My Father's Taste Test

Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (My Father's & My Lola's Kitchen, Too!) Part 10 

My father taught me that appreciation costs nothing, yet it has the power to nourish a person's heart long after the meal is over. 

My Father's Taste Test by Eugenia C. Martin

    If my mother was the heart of our kitchen, my father was often its most enthusiastic customer. He loved food. Not in the way food critics love food. Not because he analyzed flavors or compared recipes. He loved food because he genuinely enjoyed eating. A good meal brought him joy. And when he enjoyed a meal, everyone around him knew it. Magana siyang kumain.With gratitude. With enthusiasm. Perhaps that is why one of my favorite sounds growing up was hearing my father say, "Masarap," or "Manyaman" in Capampangan. Simple. Ordinary. Yet those words carried tremendous weight.

The Official Taste Tester

    In our home, my father was often the unofficial taste tester 😊 Whenever a new recipe appeared on the table, we watched his reaction. Would he ask for a second serving? Would he add more rice? Would he call someone else to try the dish? Those were usually good signs. His approval was never formal. There were no scorecards. No ratings. No dramatic reviews. But everyone knew when he liked something. He ate heartily. And he never forgot to compliment the cook. Looking back, I realize that those compliments were about more than food. They were affirmations. Small but meaningful acknowledgments of effort.

A Grateful Man at the Table

    My father was not the kind of person who praised food just to be polite. When he genuinely enjoyed a dish, you knew it. He would smile. Ask for another serving. Add more rice. Or simply say, "Masarap." Those simple words carried weight because they were sincere. But there were also times when a dish did not quite suit his taste. What I remember is that he rarely complained. He rarely criticized. Most often, he would simply continue eating and finish what was on his plate. Then, if he felt something could be improved, he would offer a gentle suggestion."Baka puwedeng dagdagan ng kaunting asin." "Mas masarap siguro kung dagdagan pa ng paminta." Never harsh. Never insulting. Never embarrassing. Just a small observation offered with respect.

    Looking back, I realize he understood that every meal represented someone's effort. Someone had gone to the market. Someone had prepared the ingredients. Someone had stood over a hot stove. Someone had spent time and energy making sure food appeared on the table. Because of that, he treated meals with gratitude. Even when the food was not exactly how he liked it. Even when the seasoning needed adjustment. Even when the recipe was not perfect. He appreciated the effort before offering a suggestion.

The Dining Table as a Place of Learning

    Many of our family lessons happened around the dining table. Not through lectures. Not through formal conversations. But through everyday interactions. The dining table taught us patience. Waiting until everyone was seated. It taught us generosity. Making sure everyone had enough. It taught us hospitality. Inviting relatives, neighbors, friends, and visitors to join us. And it taught us appreciation. Acknowledging the effort behind every meal. Without realizing it, we were learning values that would stay with us long after the dishes were cleared away.

An Abundance Mentality

    One thing I admired about my father was his generosity. He always seemed to believe there would be enough. Enough food. Enough rice. Enough to share. Friends who visited our home were almost always invited to eat. Relatives who dropped by unexpectedly were welcomed to the table. Workers in our family shoe shop often shared meals with us. No one was treated as an outsider when food was being served. Looking back, I recognize what I now call an abundance mentality. My father never focused on what was lacking. He focused on what could be shared.

The Taste Test That Meant the Most

    Of all the meals my father tasted, one stood out: the soup I made for my sick mother. After she said it wasn’t good, I cried, but my father tasted it, smiled, and said it was delicious. I later realized he wasn’t judging the food—he was comforting me, affirming my effort, and teaching compassion.

What I Carry With Me Today

    As an educator and counselor, I often think about how much influence simple words can have. A compliment. An acknowledgment. A moment of encouragement. Sometimes they stay with us for years. My father's words certainly stayed with me. Not because they were eloquent. But because they were sincere. As a child, I thought he was simply talking about food. As an adult, I realize he was teaching something much bigger. Honesty does not have to be cruel. Feedback does not have to be hurtful. And appreciation should come before criticism. In many ways, my father taught us that kindness and truth can sit at the same table. 

    Today, when someone shares their work with me, I try to remember that lesson. Behind every effort is a person hoping to be seen. Behind every contribution is a desire to know that it mattered. My father understood that. And perhaps that is why I still hear his voice whenever I serve a meal, write an article, facilitate a seminar, or share something I have worked hard to create. A simple smile. A simple nod. A simple, "Masarap." Sometimes, that is all a person needs to keep going.

 

  #LessonsFromMyMothersKitchen #TheKitchenClassroom #EugeniaWrites  

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (my Father's & my Lola’s Kitchen, Too!) Part 10 is a reflection series on life, learning, family, and the wisdom hidden in ordinary moments. 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.