My cousin Edna

I will always fight for my privacy and I try not to discuss in public any detail pertaining to family life. I want to shield loved ones from the madding world that is show business since they are not part of it.

But please allow me to pay tribute this time to my beloved first cousin Edna, who passed away last Aug. 30, Los Angeles time. This is my only way of paying my respects to her since I can’t fly to her wake across the Pacific.

Like any other Filipino home, I grew up with extended family — first cousins from my mother’s side. The most senior among the cousins who lived with us was Edna, who was even older than my eldest brother.

She was supposed to have been named after Edna Luna, the original Dyesebel of Philippine cinema.

Edna was the sixth of 11 children and before I could even reach prep, she was already living with us. I don’t exactly know when she moved to our house. I was, too, young to remember. Later, her younger sister Gina also lived with us at age nine. But it was Edna who stayed with us the longest.

Edna was not exactly an angel. Oh, she could be stubborn — and ferocious like a tigress. That showed even when she was young. As a child of three or four, I still recall our maternal grandmother beating her with a broomstick. They were in a room we called The Landing because it was located in a level halfway in the staircase. I can only assume now that she probably was answering back or was being naughty. The whacking was part of our grandmother’s way of disciplining her — of taming her, actually.

As a grown-up, she could be your best ally and at the same time your worst nemesis. I chose to be on her side. That wasn’t difficult because she had always looked after me — and the brother who came before me. I was the baby of the family and she lavished me with plenty of attention. To reciprocate her affection, I shared with her problems in school (she was always the first to see my report card, which was never impressive). I couldn’t share anything else with her because as a student, your life is all about school.

I ran to her for everything — to have my notebooks covered and school projects completed. One late evening, a piece of cotton got stuck in my ear while cleaning it and I went to her — not to any immediate family member because instead of helping me, they would panic first and later reproach me for being stupid. But Edna always understood my quirks and while she could be judgmental, she was never that way with me. Her room became my sanctuary — and my older brother’s, too, at times — whenever there was a family squabble.

At home, Edna was my mother’s shadow. It was she who was sent to the market even if we had helpers at home. She also did the cooking.

My mother who enrolled in short-term culinary courses would improve on a recipe and perfect it and promptly pass it on to Edna — and not to my sister, who can only bake brownies from a box. Edna proved to be a good cook and was even better at baking.

Every time any of us would attend a potluck party, all we had to do was tell Edna the night before that we needed a cake and it was ready the next day. In a way, we became a bunch of señoritos, who cannot be trusted with housework, because Edna did everything for us.

In the mid-‘90s, our petition papers arrived and we left in batches for the US. Edna was the first to go. I was the last to leave, but the first to return to the Philippines. I wasn’t homesick. I just didn’t want to do housework.

I felt crippled without Edna in Manila. During a visit to the West Coast a decade ago, I went to her L.A. flat and she prepared merienda for me: Pancit palabok and the cakes she used to make for us that I had so missed. That will always be one of the best meals of my life.

In October 2004, while I was on my way to Rio Diaz’s wake, I got a call from Edna in my cell phone. She said that she was going to call me in my landline at home. I skipped the wake and drove straight to the house.

Edna had been diagnosed with diabetes by then. Like most other Filipinos who binge when they get to the land of plenty that is the USA, she ate to her heart’s content. Being diabetic, she had to take all kinds of medicines that over time affected all her internal organs.

Her condition worsened through the years and at one point I wanted to suggest to relatives to please ask her to write down the family recipes — all of which she had in her head. But that would have been insensitive. I couldn’t ask our mother because she was already having bouts with Alzheimer’s by then. Now, the family’s traditional fruitcake recipe is lost forever.

As you read this, Edna’s remains are probably being laid to rest at the Forest Lawn in Hollywood, along with the instructions on how to make the best German steak, a rather complicated recipe from mother. But even if you forgot to pass it on to another family member, I will not take that against you. There may even be a better recipe that I can google on line, but there’ll never be another one like you.

Unfortunately, I can’t even publish Edna’s photograph because I don’t remember ever posing with a photo with her since we are not a family who loves to have our pictures taken. But even without a photograph, her memory will forever linger in my heart and in my head — and yes, even in my palate. To Edna, you will be my best cousin ever.

If and when it’s my time to go and I end up in heaven, meet me there with a tray of your sweetmeats. Sadly, that’s the only time I’ll be able taste those confections again.

And I can truly say now that your fruitcake is to die for.