Kare-kare (Photo by RUDY LIWANAG)

I did not know it at the time, but my transfer to Kawit High School in 1968 was going to change almost all the aspects of my life forever.

Known also as the Emiliano Tria Tirona Memorial National High School, it is a half-kilometer walk from the national highway, through nipa-and-bamboo homes and bangus fishponds. The two-storey wooden structure (and a small Home Economics-cum-canteen annex) stood out in the flat landscape of rice fields and a scattering of bamboo clumps and mango trees.

It was difficult to adjust as a third year transfer student, but everyone was welcoming. Inquisitive about everything: my family, my former school, why I was forced to transfer, etc. I sensed even at the start that the queries were more in a sense of family caring for a new member than from any malicious motive.

And so it came to pass. I had almost a hundred new friends from the third year batch; three sections, more or less 30 to a class. All were true-blue Caviteños, as I always considered myself to be, having been born in Aniban, Bacoor towards the end of World War II.

At the end of the school year, my parents decided to take me out of Kawit High. I was broken hearted, in more ways than one.

I lost touch with the Kawit gang. Until two years ago, when a classmate found me on the internet and emailed about the Grand 50th anniversary Reunion of the Kawit High School Class of 1960. He suggested I attend, although I was with them only for the third year. Phone calls and e-mails from other former classmates followed, and I soon started attending monthly gatherings of 65-year-old former classmates.

Like the Malate chick that I have become, I expected the affairs as corny, promdi sosyalans. The first one was “swimming and picnic sa Pansol” which was as old fashioned a concept as balloon skirts and Elvis sideburns. Grandson Kyle and I took a bus to Binakayan to meet up with the group and hitch a ride in someone’s air-conditioned, late-model SUV.

Potluck, they said, but I did not know what to expect so I brought nothing but a gallon of red wine, the kind that comes in a box with a spout. My classmates brought Adobo, Kare-kare, Pork BBQ, Bagoong and green mangoes, Kaldereta. Pinoy na Pinoy. We were about a dozen.

The next meeting was in Mercy’s home across the street from the Binakayan public market. This time there were more than 20 ex-classmates. There was Pansit Bihon, Inihaw na Bangus, salad, Adobo again, Pritong Lumpiang Ubod, Biko, Kare-kare again, and red upland rice Caviteños call Kiri Kiri, harvested from our host’s own rice fields.

Talk was all about guessing who each one is. After all, we have all changed, and do not at all resemble the young and innocent teeners in the class pictures that some had brought to the party.

Mercy turned on the karaoke machine and we took turns singing songs played during our Junior-Senior prom. The boy who escorted me to the prom was there and there was an awkward moment of hello and how-are-you.

Talk turned to food. Delfina, who comforted me during family problems, remembered how I liked Cavite oysters. She would not let me buy oysters from the stalls along the highway. “Hindi mo alam kung saan galing iyan. Masarap ang alaga sa pabiyayan ng tahong. At mataba ang talaba ngayon dahil maalat ang tubig, kasi matagal nang walang ulan.”

Last Sunday, she brought one kaing of oysters from the tahong farm of her friend. Still muddy, unwashed, unshucked, the oysters are supposed to keep for at least three days if kept in a cool place and not touched with fresh water. I distributed them among my North Syquia Apartments neighbors. They, indeed, are heavenly. Briny, creamy, sweet, with muscles still moving when they touch your tongue.

Nelinda from Medicion sent me home with Inihaw na Bangus stuffed with onions and tomatoes, which were broiled over charcoal right under Mercy’s mango trees shortly before lunch. There was a great debate over wrapping the bangus in foil, banana leaves, or broiling them without any wrapping. The issue divided us evenly.

I found out that the bangus, from the Binakayan Market, was bought for P140 per kilo, R30-R40 more than I would pay in Divisoria. The major difference is: Nelinda knew exactly what fishpond in Kawit the fish came from. Kaya malinamnam.

I broke my fish-and-vegetables diet and devoured the Cavite style Adobong Manok, which used no soy sauce but was flavored and colored with Achuete from real mashed seeds. Just like my Lola’s recipe; no artificial food color, no thickener.

The gang loved my Dinuguan because it had no innards or organ meats. I used nothing but the meat and skin from the pig’s head. The secret to good Dinuguan is this: cook it, keep it overnight in the fridge, simmer it again the next day and adjust the seasonings, especially the vinegar, which gets absorbed by the meat. This way, the flavor goes all the way inside each morsel. Otherwise, one could end up with "Nilagang Baboy na may dugo." 

For himagas, there were Kutsinta and Pichi-pichi with freshly-grated coconut, which did not escape criticism, because the Pichi-pichi was made from balinghoy (cassava) instead of the traditional pinipig. They described the “fake” Pichi-pichi as “suman na korteng puto.”

We all miss the chichirya of our youth: Kumpitis—ground roasted dry corn mixed with either salt or sugar and sold in paper cones. You bit off the pointed end to create a hole from where the ground corn poured into your upturned waiting mouth.

Instead of peanuts, we sometimes ate Halamis, the purple-and-white bivalves gathered from the seashore and soaked for a couple of hours before blanching. They were peddled to school children as snacks.

I can hardly wait for our next meeting before the Grand Reunion in February at Josephine’s Resort. I am looking forward to another pleasant day of real food, real friends, small talk. Ah, comfort food, comforting friends.

Corny? Promdi? I’ll take these reunions over The Fort cocktails attended by unreal people with unreal bodies anytime.