This post is an offshoot of Stef's second invite to join Lasang Pinoy. The first invite was last December when I was still clumsily finding my bearings in the world of food blogging. It's just been over two months since I debuted as a blogger. There is still a vast terrain to explore and interesting discoveries to stumble on. Anyhow, as a blogging newbie, it is certainly a boost to my fledgling blogger's ego to be invited to join Lasang Pinoy7. Here then is my contribution.
What can one really whip up on a Sunday when the the winter temperature is traipsing on the extremes? It is -32C with a windchill that feels like its 10 degrees colder. Certainly one thinks, nay, dreams it's a sunrise summer at the home country where the ocean is a shimmering blue. One can even hear a cock crow. Really, the worn out sofa cushions like Boracay sand.
With the tummy grumbling, you grudgingly accept life's freezing fate. Just the same, you still want a piece of home. So you rush to the fridge's crisper where the precious contraband of dwindling dried sea bounty from Estancia , Iloilo are stashed. The balingon uga(dilis) and the tiny dried lukos(pusit) catches the fancy of your eye. Suddenly the temperature rises in the kitchen as the quintessential seaside breakfast is churned. You boil the chicken eggs as the tomatoes are sliced for the itlog ensalada. Simple.You hear yourself whistle.Then another burner gets going, heating the garlic oil on the well seasoned wok ready for the day-old cold rice.That,a pinch or so of salt, and some cool stir-fry moves gets the calo-calo (fried rice)drizzled with lots of fried garlic going.
The final act, but of course, is to fry the divinely pungent salty dried creatures of the ocean. But first you need an ancient ritual --a heartfelt prayer pleading your neighbors won't wake up thinking their super efficient sewage system had leaked. Second, the windows needs to be opened, the electric fan--brrrrrr-and the exhaust fan set to nuts.Well, unless you want to wear fish perfume on your shirt on Monday morning. Third, doors need to be locked so no wandering neighbor can come in and see you light about half a dozen esperma (long candles) to contain the smell of your mummified delicacy. They might think you're an occult fanatic.
When all these are done, you retire to the table with a secret version of sawsawan and begin to nip, dip and tuck to your anxious mouth the dried fish of your labor. Kinamot style.