‘Pugon’

Perhaps one of the most ironic things I always heard from my mama when I was a child was, “Huwag kang maglalaro ng apoy” (“Don’t play with fire”). It was ironic because she never let me go near fire, but it was also what kept our household running, as we relied on a wood-fired oven, or as we call it in Filipino, “pugon.”

Pugon is a traditional oven in the Philippines that uses wood or charcoal as a fuel. It works by burning these materials to produce heat for cooking and needs regular attention to keep the fire going.

My family had every reason to fear fire. My brother bears scars on his back from a fire-related accident. Yet because our resources were limited, we had little choice but to rely on the wood-fired oven. Charcoal and old newspapers were far cheaper than cooking gas.

Every morning, mama would light the pugon and boil water in a century-old kettle whose bottom had grown thick with soot, ash, and sometimes a little oil. I never told her that the aroma of burning wood and ash had become my alarm clock. There was no sound—just the smell, strong enough to creep into our house and fill my senses. Before I even realized it, morning had already arrived. By the time I woke up, there would already be hot water waiting for me to use for my bath.

I don’t know what was in that hot water that seemed to cure every illness in the province. If you had a sore throat, you drank hot water. If you felt dizzy, you drank hot water. If you had just woken up, you drank hot water. Even before taking an early-morning bath, you were expected to drink hot water first. So, my mama would boil two batches every morning. One for drinking and another for my bath. It was a simple routine, repeated day after day, but it carried a quiet kind of care that I only learned to appreciate much later.

Because she had to be at work by 7 a.m., she made sure everything was prepared before I left for school. Since we relied on the pugon, which was not the easiest thing to light, she would cook all the meals we needed for the day, which more often than not were the same meals we would eat throughout the day, and sometimes for two days in a row.

I remember coming home one afternoon, tired and hungry. There was nothing much to eat except a bread that had been hanging in the kitchen for nearly a week. Then I spotted two packs of pancit canton and an egg.

The moment I saw them, I felt a wave of weariness. Cooking meant lighting the pugon myself, right? So, there were the charcoal, old newspapers, and a box of matches, as if they were silently waiting to be picked up.

Still anxious, I began the familiar ritual. I arranged the charcoal, tucked the paper beneath it, and struck a match. To my relief, the fire caught. Soon enough, I had cooked the pancit canton and fried the egg. I ate with the satisfaction that only a hungry person can truly understand. More than that, I felt proud. I had done it on my own.

Afraid that my mama would get angry, I never told her about it. Yet I found myself using it whenever hunger struck. I would light the fire and cook whatever I could.

Before long, my mother began allowing me to tend the pugon, guiding and watching over me—sometimes scared, but most of the time, she was just caring.

Back then, my skills were limited to boiling water and frying eggs, as she still did not want me spending too much time near the fire. Even so, each meal I prepared felt like a small victory against the fear that had once kept me away from it, and it was all because my mama trusted me with it.

Those memories remain so vivid that every time I cook adobo or sinigang on my own-purchased induction cooker now, I am reminded of the smell of the wood-fired oven that once woke me up every morning.

But now, the memory feels different. No more long wait for the water to boil. No sharp smell of burning wood. Little to no lingering fear of fire. But this also means mama is no longer beside me to guide or watch over me.

See Also

Talk of the Town: Bigger than our fears

Convenience has replaced ritual. Independence grew slowly, day by day. And this reminds me of how quietly life changes with time, and how far we have come.

Today, I live in a cozy apartment in Manila. I still cook whenever I am hungry. Now, when I tell my mama about the meals I make, she simply smiles on the other end of the line and says, “Maaram ka na magluto” (“You already know how to cook”).

But looking back, I realize that the goal was never really about purchasing the induction cooker on my own. It was about turning the trust and guidance my mama gave me in front of that pugon into independence, and learning to stand on my own.

So, when she turned that fear of fire into trust, I realized it was now my call to turn that trust into my own strength.

—————-

Joanna G. Barbacena, 26, is a teacher by profession and currently working as a writer for the Diliman Research Magazine of the University of the Philippines Diliman.