One dish at a time

The table was always ready by the time we got home from church every Sunday afternoon. The first half of the morning drained us from travelling to church and often we came home with heavier hearts from the screams between my dad and the unfortunate driver of the day. Only the tickling scent of the tamarind soup from the sinigang na baboy has enough power to pull us out of our rooms and into the dining area.
Contrary to the usual taste involved in Filipino dishes, there was no sweetness in the sinigang na baboy, or stewed pork. My mother’s actions testified to that without fail with a quick, uttered prayer as she gave herself the first serving of soft pork cubes and water spinach while everybody else would just stare at the serving spoons, waiting for the last person to arrive before saying grace.
I would remember the single long green chilli that almost always went unnoticed in the bowls of sinigang. This lone chilli adds more spice to the dish, accompanied with fish sauce of course. On the side of our plates were bowls that had our own soup with sliced tomatoes and radish that made my eyes water, remembering the days of being revived from sickness or drunkenness with just its mysterious healing powers. Even the war between father and children momentarily held a silent truce just for the enjoyment of stories over sinigang.
Whether the sun blazed or the wind howled outside our house, it was always every Sunday when we would have our sinigang na baboy, and it healed our hearts enough to survive the onslaught of next week.