Are You Man Enough to Cook?

Isquando de la Cabornit. Ever heard of this? If you did, then maybe we’re siblings.

It is my dad’s specialty. Not even the finest restaurant in town or the grandest hotel in the country could ever equal this sumptuous treat. It’s a dish that comes with a history of obscure beginnings and relative endings.

We are a family of cooks. Napoleon Bonaparte would be honored to have us in his army. Baking is my sister’s forte. Her apple cobbler and cinnamon rolls are to die for! Pasta and meals are mine. I can cook up a storm in a jiffy. Mom is great on both worlds. My brother? He’s my father’s protégée. Dad is the cast iron chef and when he cooks, expect it to be the best!

I’m going to cook tonight. Let me show your mom who’s the king when it comes to the kitchen, he jokingly said as he showed the family out to the living room. You got to lord it over my Tatay to make my mom know that indeed she’s the queen of his heart.

He’s not just famous for his Isquando de la Cabornit but for his Soup Number Five, too. I remember the first time he asked my mother to cook it. My mom was horrified. For the record, Soup Number Five tastes good but you got to have the balls to eat this. It’s a soup that has earned notoriety through the years.

How do you eat a cow’s testicles without ending up entertaining Freudian thoughts?

A taste of this soup can make you feel elated, not so much because of the hype they have put into the idea that it’s an aphrodisiac. Actually, it’s more of a culinary treat. The contrasting flavors tickle your senses like no other. It’s definitely a hot stuff.

I was nine years old and being the youngest in the family, I get the chance and opportunity to sit beside him and be useful. Useful means I get to chop the ingredients according to the chef’s specifications. Eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath. I guess my dad is no fan of Shakespeare because the heavenly smell of sautéed garlic and onions soon wafted throughout the house. Lilies of the kitchen as they are known, garlic and onions would always time and again grace our adobos during rainy days, sprinkled lavishly over some peanuts or at times just fried and eaten like chips ahoy.

Soon, he adds the major ingredients. I watch him carefully as he goes about the kitchen. He hums a lively tune as he cooks. Until now, I can still hear him sing his favorite rendition of Matt Monro and Frank Sinatra songs. I didn’t pay attention to the fact that his voice is as bad as a broken record. For me, it’s as good as it gets.

After sometime, Tatay tasted his masterpiece and looked at me with that mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Everything’s done princess. Fix the table and call everybody. Eating together is a family tradition. Standard rule at home. Nobody eats unless everyone is present. No late comers for dinner or else we all end up hungry. Call it slightly military style but we learn discipline that way.

Our dinner was superb. Along with boiled okra dipped in soy sauce and calamansi, some broiled fish and dad’s Isquando de la Cabornit, we ate heartily that night. Compliments to the chef. After dinner, my sister washed the dishes. My brother wiped the table. I swept the floor for some crumbs. Nanay and Tatay drank their coffee. I sat beside the chef and asked him, Tay, what’s the name of your recipe? Nanay gave him a surreptitious glance as he answered, Isquando de la Cabornit. Sounds funny, right? It’s neither Spanish nor a French cuisine. It’s certainly not Filipino either. But it sure sounds like fine dining to me. Until now, I’ve never found the recipe anywhere else but inside my cherished childhood memories of my dad’s cooking abilities.

I always prefer home cooked meals. Served piping hot. Delicious aroma that fills your nostrils. Aaahhh! Just heavenly. I’m actually salivating at the moment with the thought that only four weeks left and I’ll be home. I already called my sister yesterday to let her know that I’m eager to witness her baking prowess once again. The moment I step right out of the airport, I’d throw my arms around her and ask my favorite question. What did you cook for me? Your cinnamon rolls are sitting nicely at the oven. Your veggies and guinataang tilapia are ready. I feel blessed. God is good to me. He gives me a sister who never leaves me hungry and makes all my gastronomic wishes come true.

I have ventured into cooking myself. With a history book on one hand and a spatula on the other, I’m sure we can make baking and cooking an interesting subject. I don’t view cooking as a chore. It’s always an art and it should go beyond traditional. The extra oomph that goes with it matters a lot. Put a little more love and I’m sure it would always taste good.

Oh,by the way. I remember it now. Innards. That’s what they call it. Dad’s infamous Isquando de la Cabornit is borne out of a pig’s entrails. It seems like it may not be much of a food but you got to taste it before you make your judgment. For us his children, the love that goes with it makes it special.

I don’t know about the rest but I have great respect for men who know how to cook and who are unabashed of that fact. Truth be told, I’m quite partial to those men who have talent in that department. It may not be mutually exclusive but I think they are more independent because they can take care of themselves.

What’s more? Men who cook are sexy. Period.