SINIGANG NA SITSARON? A twist of Philippine dish

HAVE you tried “sinigang na bagnet”?
Bagnet is the sitsarong liempo of the Ilocos region. No, wait, I do not mean “sinigang na sitsaron”! But some definitions first.
Sitsaron is a Philippine delicacy of brittle and delicious choice pork liempo, that part of the pig carcass that its skin, fat and rib bones cross path. Liempo, by the way, is of Chinese origin meaning pork belly. (In Nueva Ecija we have the “inantala” – literally, delayed – but its real culinary meaning is half-done. But let me reserve that in a separate story).
Sinigang is generally soured soup of meat, fish or shrimp mixed with vegetables – tomato, taro (gabi) the “binutones” (button-sized), radish (labanos) and green pepper (siling panigang,the green elongated species).
What made me come out with sinigang na bagnet? The other day, I watched (and made my mouth water) a television show that showcased Ilocano dishes. So there was bagnet – sitsaron. When I ran to Aling Nieves, my favourite meat vendor in Cabanatuan market, she promised to reserve me some of the bagnet, which she did not quite understand at first so I had to use my wordsmithmanship explaining and describing skill. I would prepare bagnet in time of the arrival of my daughter Charm from a brief visit in Macau.
That night, however, she requested for crispy pata, to which I readily obliged by running to the nearest restaurant in the city that serves the best crispy pata.
This morning, March 11, 2012, I remembered I had a commitment with Aling Nieves about the reserved “bagnet”, which I should make good. I was at a dilemma: we just ate crispy pata and we would againbe feasting on a cholesterol-rich bagnet or sitsaron. Imagine how would the toxins collide and blcok the easy-flowing blood in us! So I ended up chopping the sliced bagnet to sinigang-sized, prepared the vegetables and started boiling the fresh tamarind alongside the chopped “bagnet (liempo).
Sometimes, it pays to think funny, do funny things, and act like a serious old man.

NOT THAT BLOODY AFTER ALL

DINUGUAN. It is a local dish whose origin is vague although believed to have first introduced in the main Philippine island of Luzon and then spread in other parts of the country based on many travellers’ stories. This native dish had for some time earned controversy for its main ingredient – fresh animal blood. In the Philippines, members of the locally founded religious sect, Iglesia ni Cristo, are forbidden to eat “dinuguan” for reasons unclear to the rest of the Filipinos.
Dinuguan has different versions. It is also called “tinumis” in Nueva Ecija. Sometimes, in my native Bulacan, it was erstwhile known as “tinadtad” because presumably of the painstakingly chopped parts of the meat – pork or beef. In my sojourn in some Ilocano-dominated places, they call it “dinardaraan”, a direct translation of the Tagalog’s “dugo” or blood.

Probably for its ethnic character, or call it exoticism, dinuguann has easily become a favorite of many Filipinos alongside the native pinakbet, adobo, sinigang and litson. Enter a fast food restaurant and even middle-class hotels in many Philippine provinces and you will chance “dinuguan” among the list of the food they offer to guests locals and foreigns alike.

I cook dinuguan the way I learned it from my late mother Charing. Her dinuguan is a departure from the traditional pork loin or ox entrails concoction. Hers is a mixture of thinly chopped pork loin and beef sautéed in crushed garlic, paper-thinned onion and sliced tomato. Cooking dinuguan is an experience once you encounter you will no longer forget the rest of your life – believe me. It is basically because you will feel elated when your guests volunteer their frank opinion that sums up you are a good cook anyway.

Whenever I want to cook dinuguan I would run to my suki ( the meat vendor I patronize in Cabanatuan wet market) Aling Nieves and tell her what I wanted. She would readily chop the meat – choice pork part, a little fat, liver, and beef; pack it and add the pig’s blood still warm and partly coagulated. I would proceed to the vegetable section to buy some tomatoes and green pepper.

At home, I would prepare the ingredients at once and start cooking by heating the pan to medium before pouring the oil. Put the garlic, then onion, and tomato. The meat next and let it become tender while sautéing. When tender, add a small amount of vinegar – preferably the naturally fermented like the sukang Paombong made from nipa juice or the sukang Iloko, from sugar cane, to have a distinctive exotic taste. When the vinegar blends well with the meat after about 20 minutes on the medium heated pan, place the blood and start stirring until it thickens. The thicker the dinuguan, the tastier it is when poured on the steaming white rice.
Left-over dinuguan proves more delicious. You cannot afford to let it go to kitchen waste bin. That’s forbidden! Eat your dinuguan until the kingdom come.

SLICE OF CABANATUAN: SIGNS OF THE TIMES

SIGNS OF THE TIMES
WHAT forebode the signs now seem omnipresent in Cabanatuan City, some 117 kilometers north of Manila, in the Philippines?

