Finding Abundance in the Archipelago
Finding Abundance in the Archipelago
What can a culture of gratitude cultivate? Words by Jessica Hernandez, illustration by Cassandra Balbas
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Finding Abundance in the Archipelago
I’ve been trying to cook more here in Manila. While I’ll admit the dollar goes a long way when I dine out, I found myself missing the motions in the kitchen. There was one evening, about a month ago, I decided to cook pinakbet. It seemed like a fairly easy dish to ease my way back into the kitchen and it was something my grandma would cook on the regular back home. Simple enough, right?
I could not be more wrong. The entire dish tasted incredibly bland and bitter— perhaps because my impatience meant the ampalaya didn’t soak in saltwater long enough to temper its bite. My failed dinner drove me away from the kitchen longer than I’d like to admit. It was only just recently I found myself cooking again. I decided on tinola, mainly because I had just read about it in Philippine Herbs and already had chicken and chayote in the fridge. But again, the flavors weren’t tasting right. “Something’s missing,” I kept telling myself. The humidity only intensified my frustration.
I was on the fringe of yet another cooking meltdown when On Being, a podcast that delves into the magnitude of the human experience, shuffled to play on my phone. It was an episode on asset-framing versus deficit-framing. Asset-framing, coined by Trabian Shorters—social entrepreneur, philanthropist, and advocate for individuals of color—is a cognitive framework that builds on the “understanding of the real world power of the words we use, the stories we tell, and the way we name things and people.” In short, there is weight in the framing we choose to apply.
It clicked. Away from my cabinet of usual spices and condiments, I had been cooking with the mindset that I was already lacking my usual repertoire of ingredients. I wasn’t cooking with what I had; I was cooking with what I wanted.
ON GRATITUDE
Living in the US, I’m aware that we’ve become a culture consumed by what we lack. We’re not entirely to blame. That’s what capitalism does. It primes us to want by creating value in scarcity where it does not exist. Of course, that’s not to say the Earth’s resources are inexhaustible—they’re not. But how do we better our relationship with what we have?
A book I recently read that has challenged my (admittedly) consumeristic tendencies and profoundly transformed my relationship with the living world, particularly through language, is Robin Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants.
I think about one chapter often— “Allegiance to Gratitude.” In it, Kimmerer contrasts the Pledge of Allegiance to the Thanksgiving Address, a greeting by the Haudenosaunee Confederacy (also known as the Iroquois Confederacy or Six Nations— Mohawk, Oneida, Cayuga, Onondaga, Seneca, and Tuscarora). The Thanksgiving Address acknowledges our connection to the elements of life that sustain us:
“Now we turn toward the vast fields of Plant life. As far as the eye can see, the Plants grow, working many wonders. They sustain many life forms. With our minds gathered together, we give thanks and look forward to seeing Plant life for many generations to come. Now our minds are one.”
Most schoolchildren in the US recite the Pledge of Allegiance, words meant to instill a sense of nationalism. The Thanksgiving Address, Kimmerer reflects, encompasses a much wider relationship: one between self and all that surrounds us, not just defined political boundaries.
“You can’t listen to the Thanksgiving Address without feeling wealthy. And, while expressing gratitude seems innocent enough, it is a revolutionary idea. In a consumer society, contentment is a radical proposition. Recognizing abundance rather than scarcity undermines an economy that thrives by creating unmet desires. Gratitude cultivates an ethic of fullness, but the economy needs emptiness. The Thanksgiving Address reminds you that you already have everything you need.”
As a (privileged) individual, I will admit it’s easier to apply this in my own stance on food politics— I can choose where I eat, what I eat, and who I support. But how about those with much larger food impacts? Can gratitude exist in infrastructures that profit from the land? And what can happen when a system chooses to deviate from an economy of extraction?
SEEING ABUNDANCE
Last month, I finally made my way to Toyo Eatery, a Filipino restaurant in Makati rooted in Philippine ingredients and flavors. The first thing I noticed on the menu was actually what I didn’t see. There was no A5 Japanese wagyu or foie gras or white Alba truffle from Italy. Ah, no better aperitif to rouse my appetite than this subtle subversion of the world of fine-dining (whether deliberate or not).
Instead, there was steamed sweet corn from Quezon. Sea urchin from Sorsogon. Tublay lemon from Benguet. Black pig from Batangas. Asin tibuok from Bohol grated on leche flan ice cream so luscious you’d think it has transcended its crystalline form (Toyo team, if there’s the slightest chance you’re reading this, I confess I dreamt of this dessert almost nightly).
The servers eagerly spoke of origins, ingredients sourced during research trips, and methods of preparation (unapologetically in Tagalog, I will add). The menu amplifies what thrives in the area, not ingredients some obscure food body decides is gourmet. After the meal, I was convinced: there is abundance if one chooses to see it.
I also say this knowing that only a small percentage of Filipinos can afford to dine at Toyo. But I also want to believe that food advocacy at this level will eventually trickle to the general population. If more demand asin tibuok, can it one day find its way back into the palengkes? Isn’t that the goal? To give more people access? And in turn, give more people security in their craft and in their trade? If I am able to support those who breathe this community-based ethos, I will. Jordy Navarra and his team have built an appreciation for Philippine agriculture by embracing what the archipelago offers rather than dwelling on what it lacks. Is this what a culture of gratitude can cultivate?
