The air and my fingers smell bitter and I can taste the humid heat on my tongue. That’s just how these afternoons are––a rusty electric fan older than I am is set to oscillate and alternates between cooling the skin on my arms and rustling the layers of papers and pictures stuck with magnets to the refrigerator. The constant, lower drone of the stovetop fan stirs the air, and I can feel the vibrations through the igad between my legs.
My lelang is sitting at the old, yellowed kitchen counter talking on the landline to someone from church. She laughs and gossips between English and Ilocano––apparently, someone is newly pregnant and wasn’t at service yesterday. The phone is pressed between her shoulder and her ear as she picks the malunggay leaves from their dainty green stems. Malunggay leaves aren’t bigger than the tip of your thumb but her long nails, always painted the same nude beige, are perfect for the job. She lets the stems fall into her lap. They are bright green against the purple and white pareo she’s wearing. I started working with lelang, sitting on her lap between her arms, to pick from leafy branches of my own, but I gave up after my fingers start turning green and I could almost feel the leaves’ uncooked, sour flavor through my skin. I am reassigned to the igad and given two halves of coconut to shred for the dila-dila. Though I miss the smell of lelang’s perfume, I am glad to be free of the tedious work; the white plastic colander was almost full of leaves by now anyway.
Lelong is at the stove chopping garlic and ginger. To his left, bones and skin are simmering into chicken broth. There’s a Rainbow Wahine volleyball game on the TV in the living room and lelong occasionally cranes his neck to get a glimpse. He’s wearing his vintage Rainbow Warriors Football tank top, faded green, the old rainbow logo from the 80s across the back. There’s always a University of Hawaii game on TV when lelong cooks, whether it’s our family spaghetti, guisantes, pancit, or chicken malunggay like today.
Chicken malunggay is my favorite and even though we’re just getting started with the cooking, I can already imagine the warm, golden-green smell of the leaves, the chicken, the garlic and ginger, and the fresh rice. It is a miraculous dish. When they prepared it was the only time I ever saw both lelang and lelong in the kitchen cooking at the same time. It was their culinary marriage: lelang would fill the colander with hand-picked leaves from our tree in the backyard and lelong would transform the ingredients into the salty-sour, comforting elixir of a night at my grandparents’ house. My stomach rumbles. I can barely wait for dinner.
I turn my attention back to the task at hand: shredding coconut. The igad is tough between my legs and digs into my tailbone but the low satisfying grating sound of the coconut flesh against the round serrated blade is oddly satisfying. I position the well-worn aluminum pan beneath the blade and cup the outside of the coconut half with both hands. The motion is almost like the motion of petting a dog’s head from front to back, but I push downwards, with both hands, and instead of soft fur, it’s the rough, hairy coconut shell against my hands. For dila-dila, the strange feeling of the coconut fur and aching butt of sitting and grating is well worth it: fresh mochi covered in shredded coconut topped with a heap of brown sugar is a sinfully delicious combination.
By the time I’ve grated both halves down to the shell my wrists are aching, and the sunset mountain drizzle is pattering on the leaves and bushes outside the open kitchen window. The rows of old glass soda, beer, and wine bottles on the windowsill catch the final rays of the sunset and shine like they’re full of starlight. I sit, mesmerized for at least five minutes until the sun sets and the Prussian blue completes its conquest of the sky. Lelang spirits away the tray that I’ve filled up and starts coating the mochi for the dila-dila. Dila means “tongue” in Ilocano, she always reminds me.
The malunggay is well underway by now. I hop up and over to the stove, peering around lelong’s back to get a look. The soup is beautiful, green and gold and white, the malunggay leaves glisten with the fat from the broth and the chicken looks tender and rich. I scrutinize the contents of the big silver pot, searching for the chunks of ginger that catch me off guard every time and make me pucker my lips and squint my eyes closed as the earthy spice fades. I can never seem to avoid getting a chunk in at least one bite. Lelang is already getting out the old china, probably the same bowls and plates my mom and her sisters ate out of. She tells me to wash my hands.
I hold lelang and lelong’s hands across the huge, lacquered table while termites and tiny months buzz around the ceiling light hanging above the dining table. Lelong’s hands are rough and dark, like worn leather. I think about how we would sit with cans of Hawaiian Sun juice at the bench on the side of the house. He would tell me stories of working in the sugar cane fields. Lelang remembered the pineapple fields more, at least that’s what she told me. Her hands were wrinkled but soft, she lotioned them every morning and every evening.
We pray together in Ilocano: “Apo umay kad' kadakam', ditoy 'yan mi a panganan. Taraon mi bendisyunam, espiritum punwen na kam'.” Then, like always, I recite the English translation lelang taught me when I was who knows how young: “Lord, come to us where we are, bless the food, and fill us with the spirit, Amen.” I never understood why we prayed or knew who we were praying to––I still don’t. When my grandparents shut their eyes and bowed their heads I looked up and around or eyed the food spread out before us. But me speaking Ilocano and knowing the English translation, even if it was just memorized, always did, and still does, make lelang smile. Time to dig in.
The rice comes first, shining and steaming in my bowl, then the chicken malunggay. The ornate silver ladle, stained with decades of soups, stews, and other slow-cooked delights, was never big enough to capture all the digo I wanted to cover my rice with. When the first ladle-full spills over the rice, the steam erupts and surrounds me with the smell of chicken broth, garlic, ginger, and the bitter malunggay. The smell of it gets inside my head and finds its way all through my bones and muscles––I can’t wait to take a bite. Once my rice is appropriately drowning in digo and malunggay leaves, I begin to eat.
Ambrosia.
The rice has been saturated with the salt and warmth of the broth and the flavor spreads across my tongue and down my throat. The chicken falls apart in my mouth and the malunggay leaves are bitter-sweet. It settles in my belly and nothing could be better. This is comfort food. And it’s not just the taste; it’s the smell of the garlic and ginger, it’s the sound of the wind rustling and the rain drizzling outside the window, it’s the cold feeling of the faux leather seat of the chair against my legs, and it’s the gentle yellow of the light glinting off the polished table. Eating chicken malunggay with my grandparents is an experience––a recipe with ingredients for all five senses. I eat too fast, much to lelang’s concern, “napudot!” she tells me. She urges me to “savor” the food; I tell her I want dessert. I want dila-dila.
Lelong rarely says a word but he reads the room and gets up from the table, returning with the tin tray of dila-dila and a recycled plastic butter container with the brown sugar. Having won tonight’s dessert war with lelang, I burst into a fit of giggles when lelong sets the tray on the table. I help myself to two servings, topping each with copious amounts of brown sugar. I take my first glorious bite. The dila-dila is sticky and sweet in my mouth. The mochi clings to the brown sugar and shredded coconut. It all crunches ever so softly, releasing a sugary flavor that tastes like the color of coffee and milk.
My stomach is full, my fingers and mouth are covered in brown sugar, as they should be. I retire to the cool leather couch in the living room and curl up with my head against one of the arms––I know what’s coming: soon the gentle roar of the volleyball game and the blue and green light from the TV will put me to sleep.
I settle into the couch and into a shallow sleep. Soon I’ll feel and hear my parents’ car pulling into the driveway; they’ll open the front door and the chimes that hang on the back will make a melodic glittering sound. Soon my dad will scoop me off the couch and ferry me down the stairs and into the back seat of our silver Honda CRV. I’ll be buckled in and my cheek will come to rest against the seatbelt for the sleepy nighttime car ride home.