Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (my Father's & my Lola’s Kitchen, Too!) Part 3 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. 

The Science Simmering in the Pot

by Ms. Eugenia C. Martin 

    Some of my fondest childhood memories revolve around a large pot of nilaga or bulalo slowly simmering over a charcoal stove.

    The aroma would drift through the air long before the meal was ready, teasing everyone within reach. On those occasions, the meal was more than family food. It was community food.

    Cooking over charcoal required patience. Unlike today's gas stoves and induction cookers, maintaining the right heat demanded constant attention. Someone had to keep the fire alive. My cousins and I would take turns fanning the charcoal, convinced that our efforts would somehow make the nilaga cook faster. We eagerly accepted the task, not because we enjoyed the work, but because every wave of the fan brought us one step closer to lunchtime.

    Looking back, I realize that even this simple chore carried a lesson. Good things took time. No amount of impatience could rush the tenderizing of the meat or the blending of flavors in the broth. The fire had to be tended carefully, and the meal had to be allowed to develop at its own pace.

    In my mind, I can still picture my Nanay standing beside the simmering pot in one of her familiar floral dusters. The loose fabric, covered with tiny flowers in cheerful colors, moved gently with the breeze created by our abanico and cardboard fans. Wooden spoon in hand, she would occasionally lift the lid, check the broth, and make small adjustments that seemed effortless to her. At the time, I saw only a mother preparing lunch. Years later, I would realize that she was also demonstrating patience, observation, and wisdom—one meal at a time. 

    Meanwhile, the shoemakers and upper makers working in our shop would gather during mealtime, sharing stories, laughter, and the anticipation of a pot that had been cooking for hours. The aroma of simmering beef and vegetables mingled with the sounds of hammers, sewing machines, and conversations. My Inang Cita, my Daddy, my cousins, and I would occasionally wander near the cooking area, curious to know if lunch was finally ready.

    As a child, I simply enjoyed the gathering. I saw people sharing a meal after a morning of hard work. I watched bowls being passed around and plates being filled. There was a sense of warmth that extended far beyond the food itself.

    Looking back, I realize that the pot of nilaga or bulalo was nourishing more than hungry stomachs. It was strengthening relationships, fostering community, and creating a space where everyone felt seen, welcomed, and valued.

    The meal was a quiet reminder that food is one of the simplest yet most powerful ways to express appreciation and care. In sharing a meal, my parents were not merely feeding workers; they were honoring the people whose hands and skills contributed to the family's livelihood.

    Preparing nilaga and bulalo was never a hurried task for my Nanay.

    She began by carefully selecting the ingredients. For bulalo, the large bone-in cuts were chosen not only for their flavor but also for their presence in the dish. The hefty marrow bones and generous chunks of beef would eventually become the centerpiece of the meal, giving richness to the broth and character to the presentation.

    The vegetables and other ingredients were prepared with equal care. Potatoes were cut into large quarters. Saba bananas were left in substantial pieces. Corn was sliced into thick rounds. Cabbage was never shredded into thin strips but kept in large wedges.

    As a child, I thought these choices were simply habits.

    Years later, I realized they reflected careful thought.

    Each ingredient had a role to play. The potatoes added heartiness. The saba bananas contributed a subtle sweetness that balanced the savory broth. The corn added texture and flavor, while the cabbage provided freshness and color. Their size mattered too. Large cuts allowed the ingredients to maintain their shape during the long cooking process and ensured that each one remained visible and inviting when served.

    I learned this lesson firsthand.

    During one of my earliest attempts to help in the kitchen, I enthusiastically sliced the cabbage into thin strips, just as I had seen my Nanay do when preparing pancit. Proud of my work, I showed it to her, only to discover that it was not the appropriate cut for nilaga.

    Smiling patiently, she explained that the cabbage should remain in large wedges.

    "Hindi makikita pag maliit," she said. "Hindi proportion sa laki ng buto, karne, patatas, at saging."

