Labay-tubig

There was a simple dinner of pancit canton guisado and chicken pork adobo at home on my mother’s birthday last Wednesday but the 74-year-old celebrant chose to eat labay-tubig — that’s piping hot rice poured with a glass of water that was neither cold nor hot, and drizzled with rock salt. And she relished it with gusto, akin to how she would devour a slice or two of crackling lechon skin, which she allows herself to wolf down at least once in two months. She was eating labay-tubig that moment as if she was having a feast.

I knew how labay-tubig tastes like. Except for its saltiness, it’s rather bland. My four brothers and I grew up eating that every morning before we walked to our school. While five houses from ours we could smell some tender juicy hotdogs being fried, our parents taught us to eat labay-tubig or its variant, labay-kape. That was all we could afford. We never complained. We never complained because Nanay showed us how it was eaten: with gusto. In want, we learned that everything we had was delicious, beautiful, worth relishing, worth celebrating. We learned contentment. But we were also taught to dream if we wanted something more. My four brothers and I even played in the dark, if ever we were still not asleep past 6 p.m., while listening to cicadas in chorus or bullfrogs croaking and courting. In our sleep, geckos made their presence felt with the recurrent sound of “tuuuuu...kooooo.”      

Going back to labay-tubig — for my mother, it was the piece de resistance on her birthday dinner. And why?

“Why not?” she answered. Plain and simple answer, like the labay-tubig she was relishing.

The simplicity of life is always tops in my mother’s heart. Every cent she receives from her sons is spent wisely. Her only capricho is a piece of Jollibee Chicken Joy or a burger from McDonald’s every time she goes to the town proper to buy her meds for her diabetes and hypertension. And the fried chicken or burger treat happens twice a month. No, she does not finish her meal in the fast-food chain. She splits it into two and brings the other half to my father’s grave. There, she serenades her husband. Unlike in the first three years of her husband’s passing, Nanay is now an enlightened widow who derives her joy and happiness remembering the memories of Tatay, without rancor, without bitterness, without sadness. With him, she shared many labay-tubig moments. Eight years after he passed away, he’s still a big part of her.

And yes, I still couldn’t get over my mother enjoying heartily her labay-tubig. On her birthday. On the day when she, modesty aside, could have requested for lechon — even a whole lechon! Even a birthday party with all her duster-clad friends!

“Masarap eh. At ito ang hinahanap ng panlasa ko ngayon (It’s delicious. And it is what I am craving for),” she tried to elaborate.

I just stared at her. We were seated across each other in our small dining table. In her I saw pure joy. Because of labay-tubig. In her every scoop from the bowl, I tasted heaven. In her every smile, I felt the divine. God has been good to her. God has been very good to her. And to us. For at 74, Nanay still showers us with love — through her cooking, her wit, her humor, her grace, her kindness. She’s done teaching us lessons. We learned them early on in life — by her words, by her deeds, by her example.

Her everyday existence is a lesson always to love her — deeply, sincerely. She’s not perfect. Neither does she have perfect sons. But it is in this imperfection that we thrive, that we get to celebrate our oneness as family.

When few morsels of rice were left in the bowl, she scooped them still. To the last bit. The almost pasty soup she relished still. I was just staring at her. In awe. In love.

On her 74th birthday, my mother was in her happiest  mood eating labay-tubig.  *

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(For your new beginnings, e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com. I’m also on Twitter @bum_tenorio and Instagram @bumtenorio. Have a blessed Sunday!)