Caro Taro

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.