FEATURE | WHAKAKĀINGA | HOME
Written by Angeline Lucas | CONTRIBUTING WRITER
As a kid, I loathed Filipino food—it never felt like home. In my primary school corridors, every step would be in calculation, as a sudden waft would make you an easy target. The smell of soy and garlic clung to your garments, a distinctive scent that lingered in your nose.
“Oh my God, what is that!” They yelled.
“I guess she’s back with her dog food!”
The kids would pinch their nostrils and cover their mouths. A cacophony of bellowing laughter would echo throughout the air—ingenuous, yet it was known to be laced with judgment. Before you knew it, you’ve stepped into their territory. A place that’s not meant for people who look or speak like you.
I watched as their pearly whites shone bright with phoney smiles, most of which were reminiscent of the crackers they ate; plain and clean.
“It looks so gross! Did you cook this food in a swamp?”
I was envious of the way they could carelessly indulge in their meals. No one batted an eye to their talon-like fingers digging into de-crusted ham and cheese sandwiches. It wouldn’t be called messy or unhygienic, but rather practical and natural, a whole different vocabulary.
Praise was always awarded to kids who learned the mastery of a knife and fork. It signified nobility and luxury. It was a simple activity to conform to the structured dining etiquette of the Western World. Thus, I learnt at an early age to follow this protocol. Anything apart from those two choices of utensils would make you an outcast, prone to scrutiny.
This self-consciousness of my eating habits culminated in an addiction to fit in. The days of spoons and forks were replaced by conformity: sticking your index finger out, holding your knife in the right hand and your fork in the left. Each tool had its distinct purpose, knives were meant for cutting and forks were meant for stabbing. That was the implicit agreement. The only right way to eat.
Back then, I didn’t realise those comments were laced with colonial prejudices. The casual remarks have desensitised me into thinking it was normal. Only in retrospect did it become clear that their motives went beyond everyday conversation. Even with something as simple as food, preconceived notions of the past still lingered, reinforcing harmful stereotypes.
In a desperate attempt to fit in, I practised and practised for countless hours at the dining table. It didn’t matter what was on the plate, expectations from others held me captive to adhere to this way of eating for whatever dish was concocted. For dishes like kaldereta, each slice of beef was meticulously cut into slabs, just the right size to fit into my mouth easily. My father, who often prepared this dish, would boil the beef longer to tenderise the meat. He did this to make eating these dishes more efficient, providing an easier way to cut food using a spoon, which was the original utensil we used for eating.
I started refusing to eat rice, believing that it interfered with the satisfying and clean way of eating. To be frank, I also stopped because someone told me eating the refined version made you gain weight. Adapting to this dietary choice was quite a challenge, especially since rice is a staple of our culture. Not only do we include it in our meals due to its abundance in the farmlands and quick source of carbohydrates, but also its importance in bringing prosperity and unity, acting as the glue to all Southeast Asian families.
When the day came, after hearing the sharp ringing of the bell for lunch, I was ready. There was no more slimy mess inside my lunch box, no more smell of foreign spices and herbs. It was just plain. It was just clean.
Carefully, I ambled through the corridors, searching for the perfect spot to sit before popping open my lunchbox lid. Inside were roasted chicken, asparagus, a silver knife, and a fork. Each had its designated place—knife on the right, fork on the left. Of course, while cutting apart the drumstick I kept my index finger out. At first, the task went smoothly, almost perfect… Until I ate a piece of chicken off my knife.
The hyenas of kids bore their eyes into mine, scrunching their faces in disgust. There was no point in reversing what I’d just done. My brief moment of confidence vanished into the harsh reality of maintaining a facade I could never truly embody. Even in my feeble attempt at conforming to the norm, I still failed.
Throughout my days obsessing over becoming part of the plain and clean crowd, I lost touch with a significant part of my identity. Conformity is counterintuitive. I was working so hard to erase a part of my culture—something that I could never remove as it’s been passed down for generations and onwards. It was from then I understood that the more I strayed away from tradition, the more I began to lose a part of myself.
A couple of months later, I had an epiphany at my mother’s work potluck. I can still picture it vividly—an array of colourful dishes, vibrant with vegetables and meat, each combination mouthwatering. Different scents were infused in the room. This time, there was warmth in the air through the laughter of others. The room was a melting pot of diverse cultures, all providing their own taste through their dishes. A robust aroma of various soups wafted in the air. Laid out on the table were curries of different shades and hues. Some salads showcased every green imaginable, complemented by a variety of rice—long, brown, white… Every kind! I was in awe of the various faces that surrounded me, some of which even resembled my own. There were no plain crackers or ham and cheese sandwiches. No judgement—just absolute solace.
This transported me back to a cherished memory when I was six years old. At home, I was stuck with a stuffy nose and a throbbing headache that wouldn’t budge. It was during this time that my lola (grandmother) saved the day through a bowl of sinigang, a simple dish stewed with tamarind, tomatoes, garlic, and onions. As I took a sip of the hot and tangy broth, I was comforted and soothed of my aches. From this simple moment of care in my life, I realised such importance that comes with compassion and food.
It’s essential to be surrounded by the right company of people who appreciate and love you, just like those who enjoy the flavours from the dishes on the table. Reconnecting with the home I once lost touch with evoked such a deep sense of guilt within me. I reflected on the days I could have spent cherishing those around me and embracing my own uniqueness, but instead, that was wasted on shame. Memories are what we make of them, and for me, food is now home.
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