    At the time, I thought she was simply being particular. Years later, I understood that she was teaching me about proportion, balance, and presentation. Against the backdrop of large marrow bones, generous cuts of meat, potatoes, corn, and saba bananas, thin strips of cabbage would disappear.

    Every ingredient deserved to be seen.

    Every ingredient contributed to the experience.

    Long before I encountered concepts such as visual design, composition, and aesthetics, my Nany understood that people eat with their eyes first. A bowl of nilaga or bulalo should not only taste good—it should look generous, balanced, and appetizing.

    Another lesson emerged from the broth itself.

    My Daddy had a discerning palate and was never shy about sharing his opinion of the soup. Every now and then, after tasting the broth, he would look at my Nanay and say, "Maalat ang sabaw."

    Without hesitation, my Nanay would reach for a pitcher and add water to the pot.

    Problem solved.

    As a child, I accepted this as one of those things mothers simply knew how to do.

    Years later, sitting in a science classroom, I encountered a concept called dilution. When the concentration of a dissolved substance is too high, adding more solvent reduces that concentration.

    Suddenly, my Nanay's response to a salty broth made perfect sense.

    She had been teaching me science / chemistry all along.

    Of course, she never used the word dilution. She simply knew what worked. Yes, common sense :)

    Looking back, I realize that the kitchen was filled with similar scientific lessons.

    The broth itself was a solution—a flavorful liquid containing substances dissolved in water.

    The ingredients floating in the soup formed mixtures, combining distinct substances while allowing each to retain its own characteristics.

    Heat traveled from the charcoal fire to the pot and then to the ingredients. Vegetables softened. Meat became tender. Flavors blended. A simple meal became a series of transformations.

    What fascinates me now is that my Nanay never approached cooking as a science experiment.

    She approached it as an act of care.

    Yet scientific thinking was embedded in everything she did.

    She observed.

    She tested.

    She adjusted.

    She evaluated results.

    If the broth lacked flavor, she modified the seasoning.

    If the vegetables were cooking too quickly, she adjusted the timing.

    If one method produced better results, she remembered it and applied it the next time.

    Without realizing it, she was following a process remarkably similar to what scientists do:

    Observe.

    Experiment.

    Evaluate.

    Improve.

    This realization changed the way I viewed learning, indeed.

    For many years, I believed that learning happened primarily in classrooms. Teachers stood in front of students, textbooks explained concepts, and examinations measured understanding.

    But some of the most meaningful lessons in my life were learned elsewhere.

    I learned patience while taking my turn at the charcoal fan.

    I learned observation by watching ingredients transform.

    I learned problem-solving by seeing my mother adapt when things did not go according to plan.

    I learned the value of community around a shared meal.

    And I learned that knowledge is not confined to books.

    Sometimes, it is found in a kitchen.

    Sometimes, it is passed down through generations.

    Sometimes, it is hidden inside ordinary routines that we take for granted.

    As an educator, I have come to appreciate that learning does not always begin with technical terms and formal definitions. Often, people encounter concepts long before they learn their names.

    Children learn patterns before studying mathematics.

    They learn communication before studying grammar.

    They learn scientific principles before studying science.

    The challenge for educators is not merely to introduce new ideas but to help learners recognize the knowledge they already possess through experience.

    When I eventually encountered concepts such as solutions, mixtures, concentration, and dilution in school, they were not entirely new to me.

    I had already seen them at work.

    I had already watched them simmer in a pot of nilaga.

    Today, whenever I prepare the same dish, I find myself smiling when I adjust the broth, monitor the heat, or carefully time the vegetables. What once seemed like ordinary cooking now feels like a tribute to a remarkable teacher.

    Not because she intentionally taught science / chemistry.

    But because she taught me to observe, think, question, and learn from everyday life.

    And perhaps that is the most valuable lesson of all.

    Learning is everywhere for those who pay attention.

    My first science / chemistry teacher never wore a lab coat. She wore a floral duster and carried a wooden spoon.  

 

  #LessonsFromMyMothersKitchen #TheKitchenClassroom #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.