us, there was always a community from which I drew strength and guidance.

We first left Quezon City, Philippines, when I was five.  It was just my parents, Paolo and me at that time.  Together, we survived the savage land of Princeton University, where my dad was finishing up his post-doc.  For a five-year old, it was a world of stone bricks covered with ivy, a dark, tree-lined river behind the on-campus housing where we stayed, and a sinister new language, English.  Paolo was two and looked often to his older sister to slay dragons–at least those in the schoolyard–in this new world.  Autumn afternoons, he would tremble as shouts echoed like skipping stones across the river.  ”Row! Row!  Row!”  came from the longboats that passed by.  Paolo would toddle over to me to hide behind my legs.  Everything was foreign–from dad’s nigerian friend, Moses, who carried me  often on his shoulders to the first blanket of snow.  I missed home.

Nothing seemed right.  I wanted the narrow passage of Mapagkumbaba Street in UP village, just outside the university where my parents went to school.  I longed for the din of tricycles ferrying passengers at 4 am that often made me leap from my bed to burrow between my parents.  I wanted to sit on the floor by mom, whenever she was making me a new dress on the old clunker of her Singer sewing machine.  I wanted my yaya, especially during bath time, when she would take a gallon plastic container, dip into a pail, and douse me with a large splash of water.  I missed the constant  motion–the influx of relatives, of people I thought were relatives because everyone was either a tita or tito (aunt or uncle)–the laughter from gossip being exchanged over mahjongg tiles being shuffled and money being lost or won at 4 am.  I even missed sitting at the dining table at 10pm, sulking and sleepy because my parents had said I couldn’t leave until I finished my meal.   I was a picky eater and bony then–though it doesn’t show at all now.  But what I missed most of all living in the haunted wilds of Princeton as a five-year old dragon slayer was Mama Ching and her chicken adobo and a big bowl of rice.

Rice, rice, baby

We spent a year in Princeton, and then moved to Washington DC for another year.  Like any child, I was resilient to change.  I developed a taste for a bowl of cereal, rather than fried rice, egg and fried Spam, for breakfast.  I drank fresh milk, rather than the powdered version, three times a day.  Apples and oranges replaced mangoes, rambutans, lanzones and other tropical fruits.  English flowed fluently from my tongue, as Tagalog vanished.

While we eased into living in America, there were certain things that would not be replaced or edged out.  These were the  fundamentals: family, hard work, education and rice.  At dinner, the four of us would gather at the table.  We would pass around a steaming bowl of rice–the staple of any Filipino household.  Whatever dish was served–from steaming soups of beef with oregano to dried, salty fish–one always ate it with rice.   Plain and simple.  Unsalted and unadorned.

Like rice, family would always be at my very core.  It is the common thread throughout my life, through every decision I have ever made and every challenge I have faced with strength–from the family that raised me to the family my husband and I are raising.

The water buffalo at the window

We moved back to the Philippines when I was in the second grade.  We moved to Purok Aguinaldo, a housing community on the outskirts of the University of the Philippines, back in Quezon City.  It was a newer development with only a dozen or so houses.  Banyan trees, bougainvillas, and bushes of suntan flowers were ubiquitous.  Our home–a ranch-style duplex–was situated by a wide expanse of rice fields.  Only a thin fence separated the two.  My bedroom, which I shared with Paolo, the nanny and any visiting relative, faced the rice fields.  I often sat on my bed watching the world outside only to lock eyes with those of water buffalo chewing grass by the chain-link fence.

I would think of that buffalo by my window through the next four years that we lived in the Philippines and well into the decades back in the United States.  Sometimes I wondered if he ever escaped or did he spend the remainder of his life, enslaved by the yoke and the needs of the masses for whom rice is a basic need.  And then sometimes my thoughts would enter the weird or the macabre–even as a young girl–and ponder if the milk that became the white cheese I loved to eat with the hot pan de sal (morning bun) was from my buffalo or if my buffalo became part of some roadstand bulalo (bone marrow soup).  I would shudder at the course my thoughts took.

As I grew older, the buffalo became a symbol–creature that worked hard to put rice in bowls.  It became the symbol for how I wanted to live my life.  My parents and the people that surrounded me and my brothers had set examples.  And now I, and my husband, am setting one for my child, my 28 month old Sebastian.

