
(Hard)ness
Issue 01: Mirrors
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Issue 01: Mirrors
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vestibulum consectetur libero eu molestie viverra. Etiam neque dui, pellentesque non interdum porttitor, hendrerit eleifend odio. Ut nec nulla sollicitudin, accumsan lorem vel, vestibulum turpis. Proin pretium tincidunt ex in facilisis. Nam suscipit molestie lectus, quis molestie turpis tincidunt eget. Quisque molestie mauris a odio eleifend, nec vestibulum nulla egestas. Pellentesque et elit felis. Nulla id maximus nibh. Phasellus suscipit mattis lacus ut vestibulum. In hac habitasse platea dictumst.
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(Hard)ness
Apply | Fall 2018
Apply | Fall 2018
Apply | Fall 2018
My Mother's Sinigang
Written By Rosie Reyes
As my mother stirs
the simmering pot
of Sinigang,
she yells,
Kain na!
But the fragrant vapor escapes
the pot and fills the house
inviting the whole family
faster than her words.
Ate, Atong, Tita, Tito
Lolo, Lola,
Grandaddy, Grandmommy
and my father
gather together
at the dinner table
for the dish
my mother
has perfected.
One spoonful, tells a story:
The sour bite of tamarind,
cut by the saltiness of patis,
accompanied with the reduction
of tomatoes and okra,
dressed in mustard leaves,
soft bangus and gabi saturated in the soup,
finished with the lingering heat of siling,
over rice.
One spoonful, also
tells my mother’s story:
The sour bite of her attitude,
cut by the discipline of my grandaddy,
accompanied with the
self-reduction of self-medication,
dressed in reefer and haze,
her soul saturated in liquor.
The night finished with
the lingering regret of decisions,
over rice.
My mother
still returned home
every late night,
to the food of our country,
over rice.
My mother,
soon exhausted
of burnt haze,
dreaded hangovers,
and lonely dinners,
she realized
how much
she has drifted away
from her family.
So she
learned to harness
the art of
Philippine cuisine:
something both
My mother
and Grandaddy
agreed on.
My mother turned
lonesome late night
purple haze
to noisy dinner tables
topped with
homemade dishes.
She started with
navigating busy
Asian supermarkets
to find the ingredients:
Gabi, patis,
tamarind, bangus.
Speaking in spices,
my mom spent hours
in the kitchen
to finally master the art of
Sinigang.
As she stirs the pot
of hot soup for the last time
before being served
She yells, Kain na!
Everyone gathers
around the dinner table.
The white plastic flat spoon
breaks the surface of
the steaming pot of rice,
creating mounds
to be plopped onto
everyone’s plates.
The hot and sour soup is poured over,
coloring the plate in okra green,
tomato pink, sabaw brown,
and ivory bangus.
My mother smiles as we all eat
talking about our days,
laughing over inside jokes,
over Sinigang:
her growth,
her work, her love
her overcoming,
over rice.