My Tita Bea’s voice bounces through the air as she scurries toward us from the end of the hallway. Mum manages to pull off her last sandal, before her little sister burrows herself against her in an affectionate embrace. When she pulls away, she gives Mum a small slap.
“Hey!” Mum exclaims.
“Why are you always solate?”
“We were waiting for this to finish baking,” Mum replies, gesturing toward the baked cassava in my Dad’s arms.
That isn’t true. The cassava was finished, and growing cold atop the kitchen benchwaybefore they all came downstairs.
Dad leans in to embrace Tita Bea, saving Mum from her further wrath. She exclaims that he’s gained a lot of muscle since the last time she saw him, to which he proudly boasts of the new home gym in our garage that he’d set up for the New Year. I step forward, beaming as Tita Bea wraps her arms around me. We’re both the same height, so she doesn’t have to reach upward like she does with Mum or Ria.
“I love your dress today!” I compliment. Today, Tita Bea is dressed in a maroon dress that complements her deep complexion, and her shoulder-length hair is pinned up in a low bun. Everything about her is so picturesque, like a 50s starlet. Tita Bea always manages to pull it off so gracefully.
“Aw thank you Lene! I love your top, and your new hair, it’ssopretty” she coos, grazing her fingers against my hair. Pride blooms in my chest. There’s something about having your Titas compliment you that feels as though you’ve won the lottery.
I move to the side so she can greet Ria. I hear her pass the same sentiment about Ria’s dress -mydress - before we make our way through the archway that leads into the combined living room and kitchen space.
Most of the guests are already here, scattered across the space, occupying the couches and dining room chairs. My eyes jump toward the kitchen counter, where the untouched food lies. Immediately, my stomach writhes in protest.
Before we can think of eating, Ria and I begin our rounds to each of our Titas, Titos, Lola and Lolo and Kuyas, greeting all of them withmano po- the elderly sentiment that involves pressing their knuckles against our forehead as a sign of respect.
“You’re so big, Lene!” Lola Evangeline declares as she pulls me forward for a cheek kiss. I smile, trying to decipher whether she means I’m big because I’ve gained more weight, or because I’m getting older.
“Ang taba mo![3]” she adds, poking at my stomach. Nevermind then. I wasn’t petitely built like my cousin Stephanie, nor slender bodied like Ria, and apparently that’s evident to my relatives, but it doesn’t matter so much to me. When comments like that come my way, I just let it fly through my ear, and drain itself right out the other.
Sitting at the dining table is Marlon’s family - Tita Regina and Tito Daniel - yet the devil himself is nowhere to be seen. Relief washes over me.
Tita Regina’s brown eyes light up immediately when she spots me, and she is quick to pull me in for an affectionate embrace. The floral scent of her signature perfume fills my nostrils pleasantly.
“Ang ganda mo[4]!” she exclaims, her blue-manicured fingers brushing my hair gently. I smile kindly. While her son is my least favourite person in the world, his parents are among one of the loveliest. I’ve always gotten along easy with Tita Regina, with her youthful and feisty personality. If only her son was as tolerable as she is.
I go to hug Tito Daniel, who is a little more quiet but has a welcoming smile.
“Have you said hi to Marlon yet?” Tita Regina asks, a cheeky undertone springing from her words.
God no, if I can help it.
To her, I say nonchalantly, “Not yet, maybe later.”
Hopefully never.
Once Ria and I are certain we’ve greeted all our relatives and guests, we beeline toward the kitchen. The silver trays are splayed out invitingly, coaxing us toward them.
Lola Evangeline settles herself behind the counter to say grace. Then, once prayer is done, the literal hunger games begin. It’s a scuffle, getting to the cutlery, hands grabbing with no manners, and it’s forgotten that we’re family. An uneven linebegins at the dishes. I end up at the back of the line, while Ria somehow finds herself at the front, and Mum and Dad in the middle.
After what feels like days andyearsof hunger, the line eventually dissipates and merges at the food. I reach the dishes in no time, and my brain malfunctions at all the variety.
Chicken adobo, pork asado, pancit canton….
Tita Lucillia has truly outdone herself this time, practically cooking up her own personal restaurant. While all dishes inevitably pull at my stomach, there’soneparticular dish my body has been aching most for.
Palabok.
My gaze bounces across all the dishes, until it finally lands ontheone. My body practically floats mindlessly toward it. I stretch my fingers out, hungrily reaching for the tongs, until another pair of hands swiftly grab it first from the other side of the kitchen counter, leaving my own suspended mid air.
What?
My neck shoots up, eyes searching for the culprit.