Borne to the USA

The second time we moved back to the United States–to the Washington DC area–was heartbreaking.  It was 1985, and I was in the sixth grade.  Politically, things were getting worse in the Philippines.  Teachers went on several strikes, leaving students to meander through empty classrooms and play patintero (Filipino hopscotch) in the hallways.  These were the days, I would take a horde of friends back to my home for lunch, often surprising my mother, who without flinching would run to get us buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken…luxury for those that drink powdered milk and eat Spam.  And then sometimes, I would go home alone, only to find everyone working.  It would be in between meals, when everything had been eaten and nothing was yet prepared for dinner.

I was 10 when I learned to cook rice.  I made enough just for me, since the caldera, or pot, was too heavy to carry from the sink to the burner.  While the rice boiled away, I beat a couple of eggs for a quick omelette, I fried on the stove top, which was too high for me to reach.  I made a meal standing on a stool.  When it was all done, I carried my plate of rice and eggs to the dining table.  At our home, we always had a small bowl of vinegar with soy sauce that we used to flavor the rice.  So I made myself the usual condiment and added a single sili, or chili pepper, which I crushed in the bowl.  No one ever knew I had made a meal for myself, sat by myself, ate by myself and the put everything away by myself.  And I had done so for nearly a year.

So although it was difficult to leave home, friends, and family a second time around, I was better prepared for life ahead of me.  I could take care of myself and help out my family.  In 1986, the year after we arrived in the United States, my youngest brother Niccolo was born, and then a few months later we owned a house, where we lived for nearly twenty years.  If it had not been for my family and for the fundamentals that they drilled in us, I think I would have suffered not only culture shock but also the angst that came with being an “American” teenager.  When I was sixteen, during one dinner, over a big bowl of rice and fish cooked in vinegar, ginger, and garlic, my parents decided against me going on a date with a friend from school.

“We really don’t want you dating until college, ok?”  my mom said.

I looked at my dad for confirmation.

“Yes, Li,” he said in between slurps.  ”Just concentrate first on school ok?”

I shrugged my shoulders and never debated the issue.  Ever.  My first boyfriend was in college.

Buffalo or Eagle?

I married the buffalo at the window.  My husband, Skerdi, would argue at the comparison.  He is Albanian, and there are no buffalos in his country, there on the rocky Adriatic coast.  He wishes he were likened to an eagle, the symbol of his country.  In many respects, he is an eagle.  He looks after his family while soaring far above the treelines on mountaintops.  But, I’ve known him for over 11 years, and in all that time, he has always been my buffalo watching me through the window.  He works hard–even with a 9-to-5 job during the week–he waits tables on the weekends.  Why?  To earn enough money to make life a little easier for his parents, to buy tickets to football, or soccer, matches without dipping into any savings, and to contribute more towards a better future for his son.

My husband is a quiet man.  I often catch him watching me.  Whether we’re at a party or at home watching movies, he sits in silence and watches.  His other self is a history of a man that has lived a life and in a culture so different from mine.  Like his people, he is serious, intense and extremely frank.  And because of the damages arisen from the economic and political failures of his country, he is calloused–roughened by the friction of time and hard work.  He has been to the Philippines only once, and he has seen me through my people.  We are different.  Filipinos embrace humor, gregariousness, and affection even while we suffer.

Breaking Bread

While rice is usually served at most Filipino meals, bread is the main staple for Albanians.  For less than a dollar, a large crusty loaf of bread is placed at the table for breakfast.  Large chunks are broken off and spread with creamy butter.  This is breakfast.  In the six times I’ve been to Albania, it is the best welcome from sleep.  I ate my fresh baked bread with several cups of mountain chamomile tea.  At lunch and at dinner, the same loaf is divided among the family members.  It is dipped in the stews and used to sop up every droplet of olive oil and jus.  When my in-laws are in Albania, they prefer to have a light supper.  The eat bread with a bowl of yogurt that my mother-in-law prepares at the beginning of the week.  Olive oil and salt are simple adornments to the thick creamy yogurt.

Like the condiment of soy sauce and vinegar, my husband must have feta cheese at every meal.  He will sit down before everyone else, before dishes are served, to break off a small chunk of bread and spear a cube of feta.  It is what grounds him.  Like my family, these staples of bread and feta represent the core values that are similar to mine–family, hard work, education.

