This is how you make sinigang:
Take a kilo of buto-buto,
wash it under running water.
Use your fingertips
to grope each piece
for stray shards of bone,
and don’t be shy about it.
In a pot, pour enough water
so the meat just peeks
through the surface.
Put the burner on low
so the flames just lick
the bottom of the pot.
This is when we wait
for the water to simmer,
for the meat to dance
until its fibers nearly fall
from the bone in exhaustion.
We use the wait
to prepare the vegetables,
cutting them just enough
to fit in your mouth.
Take the gabi, scrub it
until the flesh shines
through the dirt and hair.
Pare the outer layer
and cube what is left.
You can include
strings of sitaw
and sections of okra
to thicken the stew.
Add three whole green sili,
as long as your hand.
I like the ones whose tips
Curl come-hither.
Some like radishes,
saying they add piquancy,
a distinctive tartness.
Add them for the crunch.
What makes sinigang
the way it is is unripe tamarind,
boiled until it falls apart,
crushed and put through a sieve.
What we use is its essence,
separated from flesh,
blended with meat
exhausted from its dance.
See to the salt, the pepper and patis.
No spoons for you; use your fingers
and let salt kiss skin,
then rub your fingers together
so kissed salt falls into water.
Dust the soup with black pepper
and anoint it with patis.
Stir the pot, waft its fumes
toward you and smell:
Its flavor is in the scent.
Have you cut the kangkong leaves yet?
Cover the soup’s surface with leaves,
As if for modesty, then
quickly turn off the flames.
Let the leaves cook
in what remains of the heat.
Now, prepare a bowl
and remember:
The meat should explode on your tongue,
coating the inside of your mouth
with its savor.
The soup should burn a line
from throat to stomach,
while the vegetables
must have a pleasant texture
against your teeth.
Now swallow, and have some more.
