January 10th, 2010 by Dawn Becker

Filipinos are happy-go-lucky. Filipinos know how to dance – they can all do hip hop in their sleep. Think America’s Best Dance Crew… any season. Filipinas all want to be nannies. Okay, I have to stop now because it’s ridiculous.

This is a perfect time to reiterate that one of the themes of this blog is about my world as seen from a banana’s perspective. Being Chinese Canadian gives me a different lens as it would be if your parents, grandparents and great grandparents were wheat farmers from the prairies. Wait, how did my ex’s family get in here. Switch.

Dispelling cultural myths is one of the overarching goals of my writing. In order to do that, it’s necessary to indicate what these myths are. And I’m saying this now so I don’t need to worry about being apologetic from here on in. Get ready because I’m going to be talking stereotypes, class systems, what people think about newcomers and what they think about YOU! But of course anything that I state doesn’t mean it’s carte blanche true across the board for all. It’s just that these generalizations exist and you won’t appreciate the stories, the nuances, if I don’t state them up front.

Overall, the goal is to tear down walls and spread awareness, as my culture and experience has and continues to shape my being, as it does for you, whether you’re vanilla (yes, that’s you my culturally-mundane white-skinned friends and you know I mean that with kindness) or otherwise.

To continue… Filipinos know how to party. This is true for the most part and hell, if it’s not, Filipino friends I’m telling you to go with it. Those huge gatherings of Asians on Toronto’s Centre Island, laughing, playing games, barbecuing, well they’re not Chinese. Dollars to donuts, they’re Flips (slang for Filipino).

So when Rowena and Marcus, shown left, invited me to their baby shower I knew we’d be eating, laughing, eating some more, maybe happily playing a corn dog game or two, and then eating some more, all with the entire Santos clan. Rowena and I met through friends but I got to know her even better when she decided to run for Toronto City Council in 2006 and asked me to be a part of the campaign team. Some of my favourite friendships now were made back then when Rowena gathered this amazing group of like-minded ambitious individuals who were all movers and shakers.

Now Rowena and Marcus are temporarily changing course as they wait for Baby Lennon to join us in this world. And to celebrate, Rowe’s parents, Fe and Papi (actually that’s not his name which I can’t believe I don’t know, but it suits Rowe’s dad), shown right, held a shower Philippine-style.

The food was buffet and started off with a spectacular Philippine lechon or whole roast pork. The skin is different from Chinese roast pork that you’ve seen in the windows in Chinatown. It’s very crispy but doesn’t have the same thick lusciously fatty crunch as the skin on Chinese roast pork. The meat was tender and accompanied by a mild lechon sauce, usually made of chicken liver, vinegar, garlic and pepper. My first question was “Where’s the hot sauce?”. Rowe looked at me quizzically. No hot sauce. Laughingly, I thought how my taste buds were so accustomed to Sichuanese, West Indian, East Indian, North African and Korean spices.

The buffet featured Fe’s famous pancit, below right, which tastes equally good for both the meat and vegetarian version she makes. A secret between us kids, Fe’s vegetarian pancit noodles are soaked in… chicken stock. Shhh. It’s tough to change ingrained patterns. Quite appropriately to Fe, the pancit is vegetarian because there is no sliced meat cooked in the dish. I’m sorry, but as a cook, I get her inclination to want to soak everything in chicken stock. Even if you’re an unfortunate (tongue deeply in cheek here) vegetarian I know she’s thinking it should still taste good. Fe’s famous pancit, shown far right, is the classic thinner noodles known as pancit bihon. The thicker noodles featured near right are another version of pancit, which is just the term for noodles in Filipino cooking.

I had blood pudding, shown left at back, which was more delicious before second helpings, when I didn’t know what it was. Seriously. I’ve never liked blood in anything. Blood pudding, blood sausage, nose bleeds. Yick. I know, it’s so hypocritical. I eat tripe. I love tendon, bone marrow, pork belly, duck’s tongue!! You really can’t explain preferences.

In fact, I was going to take the pig’s head home because I’d heard from one of the Aunties or Titas that you can make sisig which is made by marinating the unused head of the roasted pig. I was so intrigued I asked Papi if I could win the head as a prize. At the end I was driving Martin back to the city so I thought better than to have a lovely stinky pig’s head in my trunk. Shame. I regret not taking the head now. I really really do.

The vegetable dish in the front was a combination of Japanese eggplant, okra, and a vegetable called malunggay which I discovered later from Papi is very nutritious (upon further research, he was right – high in vitamins, minerals and touted as an antioxidant). This type of malunggay served is popularly called drumstick malunggay in Asia because of it’s shape. It really looks like okra. Despite what Papi said, you really can’t eat the outside of the drumstick malunggay – I guess, maybe if it was really young and tender, but not this one. Instead if you squeeze it between your teeth or cut it open and scrape out the centre, you will be rewarded with a delicious pulp reminiscent of a very VERY soft and yummy artichoke. The leaves are more common so don’t expect to get the drumstick if you find yourself ordering malunggay at a restaurant.

And to end off everything there was dessert, shown left. I’m not a sweets fan and I’m allergic to most uncooked fruit. Martin gave me condolences when I told him but I don’t miss it. I love vegetables and I can still eat apples and raw tomatoes, for now. As usual I digress. I can’t tell you much about the dessert because I really wasn’t paying attention. I tried the sticky rice and it was fine, not too sweet, despite what you might think from its vibrant purple colour but whatever… I took home a container of roast pork and the famous pancit, courtesy of Fe. Thanks Fe.

A message to Baby Lennon: You’re one lucky kid. You’re going to have a great life. You’re surrounded by people who love you and support you and they don’t even know you yet. Just wait. You’ll knock their socks off. Love, Auntie Dawn