The Table That Raised Me: Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (My Father's & My Lola's Kitchen, Too!) Part 22 | Every Monday • Wednesday • Friday | Sunday Feature
Because every meal has a story, and every table has a legacy.

Daddy's Chopsuey: The Man Who Never Needed a Shopping List

by Eugenia C. Martin

 

One thing about Daddy always amazed me.

He never needed a shopping list.

Whenever I asked him to buy ingredients for our ulam and some groceries, I would mention one item after another—rice, canned goods, coffee, sugar, toiletries, pantry supplies and the ingredients. 

He would simply nod. "Okay." That was it. No pen. No notebook.

Since the public market was only a short bike ride from our house, Daddy would hop on his bicycle and head to his favorite vendors. Somehow, he always came home with everything I had asked for—and often, a few extra surprises he thought the family would enjoy, like turon or apple or carioca.

I often wondered how he managed to remember it all. Perhaps it was because he shopped with his heart.

Among the meals he loved preparing was his colorful chopsuey.

He carefully chose the freshest vegetables—cauliflower, carrots, cabbage, young corn, sayote, cabbage, and whatever looked best that morning.

To make the dish more exciting for his grandchildren, James and Nica, he added plenty of quail eggs instead. They loved it. I don't remember them ever complaining that there were no shrimp.

They were too busy looking for another quail egg hidden among the vegetables.

Watching them made Daddy smile.

Looking back, I realize he wasn't only cooking vegetables.

He was making sure his grandchildren would love eating them.

That, to me, was one of his greatest gifts.

He knew how to make healthy food something we looked forward to.

Today, I realize Daddy taught me much more than cooking.

He taught me to prepare.

To be organized.

To know what my family needed before they even asked.

To adjust when circumstances changed.

And to make sure no one at the table felt left out.

Even now, whenever I cook chopsuey, I still think of Daddy riding his bicycle home from the market, grocery bags hanging from the handlebars, every item remembered without a list, every ingredient chosen with care.

Some people measure intelligence by how much a person knows.

I remember my father through something much simpler.

A bicycle.

A market.

A remarkable memory.

A pan full of vegetables.

And a handful of quail eggs that made two little grandchildren (and a daughter) smile.

Sometimes, love isn't complicated.

Sometimes, it's simply remembering exactly what your family needs—and bringing it home.

 

 

 

The Table That Raised Me: Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (My Father's & My Lola's Kitchen, Too!) Part 21 | Every Monday • Wednesday • Friday | Sunday Feature
Because every meal has a story, and every table has a legacy.

Daddy's Ginataang Kalabasa at Sitaw: Simple Ingredients, Extraordinary Love

by Eugenia C. Martin

    Some of the most memorable meals are not the expensive ones.

    They are the dishes that remind us how love can turn simple ingredients into something extraordinary.

    One of Daddy's specialties was ginataang kalabasa at sitaw, always served with crispy fried fish on the side. Depending on what was fresh in the market that day, it could be tilapia, dalagang bukid, matambaka, or our ever-reliable galunggong. There was nothing extravagant about the meal, yet everyone looked forward to it.

    Daddy had his favorite vendors in the market. They already knew what he wanted, and he trusted them to give him the freshest vegetables. The coconut milk never came from a can. He preferred freshly grated coconut, squeezed into rich, creamy gata while he waited. He always said fresh ingredients made all the difference.

    Years ago, he loved adding plenty of shrimp to the dish.

    But everything changed when my daughter and I developed an allergy to shrimp.

    Without hesitation, Daddy simply adjusted his recipe. There were no complaints. No "sayang." No insistence that it wouldn't taste the same. Instead, he sautéed generous pieces of pork until they released their rich flavor before adding the garlic, onions, kalabasa, sitaw, and freshly squeezed gata. The result was still creamy, hearty, and full of flavor. No one missed the shrimp.

    Looking back, I realize Daddy wasn't simply changing a recipe. He was cooking with the people he loved in mind.

    One thing that always made him smile was seeing his grandchildren enjoy vegetables. James and Nica, his beloved apos, never had to be persuaded to eat Daddy's ginataang gulay. They happily finished their servings, proof that vegetables prepared with love can become every child's favorite.

    Daddy had a remarkable gift for preparing meals that were delicious, nutritious, and budget-friendly. He believed that good food didn't have to be expensive. With fresh vegetables, homemade coconut milk, a little pork for flavor, and a perfectly fried fish on the side, he could turn an ordinary meal into a family favorite.

    As a child, I simply enjoyed eating it.

    Today, I appreciate the wisdom behind every ingredient.

    Daddy taught me that caring for a family isn't measured by the price of the meal, but by the thoughtfulness behind it—choosing fresh ingredients, making healthy food delicious, adjusting recipes for those with allergies, and making sure everyone at the table felt included.

