My Published Articles for ViewsHound: Do You Dislike Filipino Dishes?

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Do You Dislike Filipino Dishes?

Lechon-Roasted Whole Pig-A Fiesta Dish Prepared for Special Occasions.( Birthdays, Receptions, Holiday, etc..)

Have you meet people who hates( maybe dislike is a better word) Philippine cuisine and would not even try it. Some of them are just turn off at the sight of the dish such as the Dinugu-an ( blood pudding) or pigs feet and hocks (Kare-kare) or the smell of the dish (fishy) such as the shrimp paste(bagoong) or dried fish. However, most Pinoy dishes have no fishy smell. I am an Ilonggo and do not like Patis, but most Filipinos from Luzon loves it. My wife loves Patis.

Patis (Fish Sauce) is a pungent-flavored flavoring sauce and condiment made from salted, fermented fish. Patis is frequently used in the Philippines and in other Southeast Asian cooking to add saltiness to dishes. In Southeast Asian cuisines, it is also used as a dip for fish, shrimp, pork, and chicken. I prefer soy sauce, picante sauce or vinegar with garlic instead of Patis.

My encounter of the first person who dislike Filipino food was about 20 years ago while I was attending the wedding of my niece in Iloilo City. This person was from Australia and at that time was married to my niece. At the wedding banquet more than 20 Fiesta Dishes of Ilonggo origin were served. I was observing him not touching any of the dishes except the steam rice and the lechon( roasted pig). Later after the dinner I asked my niece if her husband hated Filipino food and she said yes. She told me he would not even try the dishes she prepared at home. She is now used to it and let him cook his own food at home. My niece said he is an adult and if he starved here in the Philippines, it is no longer her fault. The last time I heard, my niece and this ignoramus Aussie had divorced or separated.

The second person I have meet who does not eat Pinoy dishes was the American husband of my first cousin. This American was born in Missouri but went to college in Illinois. His parents still live in Missouri and I also heard they also dislike Pinoy dishes except for the roasted pig and the desserts. My encounter with my first cousin's husband was during their wedding reception in a Manila Hotel. There were more than a dozen Filipino dishes as well as American and International Dishes. I did not see him eat any Filipino dishes. Later on I asked my first cousin why he does not eat Pinoy dishes. My cousin said he was turned off by the smell of bagoong, the first time he was in the Philippines. From then on he would not even try any Pinoy dish serve to him.

The third person that I know that dislike Filipino dishes is the American husband of Macrine's closed relative. I will not discuss the detail here, because I do not want to be in the dog house with Macrine's relatives. My only regret is that his wife is a good cook and they have a Nanny who also is an expert in cooking Filipino dishes. This is all what I am going to say about this person who does not like Pinoy dishes except for the lechon and some desserts.

However, I have also meet a number of Americans who are married to Macrine's relatives and friends ( both Caucasian and Negro) who loves Pinoy dishes. These persons will try anything even if it is the first time they have seen the dish. These persons normally have other Filipino friends and have travelled to other countries.

So what is Philippine cuisine? Here's what Wikipedia says:

Philippine cuisine (Filipino: Lutuing Pilipino or Pagkaing Pilipino) consists of the food, preparation methods, and eating customs found in the Philippines. The style of cooking and the food associated with it have evolved over many centuries from their Austronesian origins to a mixed cuisine of Malay-Indonesian, Indian, Japanese, Chinese, Spanish, Mexican and American, in line with the major waves of influence that had enriched the cultures of the archipelago, as well as others adapted to indigenous ingredients and the local palate.

Dishes range from the very simple, like a meal of fried salted fish and rice, to the complex paellas and cocidos created for fiestas of Spanish origin. Popular dishes include: lechón (whole roasted pig), longganisa (Philippine sausage), tapa (cured beef), torta (omelette), adobo (chicken and/or pork braised in garlic, vinegar, oil and soy sauce, or cooked until dry), kaldereta (meat in tomato sauce stew), mechado (larded beef in soy and tomato sauce), puchero (beef in bananas and tomato sauce), afritada (chicken and/or pork simmered in tomato sauce with vegetables), kare-kare (oxtail and vegetables cooked in peanut sauce), pinakbet (kabocha squash, eggplant, beans, okra, and tomato stew flavored with shrimp paste), crispy pata (deep-fried pig's leg), hamonado (pork sweetened in pineapple sauce), sinigang (meat or seafood in sour broth), pancit (noodles), and lumpia (fresh or fried spring rolls).

For details and Recipes of my Favorite Philippine and American dishes read: http://myfavoritepinoydishes.blogspot.com/

Personal Note: I am writing this blog not to embarrass the three men described above, but to at least give the Pinoy dishes a chance by at least tasting it before declaring to the whole world you do not like it or recommending to others not to taste it.

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Do You Dislike Filipino Dishes?

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