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.