    Whenever I cook ginataang kalabasa at sitaw today, I'm reminded that love is wonderfully practical.

    Sometimes, it looks like a trip to the market.

    Sometimes, it looks like freshly squeezed gata.

    Sometimes, it looks like changing a favorite recipe so everyone can enjoy it.

    And sometimes, love is simply a humble plate of vegetables and fried fish, prepared by a father who always knew how to make ordinary meals taste extraordinary.

 

 

 

#TheTableThatRaisedMe  #StoriesFromMyFathersKitchen  #EugeniaWrites  

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Eugenia C. Martin (Ms. Eugene) is a Registered Guidance Counselor, Licensed Professional Teacher, wife, mother, songwriter, gardener, traveler, and home cook. Her life's lessons have come from many classrooms—the school, the counseling room, her parents' kitchen, the family garden, and the backyard shoe-making business where she first learned the values of perseverance, entrepreneurship, and community. Through her writing, she reflects on mental health, parenting, education, relationships, faith, music, gardening, and the journeys that continue to shape her understanding of people and life.

 

Mami on Rainy Afternoons: A Bowl That Felt Like Home

The Table That Raised Me: Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (My Father's & My Lola's Kitchen, Too!) Part 20 | Every Monday • Wednesday • Friday | Sunday Feature
Because every meal has a story, and every table has a legacy.

Mami on Rainy Afternoons: A Bowl That Felt Like Home

by Eugenia C. Martin

There is something about a bowl of hot mami on a rainy afternoon that still brings me comfort.

Whenever dark clouds gathered and the rain began to fall, Daddy would often suggest cooking something with soup. If it wasn't creamy sopas or nilaga, it was mami. Somehow, he believed that rainy days were made for warm broth.

I remember watching him prepare the soup with quiet patience. He carefully seasoned the broth, cooked the noodles just right, then topped each bowl with fragrant toasted garlic and slices of hard-boiled egg. Those simple finishing touches made his mami feel extra special. There were also times when we sold mami, and I noticed that he prepared every bowl with the same care he gave the meals he cooked for our family.

As a child, I thought he was simply cooking because we were hungry.

Today, I understand he was taking care of us.

A bowl of mami couldn't stop the rain or cure every illness, but it had a way of making everything feel a little better. It brought warmth to cold afternoons and comfort to tired hearts.

Even now, whenever I eat mami on a rainy day, I don't just taste the broth.

I remember my father.

And I am reminded that the greatest comfort is not found in the noodles or the soup, but in the quiet love of the one who prepared it.

                Na-miss ko tuloy mami ng MaMonLuk (my Daddy’s favorite) :D <3

 

 

#TheTableThatRaisedMe  #StoriesFromMyFathersKitchen  #EugeniaWrites  

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Eugenia C. Martin (Ms. Eugene) is a Registered Guidance Counselor, Licensed Professional Teacher, wife, mother, songwriter, gardener, traveler, and home cook. Her life's lessons have come from many classrooms—the school, the counseling room, her parents' kitchen, the family garden, and the backyard shoe-making business where she first learned the values of perseverance, entrepreneurship, and community. Through her writing, she reflects on mental health, parenting, education, relationships, faith, music, gardening, and the journeys that continue to shape her understanding of people and life.

 

Sopas on Rainy Afternoons: A Bowl of Comfort

The Table That Raised Me: Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (My Father's & My Lola's Kitchen, Too!) Part 19 | Every Monday • Wednesday • Friday | Sunday Feature
Because every meal has a story, and every table has a legacy.

 Sopas on Rainy Afternoons: A Bowl of Comfort

by Eugenia C. Martin

             The weather forecast announced that a typhoon was approaching. "Parang masarap ang may sabaw," I told my husband. Without hesitation, he cooked creamy macaroni sopas.

When I arrived from school, the familiar aroma of milk, pork, and vegetables filled our home. One spoonful was all it took. Suddenly, I wasn't simply enjoying a warm bowl of sopas. I was remembering my dad.

I remembered him cooking for us whenever the weather turned cold or someone in the family wasn't feeling well. Somehow, he always knew that a bowl of soup could lift our spirits. Whether it was creamy sopas, nilaga, mami, or another simple broth, he never failed to fill our home with the comforting aroma of something gently simmering on the stove.

Looking back, indeed, I realize he wasn't just preparing a meal. He was taking care of us. As children, we thought he was simply cooking because we were hungry. Now I understand. Every bowl was his quiet way of saying, "Rest." "You'll feel better soon." "I'm here."