What is clear of these signs is that a war is heating up between two main players in the Nueva Ecija patronage politics stage: Governor Aurelio Umali and Cabanatuan City Mayor Julius Cesar Vergara.
A quick glance at the signs war will lead the locals to thinking that it is one definitive issue upon which either one of the eager sides will win the main dispute over the planned elevation of the city to highly urbanized status. Both of them found a common theme for their debate via slogans on billboards and fliers. In the end, they obviously assume, whoever drives the point clearer to the people draws the fate of the central issue of HUC. In the farther unseen end, whoever prevails will prove their political clout in this place whose fate has long been consigned to political maneuverings.
The latest of these signs exchanges focus on the Cabanatuan quarrying issue. The provincial government banned the extraction of sand and gravel materials by the city government for the latter’s public works projects, including the rehabilitation of the roads hit by the recent typhoons. The city government erected billboards practically in all the conspicuous places in Cabanatuan denouncing the move. Sooner, billboards also mushroomed alongside the ones put up by the city government saying it’s not the provincial government’s fault.
These signs, written in Tagalog clichés, never went across the residents’ simple frame of mind. Instead, they confused them.
For one, the city government issued letters saying that it needed around 318,000 cubic meters of gravel to finish the pending projects. They claimed that the provincial government had reviewed and approved the extraction of the said volume from various sites.
A recently issued provincial government gratuitous permit allowed the city government to quarry 20,000 cubic meters within 60 days in Brgy. Macatbong. (Gratutitous permits means, free of charge). This also put another issue on the Macatbong quarry site – hardly elucidated by some pseudo-environmentalists – as chanced in some Youtube posts.
This signs war is also, the people are thinking, a good propaganda strategy for either of them for the next year’s local election.
The HUC fire-starter
In the late 2010, Vergara began setting Cabanatueños' mind for the plan to raise the city’s political rung to highly urbanized city. In 1998 local officials first attempted to change Cabanatuan City to HUC but failed in the ensuing plebiscite.
According to the Local Government Code of the Philippines, once a city has a population of 200,000 as certified by the National Statistics Office and an income of at least PHP50 million (based on 1991 constant prices) as certified by the city treasurer, the city government can request Malacañang for highly urbanized status within 30 days. Upon the President's declaration, a plebiscite will be held within a specific timeframe to ratify this conversion.
Vergara’s overtures alarmed the governor for two obvious reasons: once Cabanatuan becomes independent from the provincial government, the latter could no longer hold the former in many terms of political clouts; that the city voters will no longer elect for the governor. (Cabanatuan, which constitutes the majority of Nueva Ecija votes, told the winning governor in the past elections. The Josons never won in Cabanatuan, in fact, that they had difficulties in extending their far-flung rural areas turf. Cabanatuan voters made Umali win in his attempt in the local elections – first as a congressman then as governor. It is where his wife Czarina got his winning votes as 3rd District Representative and brother Anthony as board member).
If Cabanatuan will no longer vote for them in the future elections, they are not sure for a win.
Umali frantically exhausted his efforts to dissuade Cabanatueños on the HUC idea by distributing leaflets, airing his disagreements on the captiol-run dwNE and conducting pockets of information campaign in Cabanatuan. This equally alerted Vergara, on the other hand, and he personally went on air in his own radio station, dwJJ, in explaining why Cabanatuan should be converted to HUC. The residents has thus been fed with daily exchanges of unkind words against one another in the air. Vergara’s radio station has a teleradio component simultaneously heard and seen in the local television channel. This would not faze Umali as, using his connections being a former director of the National Telecommunications Commission, he put up a community television station, too. The trading of words would sometimes become personal and bitter.
And then came the billboards. Like mushrooms they started to sprout hither and thither. The uninitiated became confused, instead of informed. They were put in the middle of the Signs War arena never knowing what to do, where to go.
The two warring sides would never realize that their exchanges get them to nowhere now. They have polluted the air with their barter of unkind words. They have defaced with those eyesores of signs the emerging beauty of the growing urban community – including Vergara who tried hard enough in building his city.

