“Have you thought of doing something about your hair?” my father said to me the other day.
I knew what he was on to. I know that one of these days I will have to do something about the thinning spot on my crown. I just hadn’t given it that much thought. As it were, my hands are full trying to manage hypertension and blood sugar levels. Baldness? The times when people bring it up, I dismiss it as one of the things that comes inevitably with age. “Have you seen my father?” I would say. “It would be a shame if I took after the neighbor, no?”
You can tell I have nothing against baldness. My maternal grandfather was bald and I thought that was cool. My best bud is, too, although he chooses to shave his head given the few strands that manage to sprout on it. Some people use the term “bald” pejoratively; I do so only when the person in question makes shoddy work of trying to conceal it. Why wear a toupee if it’s that obvious? A friend liked to refer to our former congressman’s hairpiece as a “dead rat.” Friends they’re not.
My mother used to think the world of Dr. Oz until he plugged minoxidil. Pa had used it for years, and they’re both convinced that it isn’t what it’s all touted to be, i.e., it doesn’t work. “Try Svenson,” they say. I’m not sure I can be bothered to (but then neither could my father). I had stopped using shampoo (and all hair products) altogether more than a year ago and it had nothing to do with my thinning hair; I’m just plain lazy. I can tell you though: I’ve experienced less hair-fall since I went shampoo-less, and my coconut had not smelled funky like I had feared it would. On the other hand, my bald spot has not diminished any.
I am suddenly reminded of my friend Peter. He has a thing about hair — in his food. He sees a strand on his plate and he loses his appetite. The few times we had him over for a meal, I was concerned less about how the food tasted than with examining it for any sign of a wayward filament. With a bunch of canines in the house, all shedders, we were used to hair on our edibles. Some were unmistakably human, though.
In any case, it would have been futile to compete with Manang Senda, Pete’s yaya, who has been with his family since, like, forever. She is a wonderful cook who makes the best Bolognese sauce (indeed, the best pasta) this side of anywhere. I have a cousin who sets her standard for spaghetti by Pancake House’s, which I have not tried, by the way. I go by Manang Senda’s, and now said cousin is hounding me for the recipe.
I will not give you a measure-for-measure recipe because I have none. You need only remember four things: 1) use (lots of) good olive oil; 2) use lots of onions; 3) be patient; and 4) taste, taste, taste.
Take a kilo of yellow or Spanish onions and slice them across the grain as thinly as you can. In a dutch oven over medium heat, stir in onions and half a cup of olive oil and keep at it until onions are caramelized and reduced to about a tenth of its original volume. This process may take anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour. Add more oil if it is too dry (likely). Take care not to burn the onions; a sprinkling of salt is said to prevent this. If you’re familiar with bukayo, that’s what the onions will look like once caramelized.
While the onions cook, heat up a few tablespoons of vegetable oil in a pan, then add a kilo each of ground beef and ground pork. Obviously I’m aiming for a large batch here. If you’re going to spend a few hours making the sauce, you might as well make it worth your while (plus it tastes better once re-heated). Cook the meat until nicely browned. If desired, remove the rendered fat as you go along.
Once the onions are done, add five cloves’ worth of minced garlic and some chopped red finger chilies (or dried chili flakes if you have that; use as much or as little as you prefer). Sauté until garlic turns golden, then stir in finely diced celery (stalk only) and grated carrot — a cup each.
When the vegetables are cooked, stir in the browned meat and a few tablespoons of tomato paste. Add two to three cups of your broth of choice, along with three or four 14.5-ounce cans of diced tomatoes. Feel free to adjust broth/tomato portions according to how thick you want your sauce to be. Once the sauce bubbles, turn heat to low and stir constantly. You aim to cook the tomatoes for as long as you can to make sure the sauce does not spoil easily. Give it an hour, at the very least. Season as you wait.
The condiments/seasonings: fish sauce, soy sauce (a little, for color), a tablespoon or two of sugar/honey for a hint (just a hint!) of sweetness, Worcestershire sauce, salt, black pepper, cayenne pepper (if you want more kick), plus a sprinkling of nutmeg and some pesto toward the end of cooking. Add a little of each at a time, then see #4 above. Sauce not thick enough? Add some Parmesan cheese; that’s what the rind is for.
I almost forgot: In the version pictured here, I also put in some sweet chorizo (homemade, but not by me), about two dozen links total. They were divested of their casings, crumbled, and cooked in a bit of water. Once the liquid dried up, I sautéed the chorizo in their own fat until just about browned, then added them to the pot about an hour after the tomatoes. To finish, a drizzle of garlic-infused olive oil and truffle oil. Don’t say that sounds effete until you’ve tried it.
Still here? As you can see, a good Bolognese takes time. If you can’t be bothered, there’s always Jollibee. I’m not losing hair over that.
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