The Scents of Spices

A few years ago, while participating in a creative writing session, the facilitator asked us to close our eyes and to smell the items she was passing around. As I reached for them with eyes shut, I realized they were different spices--cloves of garlic, onions, bay leaves and a number of other aromatic and pungent ingredients. After all the spices were passed and sniffed, she asked us to open our eyes and instructed us to write whatever came to mind, without concern for grammar or format. And so I wrote as my mind wandered back in time.

I wrote about my childhood memories of fiestas and weddings and birthdays and all other special celebrations when our community got together, worked together and prepared a feast together.

I remembered the women of my barrio, descending to the place of celebration. They came in droves, armed with their kitchen knives, cleavers and cutting boards. I could see the instant make-shift open-air kitchen constructed by the men. I could visualize the toldas (tents) springing up, the work tables being set up, and the women finding their own "stations" as they chopped, cut and gossiped.

The other men would busy themselves with butchering the cow, pigs and chickens while the children watched in awe. Some kids even helped in plucking fowl feathers. There would always be the unofficial chef, and everyone asked her how she wanted the meat and vegetables cut; how much spices to put in the large talyase or kawa ( a huge wok usually 3-4 ft in diameter) set in a temporary stove, made out three large stones fueled by firewood.

There would always be a pig skewered in a large bamboo pole and cooked on a makeshift rotisserie where it would take 6-8 hours for the lechon to come out exactly how they wanted it. For us kids, this was always the most exciting part. The cook would usually give us the pig's tail or would allow us to pinch the pig's shiny red and delicious ear.

Before the sun sets, the smell of spices would fill the air.

Tired of playing and watching, children would ask their mothers for food and would usually be treated to a piece of tutong smothered with pork fat which was especially preserved and prepared for them.

Life was good. It was simple. It was provincial, but it was real. There was a sense of community, of oneness, of fellowship, of bayanihan. Nobody had to ask for help. Help just came, because that was how it was supposed to be. Those were happy days. Those were the memories brought back to me by the scents of spices.