We just
finished the last of the laing – taro leaves cooked in coconut milk – your uncle Alvin prepared
the other day. Enjoyed with steamed rice and pork sinigang in kalamansi , it is
a dish that transforms an ordinary meal into one that is distinctly bicolano. With the oily aftertaste of the coconut milk counterbalanced
by the subtle sourness of the sinigang broth, repast of this sort was your
grandfather’s favorite.
In our
hometown, the taro leaf is called katnga and, when cooked in coconut milk to
the point of oily goodness, is called ti-ne-te.
Your grandfather taught us that the secret is in the choice of the
leaves – small thin ones that, dried in the sun to crispy strips before
cooking, assures you of the chewy consistency beloved by the bicolano heart. With bigger and thicker leaves, you end up
with the unappetizing mush foodcourts pass off as ginataang laing that no
self-respecting member of our family would condescend to sample.
The
preparation of the dish was a family undertaking. As kids, we helped in tearing the leaves to
thin strips which we later placed on a winnower to dry in the yard. Back in the days when electric graters were
not yet in use, coconut meat had to be manually grated off its shell with the
kakabgan, a low wooden contraption on which one sat astride and rubbed the
coconut flesh on the sharp teeth of the iron tongue attached to its fore. The resultant grated coconut meat is later
wrung to extract the coconut milk with which the taro leaves will be cooked.
Again, the
choice of the coconut is of vital importance.
One struck the shell with the coin with which you’ve been sent on an
errand to purchase the fruit. Where a
thin sound meant that the coconut is still young and would not yield much milk,
a low one is supposed to indicate galando, a fruit already old that is bound to
produce the same result. In between was
the sound you were looking for, per the specific instructions of our father who
was finicky with matters of this sort.
On a medium
deep pan, one next placed the other ingredients of the dish – crushed garlic
cloves and ginger, diced pork with slivers of fat, balaw, a native delicacy
of fresh krill preserved in salt, and sliced green peppers with the seeds removed for aroma. The
coconut milk is strained into the pan and, with constant stirring, cooked on a medium
fire to avoid curdling. About ten minutes after the mixture has been
brought to a boil, the dried taro leaves are added and cooked until almost dry
and the oil starting to show. Once the
leaves are added, stirring is reduced to a minimum to avoid the itchy
aftertaste on the palate that the dish would otherwise impart.
With the coconut milk thoroughly cooked, the
dish kept for days – an important consideration back in the days when
refrigerators were not yet standard fixtures in Filipino homes. Others cook taro leaves with diluted coconut milk, adding kakang gata or the milk from the first press towards the end. Aside from ensuring easy spoilage, this practice, however, is cullinary heresy for those who come from a coconut-rich region like ours. For true-blue Bicolano spice, our father would mix his portion of the dish with crushed siling labuyo, small red peppers that invariably bring tears to the eyes of the uninitiated.
I still remember the almost Zen calm of your grandfather's face whenever he took over cooking this humble yet tasty dish. He
followed no exact recipe so one learned by observing and helping out in the
preparation. Of our brood of seven,
Manay Ivic, Ting and Alvin have come up with their versions but it is the one
which Junior whips up by which dishes cooked outside the family are judged and
usually found wanting.
