Fathers’ Day 2006: the whole family hoped chicken outside the house had a good night. It rained hard and we had to cover them with an umbrella so they wouldn’t get cold and wet. At least not so much. A nephew gave us two hens he raised in the farm, so being guaranteed native chickens, they are truly special. And they have a destiny to fulfill.
When I was still small, my Grandmother Elisa (who by the way is going strong at the ripe old age of 91 on March 23 this year) used to worry about me: I don’t know how to kill chicken. Well, it was in the 1970s and she could not imagine that someday someone will think of selling dressed chicken. The extent of my participation in chicken murder is holding the poor creature’s wings and legs.
That was nearly a century ago. Fast-forward June 18, 2006. Ioan’s birthday is coming up, and the chicken would have been welcome contributors to the celebration, but then so many things can happen: they might escape, get sick, or whatever. Anyway, the die is cast. Daddy Taz will have his Father’s Day celebration.
Daddy Taz neatly sliced off the airpipes (at least I think that’s what the English translation is), drained off the blood, then dunked the newly-dead chicken in cold water.
Mummy Taz: Hey! You’re supposed to dunk them in the hot water we prepared so the feathers would come off easily!
Daddy Taz: Oh? Sorry…by the way, do you know how to slice them?
Mummy Taz: Guess so. They’re kind of like slicing dressed chicken.
When both chicken were (un)dressed, Mummy Taz neatly cut off the wings and legs, the carefully cut through the ribcage.
Mummy Taz: WHoops! Forgot about the innards! Daddy Taz! You know how to deal with the innards?
Daddy Taz: Nope.
Fortunately Daddy Taz’s sister knew how: detach the windpipe from the head then pull out with the innards from the stomach cavity. She mercifully cleaned the batikulon of yucky things, and instructed Mummy Taz how to cook the Tinola: lightly saute chicken parts with garlic, onions and a handful of tomatoes, boil for an hour or so (the longer the better) then stir in sliced raw papaya for about five minutes. Stir in pepper leaves just before removing from fire.
Finally got through cooking in time for a rather late lunch. The reviews were good, by the way.
Now Grandmother Elisa will have nothing to worry about. I won’t starve, after all.
Monday, June 4, 2007
The House
In the late 1940s, Elisa’s brother, Teofilo, has just transferred into a new house in San Jose (now Don T. Lutero Street, Janiuay, Iloilo, Philippines). The lot was purchased by Elisa, but she allowed Teofilo and his wife Cecilia to build a house made of bamboo in the area to help them set up their family. In a short time, the house was done. However, the kitchen sink happened to be situated directly over a termite hill. (In the Philippines, these termite hills are believed to be homes of otherworldly beings. )
In the next few days, Teofilo would arrive home from the farm and find Cecilia doing her best to hush up their second child, nine month old Boy. Every evening since they transferred to the new house, Boy would have a high fever and cry his lungs out.
A few nights later, Elisa was awakened from her deep sleep by a high-pitched voice.
“Wake up!” it said, “I want to talk with you.”
Elisa got up and groped for the matches, so she could light the kerosene lamp.
“No,” the voice said. “don’t light the lamp. Just talk with me.”
From the moonlight streaming through the walls, Elisa could sense someone sitting on her bed.
“What do you want?” she said.
“I am the owner of the house under your brother’s sink. Please relocate your sink as all the water and garbage are messing up my roof,” the voice said.
“Hah!” snorted Elisa. “What roof are you talking about? It’s just a termite hill!”
“I’ll show you my house. Look!” said the voice. The creature waved its hand and, like a movie screen opening up on the wall, Elisa could see that the contours of the termite hill approximates the roundness of a palatial roof.
“See?” said the voice. “My muchachas (maids) are complaining that they have a hard time keeping my house clean. You see, I live in America, and I only come home during holidays. Please transfer your sink.”
“Well, that would be a bother, since the whole house is already done,” Elisa answered. “How about if I just buy the place from you?”
The creature let out a high-pitched laugh. “Are you serious? You cannot afford that!”
“Try me,” Elisa said.
“Well, let’s see,” said the voice. “I want a nine month old baby boy. Give me that and we’ve got a deal.”
Then the creature disappeared.
