Every Bite Felt Like a Hug

 Every Bite Felt Like a Hug

by Ms. Eugenia C. Martin 

 There are days when I miss my mother more than usual. Sometimes it happens unexpectedly. A familiar aroma drifts from a nearby kitchen. A favorite dish appears at a family gathering. A pot of soup simmers on the stove. And suddenly, I am transported back to a different time. Back to our home. Back to our kitchen. Back to the dining table where so many ordinary yet meaningful moments unfolded. My mother passed away many years ago, but there are moments when I still feel close to her. Surprisingly, many of those moments happen while eating.

A piece of lumpiang shanghai.

A serving of lumpiang hubad.

Freshly cooked okoy or camaron rebusado.

A hearty helping of menudo—or as we often called it, woknatoy.

A spoonful of pininyahang manok and pork hamonado.

A platter of sweet and sour lapu-lapu prepared for special occasions.

A slice of her homemade leche flan.

Or one of the many varieties of pansit she loved to prepare.

With every bite comes a memory. And with every memory comes a feeling. Comfort. Warmth. Safety. Love.

Strangely, some of my strongest food memories are not attached to elaborate dishes at all. Sometimes, they begin with rice. Not just any rice, but rice cooked the way my mother prepared it—soft but not mushy, fluffy but not dry, each grain distinct yet tender. Occasionally, she would add pandan leaves to the pot, filling the kitchen with a gentle fragrance that made an ordinary meal feel special. As a child, I never thought much about it. Rice simply appeared on the table.

Today, I appreciate the care behind it—the washing, the measuring, the timing, and the quiet expertise required to get it just right. A well-cooked pot of rice was one of my mother's everyday gifts to the family. Simple. Consistent. Dependable. Much like her love.

Some food memories belong to my Nanay. Others belong to my Daddy.

Whenever I encounter adobo, tokwa't baboy, chicken mami, puchero, burong mustasa, or burong kanin na may isda, I immediately think of him. He genuinely enjoyed food. Every meal was something he looked forward to. He appreciated whatever was served and never took food for granted. Generous by nature, he believed there was always enough to share and made sure that anyone who visited our home was welcomed with a meal and never left hungry.

One of my most vivid memories involves crispy pata. Long before it reached the dining table, I watched my father prepare the pork leg. As part of the process, it would sometimes hang in our family shoe shop to air-dry. To others, it might have seemed unusual. To me, it was simply part of life. I can still remember the savory aroma lingering in the air. As a child, I did not fully understand what my father was doing. I only knew that something delicious was being prepared and that everyone was looking forward to it.

When the crispy pata was finally ready, it did not arrive at the table alone. My Tita and Lola had already prepared the homemade atchara. My father carefully mixed his favorite spicy vinegar sawsawan, adjusting the balance of vinegar, onions, and chili according to his taste. My mother made sure everything else was ready and that everyone had a place at the table.

No one announced it. No one assigned roles. Everyone simply knew what to do. The meal came together the same way families often do—one small act of care at a time. Looking back, I realize that what I remember is not only the crispy pata itself. I remember my father's excitement. I remember my Tita and Lola preparing the atchara. I remember my mother moving between the kitchen and the dining area, making sure everyone was comfortable. I remember the conversations, the laughter, and the anticipation of eating together. What appeared to be a simple family meal was actually many expressions of love woven together.

Perhaps that is why food tastes different when it is prepared by people who care for one another. Every dish carries the fingerprints of those who made it. Every recipe carries a story. And every shared meal becomes more than food. It becomes a memory.

As a counselor, I have learned that memories are often connected to our senses. A song can bring back an entire season of life. A photograph can awaken emotions long forgotten. Food works much the same way. A familiar taste can unlock years of memories. A familiar aroma can transport us across decades. For me, food has become one of the ways I remember. Not just the dishes themselves, but the people behind them. The sight of my mother in her floral duster. My father's excitement over a favorite meal. The sound of family conversations around the table. The laughter. The stories. The feeling of being surrounded by people who cared.

Looking back, I realize that my parents were feeding more than our bodies. They were creating memories. Building traditions. Creating a sense of home that would remain with me long after they were gone.

Today, when I prepare some of the dishes they loved, I am not simply following a recipe. I am revisiting a relationship. The taste reminds me of their presence. The aroma reminds me of their care. The familiar flavors remind me that I was deeply loved. Perhaps that is why certain foods are called comfort foods. They do more than satisfy hunger. They reconnect us with the people who shaped our lives.

Today, when I think about my parents' cooking, I realize that what I miss most is not the food itself. It is the people behind it. And yet, somehow, through the recipes they left behind and the memories attached to them, a part of them remains. In those quiet moments, while eating a familiar dish, I sometimes feel what I felt as a child. Comforted. Safe. Loved. As if they were still near. As if every bite felt like a hug.

 

  #LessonsFromMyMothersKitchen #TheKitchenClassroom #EugeniaWrites  

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Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (my Father's & my Lola’s Kitchen, Too!) Part 7 is a reflection series on life, learning, family, and the wisdom hidden in ordinary moments. Sometimes the most important lessons are not found in recipes, but in the people who teach us how to grow. New reflections are published every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. 

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.