Desperado

My father celebrated his 80th last week with roasted pig, dinuguan (blood stew), and bam-i (a mixed noodle dish). As you might have guessed from the last post, we’re now in the mop-up phase, also known as dealing with leftovers. The lechon was easy enough — paksiw! — but what of the dinuguan and pancit?

When people tell me I should open a restaurant, I tell them I don’t need the hassle. What I really want to say is I’m not that good a cook, but I’m afraid they’ll take it as false modesty and sing my praises louder. It’s mortifying. The most they ever see are the photos I post on Facebook. Do those prove anything? I watch in awe as Chef Kiran Jethwa whips up a sumptuous meal after another out of the oddest ingredients from the African bush; I forget my training in media production, that it’s just television. Or maybe the guy is really creative on top of being good-looking. Dem.

Anyway, I had made three rounds of the mercado the other day and found nothing — or at least no seafood that the patriarch would deign to sup on. After several days of reheating leftovers, I had to make up for my time off from regular kitchen duty. More than that, I was up to my neck with lechon paksiw and dinuguan and bam-i.

Then I remembered the sinangag nga baka that we had at some carinderia in Abuyog weeks ago. That version had struck us as peculiar for having egg noodles (miki) instead of the traditional bamboo shoot. It was pretty good nonetheless, so good Eva still talks about it.

I should tell you that I never eat dinuguan made outside our home. Weird, I know, considering sinangag also has blood in it, if cow’s. I blame Ma for this aversion, the way she shudders at the mention of other people’s dinuguan. She does not add anything by way of concrete example (or even hearsay), but that shudder leads me to imagine a number of unsavory possibilities: improperly cleaned offal (notably the intestines), a fly (or any critter small enough to be eaten unnoticed), mouse droppings, some mangy kusinero’s scabs — you get the idea. Is it any wonder someone thought he could hide shabu in there as well?

That said, I have never cooked dinuguan before — not when Eva’s around to do it. The recipe is from a freelance cook we used to hire on occasion. Manang Gingging (or ♫Ding-ding-ding-ding♬, as I call her, to the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony) is getting on in years and no longer suited to the demands of most catering jobs, but her version of dinuguan remains popular with guests, and the most sought-after dish after lechon. Curious how something made from odds and ends — not only from the pig but also stuff like pineapple stock, pickle brine, and any strange condiment sitting unused in the refrigerator — can turn out so bloody tasty. The next time Eva makes it, I’ll keep a watchful eye and report back to you.

But I’m digressing all over the place. In short, I sautéed ginger, onion, and garlic, poured in 2 cups of water and a sachet of hon-dashi, waited for it to boil, then added about a cup of dinuguan and a handful of noodles from the bam-i. Voila — instant sinangag ! For a touch of authenticity I also threw in some grated bamboo shoot. It was the easiest dish to assemble, but no less delicious. Could’ve fooled anyone it was the real stuff if willing to overlook the noodles in the soup. And I wasn’t even being creative, just desperate.