My classmates did it all

By Al S. Mendoza

THERE was pakbet and igado. Menudo and adobo, too.

There was also bisukol and balliba. And bagoong and agamang, swimming with chopped raw tomatoes, onion and cute, tiny clusters of arorosep.

The sinigang na malaga – ahhh! Heaven!

And, of course, bangus. All 800 pieces of them. Grilled.

In this blessed land of ours this side of the globe, a feast isn’t a feast without the fish called Bonuan bangus.

But, then, in this tiny corner of Pangasinan, the main dish for the moment is ur-ormot.

My classmates from America did it all for us, their poor batch mates left behind in ‘Pinas.

Now, to tell you right this minute what an ur-ormot is would mean getting ahead of the story.

Amante F. Caronongan would not have come home had the ur-ormot not served for this day of homecoming for the Spirit of ’67.

“Just make sure there’s ur-ormot,” said Amante in his text-message to me days before the event. “Else, count me out.”

Amante is made. From our batch, I’d say he is the most successful, business-wise. His is a multi-million business (packaging) based in Metro Manila. A chemical engineer, we are just too proud of his accomplishments.

Always, Amante associates his childhood in Mangatarem with the ur-ormot. To him, the ur-ormot is the ultimate viand in his meal.

At lunch on this bright and sunny Sunday at the green palace of San Francisco-based Dolly Gurion by the Romulo Highway, the large bandehado teeming with ur-ormot had been placed in front of Amante.

“Exclusive iyan kay Amante,” said Cherry Mislang, who came all the way from Las Vegas, Nevada, to join our reunion.

Of course, Amante’s wish had been relayed maybe a hundred times to Dang de Vera, our conduit in Mangatarem whose clockwork precision in organizing the whole-day party in partnership with Fred Baloto, Greggy Arellano and Tony Aviles was beyond compare.

“Mission accomplished, huh, Al,” said Dang, who owns a grocery at the town’s public market.

And what’s ur-ormot again?

It’s that kind of river-weed, colored avocado green, curly, if not as kinky as Stevie Wonder’s hairdo. Or, if you will, as bizarrely-wrinkled as Don King’s haircut.

As in every class reunion, almost, there was singing, too.

Dolly had built her sala perfect for parties, complete with a karaoke system and a screen as big as a theater’s built-in on the wall.

Dave Vela sang his favorite, “Act Naturally.”

Ricardo Pastor, the sun-burnt farmer, did “Release Me,” and Romy Alamillo, the retired Air Force two-star general, belted “Babe” and “Bed of Roses” but only after he had himself powered by beer.

New York’s Renato E.O. Valdez and I could only applaud, happy at the sight of seeing our batch mates having fun.

The ladies – Cherry, Dolly, Lenny Vela, Sol Juvida and Muriel Valdez, among others – also cheered, although a bit grudgingly.

“You can stand two hours of hearing drunks sing out of tune, mostly, why you have to give it to us,” they said.

Who said a reunion requires decorum, normalcy?

You have a class gathering with almost everybody in attendance acting normal, that’s strange, if not totally abnormal.

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