GRATITUDE AS RESISTANCE
I’ve hit almost three months here in the Philippines. Official Philippine Independence Day has passed, but the date some acknowledge as true independence is right around the corner: July 4, 1946— 75 years ago, when Philippines gained independence from US occupation. We are a young nation. The ramifications of centuries of colonialism are very much still palpable today.
Perhaps then, expressing gratitude is an act of resistance. When I look through a lens of gratitude, it is not falling under the bliss of seeing through rosy lenses. I do not mean to shrink the urgencies of today nor ignore the obstacles this country and its people still face. Rather, I am reframing my thinking to also see abundance in the Philippines: in our farmers, our street vendors, our carinderias, our provincial dishes, our palengkes. Aren’t these worth mentioning as well?
I think about Filipinos and their use of the entire coconut tree: leaves for roofing and to make walis; the coconut for its gata, nectar, and flesh; even ubod or heart of palm, is harvested after a tree has fallen and is made into dishes like lumpiang ubod and atchara. The coconut tree gives everything! Filipinos have known abundance. I’m sure there are many examples, yet we often forget because Western systems have taught us that abundance means monetary gain and accumulation of material goods. But therein lies the lie: it is a biased system fueled by labor exploitation, cheap resource extraction, and social inequality as a result of concentrated distribution of wealth among a small majority. It contradicts the reciprocal systems that Filipinos (and indigenous peoples) have always emphasized. So while coconut trees are abundant in the Philippines, coconut farmers are among the poorest in the agricultural sector.
FINDING ABUNDANCE
I don’t mean to let this issue drag, so I’ll wrap up by ending with another nugget by Trabian Shorters. In the podcast episode, Shorters points out the tendency for media to report on certain populations through their struggles rather than accomplishments (defined as deficit-framing) particularly within the Latinx community.
“[This] framing totally left out all the assets, all the aspirations… it characterized them, literally, without value. The asset-frame version started with their value, yet still told you about all the ways that they’re not where they want to be… When you’re going to tell the story where all you do is point out what’s broken, but you don’t point out what’s working in a culture, well, recognize you’re inclining people to think that all that exists about that culture is brokenness.”
I admit guilt to this framing in our very first issues. Frustrated with a majority of US food media narratives and food politics, I became absorbed with magnifying broken systems (I realize some of my writing yells: this is what’s wrong with the world and the consequences of our consumption habits!). I know, I know— I realized I regressed into my habit of deficit-framing with my mention of the coconut farmers. This is a practice change in progress that will take some time to unlearn and relearn.
This also makes me think about the habit to define Filipino food by its “problems.” I often still hear comments like, “Filipino food lacks a national identity or Filipino food isn’t as ‘refined’ as Japanese food or as recognizable as Thai food.” A deficit approach perpetuates a narrative for the need of so-called saviors to fix these problems. How does this affect how we, and others, view our cuisine? What efforts and achievements are we diminishing through this language?
I raise these questions as someone with no expertise in food or food systems. I am merely an apprentice to wonder doing my best to make sense of the magnitude food holds. Simultaneously, I am still navigating the role I play as someone who writes from this junction— as a 2nd-generation Fil-Am who spent her early childhood years in Manila but is living indefinitely in the Philippines by choice. I am finding there are many more questions to ask (and there is a lot to ask about alternate food systems and grassroots organizations emphasizing shared knowledge).
What I can answer right now is how I’m finding gratitude in the Philippines. I am finding it in the overflowing hospitality of strangers; at the palengke and its flurry of sights and smells; in new friends that have generously welcomed me, a balikbayan; in every unfamiliar taste and texture; in the experiences that have started with, “sige, tikman ko din and sige, sama ako.” Sure, I’ll taste also and sure, I’m going with you.
When we lean on a place of gratitude, we build an architecture for abundance.
*no affiliations with Toyo Eatery, just one very happy diner
Current meryenda: Puto Maya with Sikwate from Dumaguete Market
When my friend, LJ, first mentioned puto maya, I immediately thought of some sort of traditional steamed rice cake. To my surprise, she explained it was a sticky rice eaten with hot chocolate. “It’s so simple, but it’s one of those things I crave when I’m [in Dumaguete],” she told me.
Of course we stopped by the market to have it for breakfast. We walked down the long stretch of painitan stalls and took our seats. Here is this Dumaguete delicacy: puto maya with sikwate (sik-wah-teh). It is glutinous rice cooked in coconut milk then steamed in banana leaves (puto maya) served on the plate and smothered with hot chocolate (sikwate). Rice to chocolate ratio is up to you! Because the sikwate wasn’t too sweet, I ended up pouring the whole mug of sikwate on the rice to give that kick of cacao. Optional: a sprinkle of sugar for just a little extra hint of sweetness.
The wrapped kakanin on the table is another Dumaguete delicacy called bodbod or budbud— a variation of suman. Some bodbod have chocolate or mango inside, while others are made with millet instead of rice and is called bodbod kabog.
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Great write up. Two thumbs up 👍 👍