The very next evening, Teofilo came home drunk with tuba (coconut toddy) and found Cecilia trying to lower baby Boy’s fever. The child had been sick for a few days already, and the fever does not seem to abate.
“This bloody bungsod is cursed!” Teofilo shouted. He lit a bunch of dried coconut leaves and set it upon the termite hill.
“No, no, Teofilo, stop that!” cried Cecilia from their room. “Help me here! Boy is having convulsions!”
Immediately Teofilo put out the fire and went to help Cecilia. As soon as the fire was out, Boy stopped convulsing and slept peacefully.
The baby only got well after they relocated the sink.
In the next few days, Teofilo would arrive home from the farm and find Cecilia doing her best to hush up their second child, nine month old Boy. Every evening since they transferred to the new house, Boy would have a high fever and cry his lungs out.
A few nights later, Elisa was awakened from her deep sleep by a high-pitched voice.
“Wake up!” it said, “I want to talk with you.”
Elisa got up and groped for the matches, so she could light the kerosene lamp.
“No,” the voice said. “don’t light the lamp. Just talk with me.”
From the moonlight streaming through the walls, Elisa could sense someone sitting on her bed.
“What do you want?” she said.
“I am the owner of the house under your brother’s sink. Please relocate your sink as all the water and garbage are messing up my roof,” the voice said.
“Hah!” snorted Elisa. “What roof are you talking about? It’s just a termite hill!”
“I’ll show you my house. Look!” said the voice. The creature waved its hand and, like a movie screen opening up on the wall, Elisa could see that the contours of the termite hill approximates the roundness of a palatial roof.
“See?” said the voice. “My muchachas (maids) are complaining that they have a hard time keeping my house clean. You see, I live in America, and I only come home during holidays. Please transfer your sink.”
“Well, that would be a bother, since the whole house is already done,” Elisa answered. “How about if I just buy the place from you?”
The creature let out a high-pitched laugh. “Are you serious? You cannot afford that!”
“Try me,” Elisa said.
“Well, let’s see,” said the voice. “I want a nine month old baby boy. Give me that and we’ve got a deal.”
Then the creature disappeared.
The very next evening, Teofilo came home drunk with tuba (coconut toddy) and found Cecilia trying to lower baby Boy’s fever. The child had been sick for a few days already, and the fever does not seem to abate.
“This bloody bungsod is cursed!” Teofilo shouted. He lit a bunch of dried coconut leaves and set it upon the termite hill.
“No, no, Teofilo, stop that!” cried Cecilia from their room. “Help me here! Boy is having convulsions!”
Immediately Teofilo put out the fire and went to help Cecilia. As soon as the fire was out, Boy stopped convulsing and slept peacefully.
The baby only got well after they relocated the sink.
Lola Elisa’s stories
Am starting here a series of stories told by my grandmother, Elisa Villareal Robles (born March 23, 1916) who, at the ripe old age (she gonna kill me???) of 91, has still one of the sharpest memories.
Lola Elisa has strong ESP (for the uninitiated, that’s Extra-Sensory Perception). I wouldn’t wish to inherit her kind of sensitivity, though, as she could feel, hear and see, although not at the same time, strange beings that inhabit other dimensions. In Hiligaynon, mga tamawo. That could be quite scary.
Some might say that she could be bonkers, or extremely imaginative, or any other unflattering description, but I could assure you, these stories were told again and again since I was still small.
I could not imagine my very own grandmother inventing stories just for the heck of it. How else could a listener deny what are after all personal experiences?
I would have wanted to make this into a book, to give to her as a gift one of these days. Maybe I would. Meantime, I’ll just start with this blog.
Ciao!
Lola Elisa has strong ESP (for the uninitiated, that’s Extra-Sensory Perception). I wouldn’t wish to inherit her kind of sensitivity, though, as she could feel, hear and see, although not at the same time, strange beings that inhabit other dimensions. In Hiligaynon, mga tamawo. That could be quite scary.
Some might say that she could be bonkers, or extremely imaginative, or any other unflattering description, but I could assure you, these stories were told again and again since I was still small.
I could not imagine my very own grandmother inventing stories just for the heck of it. How else could a listener deny what are after all personal experiences?
I would have wanted to make this into a book, to give to her as a gift one of these days. Maybe I would. Meantime, I’ll just start with this blog.
Ciao!
Monday, May 21, 2007
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