Breakfast

The late former congressman Ysmael Bukad sat inside a dark theater in Heaven and watched Fr. Godofredo Alingal, S.J., fall to the ground and die in a pool of his own blood. He saw this happen in front of him as if he was transported back in time. But this was only illusion. What he saw was not reality as it actually happened. It was only the reality inside the priest’s mind as he gave his final blessing and bid his Massgoers, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord”.

But this illusion of reality was extremely vivid. Better by far than even the movies at the IMAX theater. When he looked at this reality, it was as if the theater was not just inside the priest’s mind. He was the priest’s mind itself. Bukad did not just see and hear. He also felt the whole complex of emotion and sensations, its smells and taste. He could draw back, of course, watch the priest from a bit away if he chose. But this view was always a bit removed from reality and the emotional weight it carried. Just as well, for there were realities that would have been too painful, too horrible to view from too close a distance.

Otherwise, there were also gentle realities such as you would expect if you viewed the world from the eyes of a person at peace with his world despite everything that was wrong in it. Like eating a breakfast broth of native Bisayang manok cooked to tenderness over a slow wood-fire, the tinola lean except for thick slices of white gabi, which is a local root that cooks perfectly well in a broth.

The gabi is ordinary garnish here. The presence of corn softly stone-ground by hand into a soft grit is what is luxury here. It told the priest that this was a special meal they made just for him. Corn was always a rare treat. Only a few square meters could be devoted to its planting. Otherwise, the villagers would have had to buy it from the lowland towns carrying it home with them on a pack animal or on their shoulders with the other things they could exchange for their coffee beans: canned food, dried fish, medicine and small bottles of rum. The rum is a treasure in these parts and he would be drinking a bit of it soon with the village elders.

This and the corn were signs of affection, which he had to accept not without some guilt. He wished he could have offered to carry them himself on his way up here. After all, he had his own ride, his sigbin, to carry him this distance. But he did not want to assume a patronizing role with the villagers. Charity was not what they needed. The fact of him accepting the gift of breakfast from the villagers was an act that empowered them. It made the act of caring and caring-for a mutual act.

“Ayaw’g kaguol, ‘dre, giasinan nako ang sabaw.”

This reference to salting the broth was something of significance to the local belief system. The villagers performed regular rituals to call the spirits and always the ritual involved food. He had attended them at a few odd occasions. At these rituals, the food was never salted because the spirits cannot tolerate salt. They did not salt his food either the first few times he ate here. It was the mark of his friendship with his young cook that his food was “secretly” salted now.

Neneng is the convent’s 13-year-old cook. She walks the long distance to her school on weekdays and still manages to do most of the household chores except for fetching water. This, her brothers do, loading springwater into bamboo poles that they carry over their shoulders. She is growing into a beautiful woman-child but she is to be married in a few months to the son of one of the elders. The marriage was contracted as soon as she was born. Buya is the tradition here. This practice always bothered him. He talked to Neneng about it. But if she had any doubts at all, she never said so. Perhaps, she was just lucky. The person she was marrying was a childhood friend, a neighbor who on regularly visited her household from as far back as she could remember. They played together and he was always there to help with the simplest things like cutting wood for cooking.

The priest savored his morning meal for indeed he was  hungry and this was food cooked in a particular manner that was for him incomparable to any dish served in the cities. Perhaps he was only imagining it but the effect was no less delectable. It was delectable even to the late former congressman Ysmael Bukad who relished the food also from where he sat. His eyes closed as he felt the taste of it.

He was not alone. He did not see him at first, but a few seats away sat Fr. Godofredo Alingal, S.J., holding rosary beads to his lips, his eyes closed. Bukad could not help but wonder if his eyes were closed in prayer or from savoring the perfectly slight taste of salt on the chicken broth. Perhaps the question did not really matter. After all, this is Heaven where the act of eating is also a form of prayer and worship.