I had heard of kaningag before I laid eyes on it. The tree’s most salient feature is supposedly its aromatic bark, collected for use in folk medicine as remedy for abdominal pain. But it was mention of the leaves’ use as a spice that caught my attention. In fact, the plant is a species of cinnamon endemic to Cebu and perhaps other neighboring islands, hence its English name, Cebu cinnamon.
After collecting some giant passionfruit and air potato (if that was indeed what it was), I asked the owner if he knew of kaningag that grew nearby. Without saying a word, he led us back out the gate, took a left, and started towards a low hill. I was beginning to worry that I had gotten myself into an impromptu trip to the forest when he stopped after a few meters and pointed at a thicket of overgrown grass.
“That?” I wondered if he had misunderstood.
“Behind.”
It was a sapling, about six feet max, and looked… well, it looked just like any other plant, in the same way that all infants look alike. I did not dare stay to examine the tree any longer than I had to, worried about snakes and other creepy-crawlies, so I snapped off a stem and gingerly traced my way back through the soft ground, and came out studded with amorseko (crabgrass) seeds.
Crushed fresh Cebu cinnamon leaf smells faintly of the local liquor (gin?) known as mallorca, incidentally also used in cooking. Dried, it is anise-y, not at all like “regular” cinnamon (which my father dislikes, anyway). I still have to cook with it. The owner had suggested adobo, obviously for the leaf to take the place of bay laurel. Will my father notice? He’s got quite a nose on him. Meanwhile, those leaves need more time in the sunshine, and it has been cloudy (raining, too) for three days running. Soon.
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