A DISH of salted fish.
My late father’s dining table was never without this. My yaya only changed the “ginamos” when its sauce was made even murkier by all the stuff we dipped into it.
I thought those dregs made the gunk taste even better; my younger sister would not look at it. It was fine that she turned up her nose at it; it left the “ginamos” for Papang and I.
We thought “ginamos” could make any dish taste better although we never said it aloud. It would have insulted Yaya, not just a very good cook but also a resourceful one, given the budget she had to stretch to keep the family fed.
Once we ran out of “ginamos,” and Papang sent out Yaya to buy some from a neighborhood store, without waiting for Sunday, market day. It wasn’t fully “maus” yet so the whole fish lay fully discernible on the dish, one beady eye watching me do my homework.
When the tip of a sheet ended up in the dish, I flicked my tongue at the grey goo seeping the paper. Papang was right; “ginamos” could make anything taste better.
My first visit to my father’s hometown in Camiguin made me appreciate the dish that had grown as familiar as the rings seared on the mahogany by the hot cups of coffee Yaya frequently left behind, half-finished, without their saucers.
During the summer holiday after my first grade, Papang miraculously allowed my sister and I to go with my cousins to Tupsan.
My uncle’s home faced the sea. Every morning, he and my aunt walked to church; my cousins and I crossed the street to the sea.
Having the sea as your nearest neighbor was, at the age of seven, paradise. The only thing missing was the lechon.
In Cebu, visits to the beach guaranteed a groaning table, presided by a whole lechon. Admittedly, before lunch was over, the entire pig was reduced to vaguely archaeological remains, finally into just a head minus ears and tongue, by the time we headed home.
The first time I took a break from wading and splashing around in Tupsan, I looked for the lechon I thought would be on a table in a cottage. I looked up and down the coast but could see no cottage, no table, and therefore, no lechon.
I went back to the sea, mystified. What is a beach outing without lechon?
The first afternoon of low tide answered me. The neighborhood, including our family, turned up for “panginhas.” We dug for shellfish; the adults flushed out sea cucumber and sea urchin. I filled my pail with pretty shells and stones.
When my aunts cooked and served the shellfish for dinner, I subdued my hunger, remembering the useless bits I brought to the table.
In Camiguin, where the sea is more than a playground, I learned that just a pinch of saltiness, like “ginamos,” can go a long way.