HOME UNDER ONE'S HOUSE

The scene of most of the pleasant memories of my childhood, I think I honestly believe, happened in Balite, Calumpit, Bulacan.
Ahh, childhood.
There was an old house where we lived. I never knew it was not ours. It was a big house with I could-not-remember how many rooms. Old house of stilt made of then traditional wood and galvanized iron roof – and we were happy. I was happy we had a house. There were so many chapters in that childhood that I could not decipher, and I never tried to understand including why we should be driven away from that house. If being driven away from a home of what a toddler like me then could not be called a pleasant memory, what? Wasn't it dramatic, anyway?
By the way, let us have a brief rewind: My mother was a daughter of my grandfather from one of his many – how many I don't know and didn't care to know – wives. Being in that situation in this conservative (prude) Filipino family setting, my mother Charing had to suffer the fate of a dramatic character of Charito Solis or Rosa Rosal being shooed away from the brood. I remember I tried to understand that scene, one of the pleasant memories of my childhood.
I enjoyed the little childish things in that place together with my cousins as we played hide-and-seek. The hiding place were the big lying trunks of mango trees, behind the big trunk of another tree, inside the toilet stinking of urine and other unwanted odors – but not the often portrayed saya (loose skirt) of an old woman in some old comical movies of Dolphy. Taguan or hide-and-seek was more thrilling at night when the full moon was on the rise. The moon's shadow always kept some secret, I learned later, and that secret I used in hiding from the “it” until it was time to call it “game”. How pleasant my childhood in Balite was.
My parents had no choice but to leave the house which for a while I learned to call ours – and I still think now it was ours if not only for the intrigues spread by some relatives that my mother just silently avoided. We moved to a room under one's house, and I was ashamed whenever other neighborhood children would refer me as “nakatira sa silong”.
Ahh, pleasant memories...

PLACES i'VE BEEN TO

THERE were times and places still quite vivid in my memory even as I am still aware most of them happened before the world called me a toddler. Take that scene and feeling that I was in a place, I think it was somewhere in a decrepit kitchen area as I smelled something which as I grew I realized it was onion and potato being fried with egg. My parents – deceased Carlos Sr. and Rosario Dangca – told me in their so many stories during my formative years that they met in Manila and I was born in Tondo area. I concluded that that scene was where I first developed my early cognitive abilities. I had returned to that surroundings, which had made me comfortable always, in my thinking of dreaming for a better life during my childhood especially. It was still graphic in my mind as a child of about three, I guess, I was with about three people older than me including my mother we were lost around the pier area in Tondo – there was a strange feeling here that I belonged to the place – looking for some kin. It was where I spent even unwarily my first taste of life, I am certain.
Life then was so easy that going around what is called now Metro Manila only needed to hop in a calesa, and that incident when certain adults, including my mother, tagged me along looking for a relative in Malabon then celebrating a fiesta. Crossing that bridge which I believed spanned Tondo area and Malabon on that bright summer day, perhaps, still echoed the click-clacking of the horse's hoofs. What happened afterwards, I could no longer remember.
One time, when I sensed that my father and mother could not support my college studies (even as they wanted me to continue because of what I presumed was my impressive grades in high school) they brought me to certain Visayan relatives in – again – Tondo area to ask for financial support. I only recalled my supposed uncle gave us a snack of banana cue and glasses of water.
Those were the places I've been to during my formative age that I still remember. The others were in Cavite where I studied college, Kalinga-Apayao ( I don't know which part is Kalinga or Apayao now after the split) where I spent the adventurous parts of my early manhood, Manila where I wandered as I worked as a laborer (helping mix and feeding the mix to the mason – please bear with me if I graphically describe how to go about that job) before being promoted as mason after learning the simple task of putting the hollow blocks together, and putting the finishing touch of “palitada” or smoothening plain cement on the surface – and doing that in style.
(Later, I became a Mason – speculative mason, or member of the fraternity most often mistaken as A bunch of atheist men).

ME: UPCLOSE AND CANDID

THE fictional Peter Pan who refuses to grow
old has so many likes in real persons, including Carlos Dangca Marquez Jr.
(A.KA. Boy Marquez) – in his own right a journalist, poet, artist, animal and
human rights crusader, climate change awareness advocate, friend to the poor
and few rich, and trying-to-be-good-husband-and-father. Although dissimilar in
certain aspects – depending on the social and political outlook and economic
upbringing – self-confessed Peter Pans often agree about having been forever
trapped in some nostalgic time warp and could not resist to listen, for
instance, to the music of their youth upon which they relive scenes and
conversations both liked and disliked for their inevitability and by which they
base their present and future lives. Often times they are caught in some
eternal deja vu stance, trying to re-figure out the why and wherefores of their
existence.
Until I read, and after some time engulfed
the message of, Og Mandino's “living dead” description of people who consigned
their fate to fate itself in his “The Greatest Salesman in the World” ,
that I began to understand my mission to be of the world's and not
of my parochial room of old music and torn pages. Many philosophers great and small have
espoused that whatever God gave one should appreciate and use it to the fullest
for mankind, and it made me standstill and think and made myself believe that I
have something to do and be part of the burgeoning communities of sane and
insane, of good and evil, of beautiful and not, of obscure and famous. As I
have written so many things around me – whether I liked it or not – I have not
spoken about myself so candidly and truthfully.