Jam

By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

WHEN my parents were alive, all members of the family made regular trips to Pangasinan for special occasions. It was a tradition of bonding, a way to renew relationships, and for my nephews and nieces, an adventure in the farm, as they pitch tents in the yard and swim through a stream that passes through our property line, which seemed to have less and less water as the years passed.

It is also during these occasions that my parents prepare food from their organic garden: home-grown vegetables, chickens and piglets raised specifically for lechon (roasted meat). My siblings Che and Oni also had a way of roasting chicken, with young mango leaves used as stuffing, instead of tanglad (lemongrass). This particular preparation was preferred by my nephews and nieces, second to adobo, a dish made with chicken or pork stewed in sukang Iloco (vinegar from the Ilocos), garlic, soy sauce, laurel (bay leaves), paminta (peppercorns), patatas (potatoes), and some secret ingredients from the garden.

The others did not care much about the details of the preparation, but Jam (Jasmin Maramag), who was in first grade school then, was very interested in watching how food was prepared. Instead of joining my other nephews and nieces play around and climb the trees, she went straight to the well, where we cook outdoors. She sat there, as my father gripped the chicken and quickly slit through its neck. The chicken struggled, trying to free its wings, as blood dripped down on the basin.  Jam was in utter shock and started to cry.

“Bakit ninyo sinaktan, wala siyang ginawa sa inyo!” (Why did you hurt her, the chicken did not do anything to you!)

My father, equally shocked at the reaction, groped for words. In the province, most children were initiated very quickly in the domestication of animals and the purpose is very clear in their minds: they serve as food. Children observed and were trained to help their parents in the processes of sustaining themselves. Lost for words, my father stammered:

“Jam, ganito yung umpisa ng paggawa ng lechon manok.” (This is how the roast chicken is made.)

“Ayoko! Ayoko! Ayokong kainin yan!” (No! No! I don’t like to eat that!)

She ran inside the house and did not want to speak to my father, even when my father, recovering his wits, tried to explain the “chain of life”. I remember this incident vividly because she refused to eat chicken during that occasion, but ate the adobo, which was made from another animal that was also slaughtered.

Years later, Jam grew up to become a cook, titillating the palate like her poetry seduces the mind.  She cooks with an inner passion that has rhymed and reasoned with her identity as a human being, as a woman, and a free spirit. I relish her Persian and Lebanese dishes, Italian pastas, gourmet creations, and her unique touch in the combination of herbs, which she grows in her garden. These are precious, tastier than food in restaurants prepared by chefs, because her heart is patently inherent in all the food she prepares.

Purple Jam

there must be herbs

in Uranus, I could use

to make this jam purple

as you desire.

if not, Neptune.

Pluto is distant.

I can try, first, the moon.

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