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.