Appetite

I come from a family whose love language is cooking.

Growing up, food was more than just sustenance. It was tradition, affection, and the glue that held every celebration together. If I had to describe it, I would start with the last two days of December when my Lola would gather everyone and assign roles for preparing the New Year’s feast.

Our routine was simple, almost sacred.

We always arrived early in the morning, where we would be greeted by the comforting smell of the breakfast she had already cooked. While we ate, the older ones would head out to buy ingredients. They will come back after some time with bags filled with vegetables, spices, and whatever ingredients were needed for the “ulam” (dish). By midday, we would pause for a short siesta, bodies briefly resting before the chaos resumed. Then, by afternoon, we would start working. This would be our routine until the family prayer right before the first of January, which signaled the end of the preparations and the beginning of celebrations.

Each family member had a purpose.

The men handled the meat. This meant slaughtering the chicken, goat, or pig. The women managed the stoves, stirring pots of kare-kare, caldereta, and mami. Older cousins chopped, sliced, and tasted. Others were responsible for desserts that required patience.

As the youngest, I was given the humble yet tear-inducing chore of peeling bulb after bulb of garlic and cutting onions until my eyes stung.

My role felt too small. So small that I would throw tantrums and demand to do something more important. Mama, tired of my sulking, would let me help cut the meat for bopis.

But that wasn’t what I wanted.

I longed to be with the cousins, stirring the halaya, stationed in front of the kalan de uling. I wanted to grip the heavy wooden ladles and help them stir until the texture grew thick and glossy and the sweetness reached Nanay’s standards. But Nanay was hard to please.

A halaya would take more than eight hours to finish. Everyone’s arms would be sore by then, but she would still refuse to give her nod. It was to ensure that it would last for days, even weeks, she would say. Because of this, we used to joke about skipping the hard work, suggesting we just buy the halaya or fix a store-bought one.

But Nanay would dismiss the idea with a firm, “Hindi pwede.”

For her, cooking was never just cooking. It mattered that things were done from scratch. From choosing the ube, washing and boiling it, grinding it finely before the real magic even started. Every dish found on our table at every celebration required intuition and intention.

Every ingredient added was a quiet form of devotion.

And you could taste it. Neighbors would line up on New Year’s morning asking if there was extra halaya. We did not have the luxury of grandness, but we poured effort and all the love we could muster, and it always showed in the food.

But when Nanay passed away, the tradition dissolved with her. No announcement. No slow fading. Just gone.

Like a popped bubble, the togetherness we assumed would last forever scattered. My uncles and aunts focused on their own lives. The younger ones chose to celebrate with friends. The familiar noise, the laughter from silly games, the cries from petty fights, the joy from gifts exchanged fell silent. Even the house in Bataan, once overflowing with life, grew quiet.

I started missing the things I once believed would always be there.

Like shower schedules based on kitchen duties. The loud chaos echoing through the house on the 30th. The clingy goodbyes on the second of January.

Now that we’re older, things are different. Some have families of their own. I am no longer the youngest. Yet there’s one thing that still connects us all: the kitchen. Each of us has taken ownership of a dish, something we proudly bring to the table, almost as if Nanay sprinkled bits of herself into each of us before she left.

And despite the exhaustion and frenzy of those New Year preparations, I often catch myself wishing I could go back. I imagine myself older, finally trusted to stir the halaya or even cook the ulam from start to finish.

I would probably still complain about the workload. But deep down, I know I would cherish every second. If it meant seeing those familiar smiles again, hearing the laughter bounce off the walls, and feeling that warmth only my family offers, I would do it all without hesitation.

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Aureen Kyle Mandap, 26, is still navigating adulthood. But this time, she has found her ray of sunshine.