A Mother's Day Like No Other

To say that my children are unusual is an understatement. They don’t try to be, they just are.

On Mother’s Day this year, I got no bouquet of fresh flowers or a Hallmark card with a touching note; no invitation to a fancy lunch or a dress-up dinner.

Two hours before lunch, I was told to remain as I was, in my work uniform—shorts, tees, flip-flops, and a stay-at-home face—by my two sons (JC and JR, first and third; second son JB is in Michigan, USA).

“Hop in the car, mom,” they said and drove me all the way to—you’ll never guess, Chinatown!

The deadliest heat was on in that busy part of Binondo district—you could fry potatoes, bake pies, or roast hot dogs on the dusty, narrow street leading to Sincerity, a small, crowded restaurant that seemed exactly the same as it was 60 years ago, only older, like a senior citizen looking his age. But it’s a Mecca of every foodie worth the name.

Third son had the menu all planned—fried chicken, oyster cake, and ngoyong (a spring roll look-alike but longer, meatier, and better). 

I wanted to order fried noodles and spinach as well but they said, nope, there’s more to come elsewhere. All three dishes were served on mismatched bowls, plates and saucers; there were no place mats, just undersized paper napkins; the spoons and forks, bent here and there, showed years of relentless use. 

But once my mouth took the first bite, all it wanted to do was relish and savor the taste till the last bit of morsel. No conversation could exist in this place. And burping was part of dessert.

Burp!

From there, I was hustled back to the steaming main road, Ongpin, and we padded to a building that’s a leftover from the Art Deco era. This restaurant that serves special Chinese fresh spring roll (minced carrot, celery, cabbage, pork, shrimp, onion; topped with crushed peanuts and garlic) has a ceiling two stories high, making one feel summer never comes. Two orders for the three of us, plus tall cold glasses of Chinese tea, capped that eating lap.

Three blocks and a dozen more burps later, I spotted the large faux emerald stone I’ve always wanted to complete my medium and small sizes at home, to match my collection of green bottles. I heard no grunt of impatience while I haggled and got the piece for P280.00 or $5.20.

We then walked through booths of the freshest fruits. Again, I stalled to haggle and buy a large grapefruit. They waited nearby, with none of the restless whining that completes their apparel when they accompany me shopping.

With my purchases safely ensconced in their hands, I was led up the stairs of an old wooden house with creaky floor. There, JC and JR order maki (sticky meat with brown sauce) for all three of us. By this time, my tummy told me, enough, but my mouth insisted, more! 

Finding our bowls empty, we filed out of Manosa, the name of the decrepit house cum eatery, and back to the long hair dryer masquerading as street.

We saw sugar cane bundled in the sidewalk and we dreamed of cold sugar cane juice. Lo and behold, right before our eyes was a sugar cane vendor. Glug, glug, glug. Aaahhhh.

Next pit stop, a store that sold dried meat or Chinese tapa for the husband (who defaulted in this trip because he doesn’t answer to the name mommy; and also because I am not his mother).

And yet another pit stop, the hopia (mongo/bean cake) rickety factory for its latest sugar-free offering, reserved for my marathon writing events in the coming days.

And one more, the chocolate (drink) factory for old-fashioned beverage treats at breakfast.

Then they hauled me to the gold jewelry section to indulge my fondness for glitters. But as I scanned the glimmering filigrees and chains, they had suddenly lost their luster (pun intended). For one brief shining moment, I realized these glitzy treasures had fallen to the lowest rung of my life’s priorities—a fact still unknown to them, and to me till that minute. But I couldn’t tell them, could I? It was a part of their itinerary.

Back to the stretch of an oven, we snaked through the increasing traffic, where the temperature was constant even at 3:30 PM. But by now, my skin was acclimatized, rewarded with a second wind in time for one, last pit stop—iced taro and black beans! 

Both concoctions washed down all the previous dishes neatly, like a period, at last, to a compound-complex sentence.

On our way back to the parking lot at 4:30 PM, my shirt was soaked and dripping with five-hour sweat, needing a quick change; my knees were buckling from the long walk, needing a massage.

And I never felt better! I felt dunked in grace, as though I had been gifted with a bouquet of fresh flowers, a Hallmark card with a touching note, and an invitation to a fancy lunch or a dressed-up dinner—all at one time.

My quiet song of thanksgiving was Lamentations 3:22 and 23: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.”

Right now I couldn’t find a single adjective that accurately describes that Mother’s Day. So let me steal a line from Randy Jackson of American Idol, after hearing an excellent performance from a contestant, “That was hot!”

Yeah, it was so unusually hot it was really cool. It was perfect.

(Photos in Chinatown: by JC, first son, taken with his mobile phone camera with almost zero mega-pixel. Photos of my emerald gems: by me as soon as we got home, with traces of my quivering, happy spirit still lingering and showing in the blur.)