24/12/2024
| Add Salt to Taste
"How much is this, Ate?" I asked.
"220 pesos per kilo, boss!" the vendor said, his voice rising above the bustling market noise.
I glanced at my nearly-complete list, convinced I hadn’t forgotten anything. This was the last thing I needed, the final piece that would complete the day’s errand.
As I continued walking through the wet market, my white shoes lightly splashing against the muddy ground, I marveled at how satisfying it was to haggle — I had talked the chicken down to 210 and the pork chop to 330. I came to realize how far prices had come from the world I knew as a child, where my 20 peso bill from caroling stretched as wide as my imagination.
***
It was December 24th, the golden hour when the sun dipped just enough to leave a gentle glow over the market stalls. I walked beside Mama, my tiny hand wrapped around her pinky finger, like an anchor tying me to her warmth. I poked at her side repeatedly, desperate for her attention, my eyes fixed longingly on the candy across the fruit stand and Mama knew it already.
“No candy!” she said. Candies were forbidden back then, as were the soft drinks Mama always guarded me from. Instead, she bought me a toy that glowed with a gentle flicker — a pegasus with wheels.
Time moves so fast, sweeping away moments and feeding me harsh servings of reality. Back then, life was sweet and uncomplicated. I was a child who wanted nothing more than to play and to eat Mama’s spaghetti — the kind that stretched for days. One can of corned beef, a sachet of ketchup, and tomato sauce, stirred together with a spoonful of sugar for sweetness.
I’d roll my toy on the ground—watching as it flashes its lights with each clumsy push—while the day’s light slowly dimmed, as though the world itself was falling asleep. I wished time could freeze right there. Under the orange skies and Mama’s arms full of groceries— sando bags brimming with fish, pasta, and bibingka, a treasure trove of the simple joys that made up my childhood.
"Ma, why did you buy so much?" my voice tinged with curiosity.
"Because everyone’s coming over later," she said with a soft laugh. Her words were light, but her voice carried the weight of love and tradition.
At home, I looked through the groceries, again. Excitement was filling up my chest, just like any other child on a Christmas morning, ready to unwrap their presents. Yet among the bags of food, there was no candy, as expected, no chocolates, nothing sweet, except for the bibingka wrapped in foil.
"Wash the fish so we can make paksiw," Mama instructed Papa Amboy, her voice echoing through the small kitchen.
The spaghetti was there, familiar and comforting, but I only managed a few bites. My stomach was already heavy with bibingka, its soft and sweet warmth reminds me of simpler joys.
***
"Manong, how much is the bibingka?" I had asked earlier that day.
"Three for 100, boss," he \replied.
I bought six, as though hoarding sweetness would make it last. My list was almost complete, and I carried the weight of it all in my arms that even the weight of longing felt too big for someone my age. I'm 26 now.
Carrying those bags was like carrying the world itself, heavy and unrelenting. I got into my car and across the window, the world looked washed out, a canvas painted in shades of gray. Even the Christmas medley on the radio felt hollow, its cheerful notes a thin veil over something I couldn’t quite name.
In my living room, I hang the Christmas lights, just to have that spirit even for just a week, hoping that its soft glow could breathe life into the house, like stars scattered across a dark sky.
Homemade fish recipes. Mom-style cooking tutorials. I searched on the internet, my fingers desperate to replicate the comfort of Mama’s cooking. But in the end, I made my own recipe, stumbling through each step like a dancer out of sync. It wasn’t perfect, but it was nice. I imagined Mama beside me, laughing at my mistakes, her hands guiding mine over the stovetop.
I cut the bibingka into eight slices, like a pizza, like a fragile memory shared and savored. On the table, the food stood like soldiers — spaghetti, meat, soft drinks, and a store-bought cake. The table was filled with food on a night so cold it gnawed at the bones, so quiet it seemed to hold its breath. The Christmas tree lights flickered weakly, as though unsure of their own glow.
And I sat there, staring at the untouched plates. Six bibingkas sat unbothered. The soft drinks had lost their fizz, the cake barely touched, and the spaghetti with its sauce already drying on top of it. I would still love to taste my Mama’s spaghetti with just a can of corned beef because my spaghetti just tasted like memories that had gone stale.
It lacks something. The salt I had forgotten, like so many other small but important things. I thought my grocery list was completed.
I ate alone, the silence broken only by the video of Mama singing on the videoke on my phone, recorded nine years ago. I wished for a hug — one so tight I’d forget how empty my house felt. I realized then, that sweetness isn’t just found in sugar. Even a pinch of salt can change the flavor of everything, much like small gestures of love sprinkled into the chaos of life.
The chicken is bland, and so are the rest, and I’m going to add salt to taste.
With each bite, I tasted the bittersweet, the absence, the longing, and the memory of Mama’s laughter lingering like the last light of day.
I hope, one day, I can see Papa Amboy, too.
-
Words and artwork by Clarry Rabaja
The CSU Communicator is the official student publication of Cagayan State University Andrews.