 

 

#TheTableThatRaisedMe  #StoriesFromMyFathersKitchen  #EugeniaWrites  

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Eugenia C. Martin (Ms. Eugene) is a Registered Guidance Counselor, Licensed Professional Teacher, wife, mother, songwriter, gardener, traveler, and home cook. Her life's lessons have come from many classrooms—the school, the counseling room, her parents' kitchen, the family garden, and the backyard shoe-making business where she first learned the values of perseverance, entrepreneurship, and community. Through her writing, she reflects on mental health, parenting, education, relationships, faith, music, gardening, and the journeys that continue to shape her understanding of people and life.

 

Daddy, Pandesal, and Ordinary Mornings: The Little Things I Miss the Most

 The Table That Raised Me: Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (My Father's & My Lola's Kitchen, Too!) Part 18 | Every Monday • Wednesday • Friday | Sunday Feature
Because every meal has a story, and every table has a legacy.

 

Daddy, Pandesal, and Ordinary Mornings: The Little Things I Miss the Most

by Eugenia C. Martin

 Some of the memories I treasure most about my father didn't happen during birthdays or family celebrations. They happened on ordinary mornings.

Daddy was always an early riser. Before the rest of us had even finished waking up, he was already outside the house. Sometimes he walked. Sometimes he rode his bicycle. His destination was almost always the same—the neighborhood bakery.

Buying pandesal wasn't just part of his routine. It became part of ours.

No matter what Nanay prepared for breakfast—whether it was tapsilog, longsilog, or one of her many silog meals—there was almost always warm pandesal on the table. And if Daddy happened to pass by someone selling puto, kutsinta, sapin-sapin, or other kakanin that caught his eye, he would bring those home, too. He loved bringing home little surprises.

There is another memory that still makes me smile.

Daddy enjoyed playing little tricks on us.

Sometimes, after coming home from the bakery, he would hold the paper bag of pandesal in one hand and pretend to toss "something" into the air. With a quick flick of his wrist, he would catch it inside the paper bag. We would hear a soft thud and become convinced that whatever he had thrown had landed perfectly inside.

Then he would slowly open the paper bag.

It was empty.

With a playful smile, he would ask, "Nasaan na ang pandesal?"

We would stare at one another in complete amazement, wondering how the bread had disappeared. For a few magical moments, we truly believed Daddy had performed a miracle. Then, with a hearty laugh, he would reveal where he had hidden the pandesal, and our house would fill with laughter. Looking back, I realize he wasn't just bringing home breakfast. He was bringing home joy.

Around seven o'clock every morning came another familiar sound.

"Tahoooo!"

I can still hear it.

It was Lolo Saro, carrying his taho from one street to another. I grew up drinking Lolo Saro's taho, and years later, so did my own children. Looking back, I smile knowing that one taho vendor became part of two generations of our family's mornings.

Perhaps Daddy admired him because he understood the life of a vendor. Before he met my mother, he had sold taho himself. He knew what it meant to wake up before sunrise, work hard, and earn an honest living.

But there is one thing I didn't fully appreciate until I became an adult. The bag of pandesal rarely came home full. Somewhere between the bakery and our house, Daddy would meet a neighbor, a friend, or someone he knew. They would stop for a short conversation, exchange a few stories, and before long, Daddy would offer a piece of warm pandesal.

"Kuha ka."

"Mainit pa 'yan."

By the time he reached home, the paper bag was often lighter than when he had left the bakery. As a child, I wondered why he kept giving away the bread he had just bought. Wouldn't there be less for us?

Today, I understand. Daddy never counted what he gave away. He counted the people he could make smile. Without realizing it, I was learning some of life's greatest lessons simply by watching him. He taught me to work hard. To be disciplined. To be dependable. To greet people warmly. To make time for conversations. To share even when no one asked. He never gathered us around to give lectures. He simply lived the lessons he wanted us to learn.

Today, whenever I buy freshly baked pandesal, I still find myself lifting the paper bag to catch that familiar aroma before opening it. And for a brief moment, I am a little girl again, waiting for Daddy to come home. Sometimes carrying pandesal. Sometimes carrying kakanin.

Always carrying enough kindness to share before he even reached our front door. As children, we thought Daddy was simply buying breakfast. Now I know he was bringing home something much greater. He was bringing home generosity. He was bringing home joy.

And those, far more than the pandesal itself, are the gifts that have stayed warm in my heart all these years.

 

#TheTableThatRaisedMe  #StoriesFromMyFathersKitchen  #EugeniaWrites  

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Eugenia C. Martin (Ms. Eugene) is a Registered Guidance Counselor, Licensed Professional Teacher, wife, mother, songwriter, gardener, traveler, and home cook. Her life's lessons have come from many classrooms—the school, the counseling room, her parents' kitchen, the family garden, and the backyard shoe-making business where she first learned the values of perseverance, entrepreneurship, and community. Through her writing, she reflects on mental health, parenting, education, relationships, faith, music, gardening, and the journeys that continue to shape her understanding of people and life.