Kaldereta, leche flan and Aristotle

There are days when I just want to give it all up and become a cook. I deliberately use the word “cook” rather than chef. Cook is to writer as chef is to author, and I would much rather be called a writer than an author. A writer, to me, is someone who writes — someone who is obsessed with putting words on paper. There is a crudity and a primitivism to this act — the feeling that the act is a matter of survival; that to not put words on paper would mean certain death.

I like to cook. To me, it is one of the most relaxing activities. When I come home from work, I sometimes would much rather make brownies than play with my children. I like the method in cooking. I cook as if it were a contest with myself: How many dishes or plates or pots and pans or cooking utensils will I have to wash at the end of this dish? I love it when I am able to remain spare but produce a flavorful dish. To “remain spare” means to have a system — mise en place, the chefs call it: everything in its place. I like collecting things (bowls from the cabinet for a marinade, small bowls for chopped-up vegetables from another cabinet, wooden spoons and measuring spoons from a drawer) to set up my mise en place.

The ancient philosopher Aristotle once said that human beings have an instinct for harmony. Our souls naturally long for the rhythm that surrounds us, in spite of the presence of cacophony or disharmony. We are naturals at creating method as a system for achieving harmony. That is why when human beings hold babies, we naturally rock on our heels back and forth. It is as if we know that babies will respond to this ancient rhythm. And so when we walk, we naturally find a step that is measured in time. When we do menial labor, such as folding laundry or sorting things in a closet, a closer observation of the way we work will reveal a system of harmony. It is as if we know that the world hums around us and we are called upon by the world to hum with it.

I guess this is what resonates in me when I cook, or when anyone cooks. The rhythmic slicing of onions, the musical pounding on garlic, the pleasure of the hiss when water hits hot oil arouses something in me and appeals to my sense of order. My children love watching me cook. They do not understand it when I write. But they understand my cooking.

But more real than a need for rhythm is a need for sustenance. Unlike the animal world, where sustenance is a matter of survival, sustenance for human beings can become elevated to a moment of celebration, ritual, community and love. Yes, we eat and yes, we need to eat, but part and parcel of this act is a need for nourishment of the soul. We commence this nourishment by beginning meals with prayer, for example. I personally love ladling food onto plates. The first two minutes of any meal in the house is begun with their mother ladling food. It is an act of love, surely, because to do so means attending to their needs first. To do so implies knowledge of what food pleases them. To do so is a way of my saying, “I love you and let that knowledge nourish you.”

A few months ago, I went to Canada and ironically enough learned how to cook kaldereta and leche flan! We lived with my husband’s old officemates in lovely Vancouver. I am sure many of you have experienced living with Filipinos abroad; what has always puzzled me is the dishes our hosts decide to serve their guests.

Logic tells us that because we are visitors to a foreign land, we should expect to be fed food from the new place. And so we expect perhaps salmon or halibut or hamburgers or “real” pizza and steaks. And yet, again and again, when living with Filipinos abroad, a veritable array of Filipino dishes is laid out buffet style, the way it is done during fiesta or Christmas time: adobo, pancit, tinola. Binagoongan and Filipino fried chicken (you know, the simple salty, crunchy one?). We as visitors partake of this but often think silently: How strange it is that we are fed this way. We think, Don’t they know this is the food we have every day? What, then, could possibly account for this behavior?

For one, it is an obvious sign that hospitality is tied to food. We open our doors to our countrymen as we would at home and we feed them what we would have fed them at home. To feed them foreign food would mean that they would literally “not feel at home.” Hospitality is an expression concretized by generous acts, and what better way to do this than with food? The legal alien understands the crazy need for rice to make a meal feel like a real meal.

It is also perhaps a way of showing (not showing off), not just what one has become abroad, but also what one still is. It has a double meaning, in a way: “Yes, I can afford this much food and I’m certain you have seen refrigerators and cabinets of Filipinos abroad where items are always big and plentiful; but  — and it’s a big but — although I can afford it, there is nothing more satisfying than simple pancit. And yes, I can afford steak and halibut, but give me danggit anytime!”

And perhaps, in a much deeper way, Filipino food is served because what is being nourished is not really the visitors. I think that the presentation of such foods is a silent statement and what the legal (or illegal, as the case may be) immigrant needs to know is that his or her old ways make sense. They need to know that this harmony they have taken away from the dinner table with them is real and useful. To partake of such food is acquiescence to that identity. In a foreign land, the Filipino identity can disappear and to have someone partake of the food of home is a way of saying, “Yes, I understand these dishes and I understand all that comes with it, the magnitude and variety of food, because this is how we do it back home.” It is therefore a conversation between the immigrant who is trying to find meaning in a new land and the visitor who is certain of himself and does not need the certainty of food to provide identity. Filipino grocery stores are a great way of saying out loud that someone understands, in this new land, the importance of Knorr seasoning! In this grocery where strange things such as tenga ng daga and bagoong and chicken cubes can be I asked my host if I could help her cook for dinner and it was truly a wonderful moment. I absorbed the harmony in the making of the dish and our cooking together was a sharing — not just of recipes but also of identities. Let me share with you, then, these dishes I learned while abroad. For, certainly, these dishes have taught me much about my own self.

Kaldereta

1 kilo beef bulalo cut

1/2 cup Original Knorr seasoning

3 packs Mama Sita Kaldereta Mix

1/2 kilo potatoes

1/2 kilo carrots

1/2 kilo bell pepper

1/2 cup milk

Marinade beef in Knorr seasoning for around 10 minutes. In a stock pan, fry beef in hot corn oil. When brown on all sides, pour Mama Sita Kalderata Mix, following instructions on the packet. Boil beef until soft for around two hours making sure to add water when necessary. Add potatoes, carrots and peppers after. Once all vegetables are done, add the milk and stir gently. Serve with hot, white rice.

Leche flan

13 eggs

1 can condensed milk

1 can evaporated milk

2 teaspoons vanilla

Sauce:

1 cup water

1/2 cup sugar

Boil and set aside.

Separate egg yolks and place in separate container. Gently fold in condensed milk and evaporated milk and vanilla. Stir gently. Pour mixture over a piece of cheesecloth or a kitchen towel to further refine mixture. Do not over-mix as this will make your leche flan uneven.

In a baking dish, place cooled sugar mixture. Add yolk mixture. Bake in 200-degree oven for 45 minutes.