I am not a chef. I was never classically trained at any culinary academy here or abroad. I was born, raised and will forever be a child born in California’s Salinas Valley, whose father was a cook in a migrant labor camp and whose mother was a cannery worker.
Though I do love to eat, I can’t say I love food. Especially when cooking it. Love is not what I feel when I cook. Its more complex than that. Cooking for me, as my friend once said is “a form of meditation”.
The elements of sweet, hot, savory, flesh and flora are living medium, like paint and colored pencils. My kitchen and utensils are tools to help invoke memory. Cooking is tangible prayer. Its a sweet painting, a savory sculpture, a delineation of culture and a mute testament to the often wonderful and terrible stories that make up our human history, our relationship to food and nourishment, and those who make it possible. Its a feast for all the senses. A good well rounded, sometimes suspenseful read.
As an artist who has worked in clay, on paper, in textiles and even on stage, food is the most dastardly and rewarding medium you can express with. And thus, each dish you prepare from whatever meager ingredients you have, there is only one attitude you can take to begin. Reverence.
Family feasts predominated our first summers in America. My early childhood was spent imprinting memories of survival and feasting. Watching from my perch on a fledgling fig tree, I remember our family gatherings featuring lechon (roasted pig), had to begin with death. We couldn’t afford meat from a butcher’s shop then, so we raised our own. In this case, one of the larger pigs our family raised in a pen thirty feet away from our shared family home, ten feet away from the railroad tracks.
My Tatang (grandfather) was with us then and he lead my mother, uncles and my dad into making these feasts happen. A butcher in the Philippines, his was the presence leading the charge of a quartet of men — mostly the Filipino irrigators — who lived in the camp with us, all grappling with a 200-lb. pig. They tied the pig to a stake and walked it solemnly with Tatang in the lead to the killing table where the pig was laid down, it’s throat cut with swift, deft precision.
It’s blood was carefully caught in a tin pot reserved for this purpose. As the blood flowed and life slowly ebbed from it’s body, there was the rhythmic sound of a whisk quickly stirring apple cider vinegar into the blood pot which helped congeal the it into a gelatinous cake once it cooled. This was reserved for later purposes: home made sausages and dinuguan – a stew made of pig’s blood, pork belly and shoulder cuts of pork.
A fire was started, bringing a 50-gallon metal drum full of water to a boil. The hot water was used to help loosen the pig’s hair. The men quickly dispatched the shaving with thin-bladed carbon steel knives sharpened to a bright shine. The pig shaven clean, had its entrails removed for more purposes: intestines cleaned out, liver and other organs saved, bile ducts taken and buried in the ground to fertilize the crops grown for food.
One pig was enough to sustain three families and assorted bachelor uncles for an entire summer into the fall. What was not cooked immediately was hung in the walk-in refrigerator in my father’s kitchen or the deep freezer the family kept in our house. The pig’s life was a sacrifice to nourish life along three generations of our family.
We kept our pig pen for awhile, long after our family left the camp when we were able to afford to live in a two-bedroom house in town.
But that was the basis upon which I grew up — sharing and community and nourishment. And sacrifice.
To the chagrin of some of my vegan and vegetarian friends, here is a pork recipe that’s a classic in our family: adobo. (Don’t worry – vegan and vegetarian recipes to come!!)
ADOBO:
1 part (cup) cider or sugar cane vinegar
1 part (cup) soy sauce
2-3 whole bay leaves
handful of whole peppercorns
water to cover
2-3 pounds pork shoulder or pork belly, cut into 2-inch cubes
whole garlic cloves
The measurements listed are generalized to accommodate the amount of pork you want to make. Remember, braising will reduce and concentrate the flavor you add. Make sure the cooking liquid/marinade has the tart-salty flavor you desire, tempered with water. Add more water in small quantities if the liquid reduces too fast.
Most importantly — do not rush this. The slow cooking yields a very tender product.
In a lidded stock pot, add pork and all ingredients and braise gently on medium low heat with the cover on for 2 hours. Remove lid, turn heat to low and continue braising until liquid caramelizes and pork is fork tender.
This same recipe applies for roasting the pork adobo in the oven. Low and slow — no more than 325 degrees covered — and turn up the heat to 375 uncovered for the last hour of cooking to brown the meat after its tenderized to create a glaze.
Slow. Slow. Slow. That’s the mantra.
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