Bread and Rice: Staples of a Blended Family

Skerdi and I have been together for over a decade, but we’ve been married for almost 5 years.  Our anniversary is on 10-10-10.  We have one son, Sebastian–the only grandson so far on both sides of the family.  My in-laws live with us in our small 2 bedroom condominium in Oakton, Virginia, for 10 months out of a year.  They spend 6 months back in Albania to be with their other son and his wife.

We are a blended family.

In the United States, the concept of blended family refers to marriages in which children from previous relationships are blended together.  Ours is a blending of cultures–the Albanian and the Filipino–and of expectations and values–traditional and modern.  How does one raise a son in this type of home, where the cultures are so different fundamentally but similar in fundamentals?

That is the question I wanted to ask initially when I started with this blogspot.  I wanted it to be a reflection of  two cultures.  As I started writing down ideas for future stories, my goal evolved.  Yes, I wanted to chronicle life and its mundaness–and all its idiosyncracies, challenges and hilarity–in our blended family.   But I also wanted to focus on our individual stories, our passion and personal challenges.

This past May, Skerdi and I drew up our wills.  It was a sobering moment–thinking judiciously about what will happen to Sebastian.  He is our heir–to our savings, our benefits and our home.  But he is also the heir to our collective consciousness and histories.  But he is too young to retain anything long-term.  We often wonder as we stare at his sleeping form in between us in bed:  Would he remember our mealtimes?  Would he remembers his precociousness?  Would he remember us?

This blogspot is dedicated to Sebastian.  It is a legacy of stories that will allow him to learn about his parents.

My first three posts were about me and my passion for food and rediscovery of my love for writing.  Two and a half years ago, before Sebastian was born, I took a series of creative writing courses.  It has been a lifelong dream to write a book.  At the end of those courses, I was unhappy with all that I had written–even if I had received positive reviews for most of them.  I did not have a voice.  I was merely emulating authors, like Tolstoy or Bronte or Twain.  I thought that if I wrote like them and shaped my words and forced my lines into some semblance of poetic prose, then I was ready to be a “writer.”  But as I read my pieces, I realized none of them reflected me.  They were hollow.

This summer, while watching the World Cup with my husband, in-laws and Sebastian, my voice emerged in the oddest of ways.  I helped organize a bracket for the Cup–a pool in which anyone could participate.  There were 32 members and $320 in the pot.  Either one of my two co-organizers or I wrote a daily email “blog” related to the day’s football matches.  The other two were leagues better at writing about football–its history, players, and statistics.  What could I write about?  My family and their obsession with the sport.

I’m not Kafka or Chaucer.  I’m just me; all I can do is write about what I know and what I love.  And I write how I love: unapologetic, unconditional, and unfettered–and sometimes troublesome.  My voice speaks of love.  So, I hope, will my writing.

I was wrong.

At every meal we have a bowl of rice at one end of the table and a large stack of toasted bread at the other.  A good loaf of bread is four times more expensive here than in Albania.  Instead, we toast sandwich bread–Pepperidge Farm’s Sourdough–still pretty good and not as expensive.  In the middle of the table, we place a bowl of soy sauce with rice vinegar and a small plate of cubes of feta cheese and sometimes olives.  One night, I made chicken adobo–Mama Ching’s recipe.  As I made it, I thought about my friend Tita Rica, who had told me once that her mom makes adobo without soy sauce.  I thought about Chef Romy Dorotan’s much-acclaimed chicken adobo from his previous restaurant Cendrillon in Soho–it had coconut milk.  Paolo’s addition of cumin and coriander still seemed too exotic for such a humble dish.

That evening, my husband ate his adobo and sopped up the sauce with his bread.  My father-in-law, on the other hand, prefered the plain, white jasmine rice.  In Albania, rice is either in the form of a stew or a pilaf.  But every night here at home, he spoons the rice onto his plate and then drizzles the soy  sauce mixture over top.  My mother in law had both a slice of bread and a small scoop of rice.  She ladled some meat and adobo sauce onto her plate.  She asked Skerdi to pass her the feta cheese, which she crumbled on top of the chicken.  She smiled at me; my face was scrunched in suspicion.

I thought back to Paolo and looked at Sebastian who was waiting to dig into his bowl.  The past, the present and future at one table–and in one dish.  II followed my mother-in-law’s example.  The blend of feta and chicken adobo was surprising: saltier, for sure, but also creamier and richer.  It was good.

I was wrong.

I owe my brother an apology.  He has taught me an important lesson in raising a child in a blended family: Consider all ideas, even the unexpected.