The serving size of the dishes that grace our table is exactly as seen on this blog. We eat so little among the three of us, if I do not get “creative,” leftovers pile up in the refrigerator. On top of those are jars/bottles/tubs of sauces/condiments/pastes/pickles in various stages of use or neglect, plus marinating meats and the occasional container I have forgotten holds what or which for.
The sweet and sour dish pictured above was made with leftover katambak (emperor fish) fillets, fried anew to crisp up the beer batter. For the sauce, the help reminded me of a tub that had been sitting in the freezer for… oh, long enough. Would you believe I have cheeses in there dating back to the Arroyo administration? Such trivia I only ever mention as afterthoughts, of course; I do not want to color my parents’ expectations of a dish (colored enough in this case).
“So,” I asked my mother, “how is it?”
“Good,” she said. “I like the sauce.”
“I thought so. It’s Jane’s.”
“Jane?”
“Tita Jane — remember those wonderful shrimp balls she sent over on my birthday?”
She had been poised to spear another fish slice. Now her fork froze in mid-air as she did the math.
“But– but that was two years ago!”
“Uh-hnh.”
“Bastos sií ka.” Annoyed, but not pissed off. “What if I get food poisoning?”
What if, indeed? Then the sweet-and-sour would be one of three suspects. The chicken adobo started out as tinowa, two days ago; the sautéed ubod made with month-old boiled bamboo shoot and some mushrooms Kap had harvested from the wild. I am at least assured that my father’s taste buds are finely attuned to anything even remotely approaching spoilage. Other than that, I can only appeal to the spirit of adventure. We should do lunch someday.
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