Filled and fulfilled: Our love story with rice

“We wash the rice twice,” my mother said, “then put the tip of your finger on top of the rice and add water till you reach the first crease of your finger.” 

I was six years old when I was taught to cook rice. We were a young family that lived in a modest house. My father was mostly away because of the nature of his work, so it was just my mom and I during the early years.

My mom then put the lid on and took the pot to the stove. She pulled a nearby stool so I could stand on it and see how to turn on the ignition switch.

“Now we wait for it to boil.” 

Rice is our country’s staple. We have roughly 60 varieties of rice, although only about nine are commercially viable and thus more readily available. 

Our language is full of references to rice. Amoy pinipig is an expression that likens the green immature grains of rice to the desirability of young women. 

Malakanin is the texture of coconuts you want to use for your buko salad. We say someone has gotten fat from eating bahao, or day-old rice. And only about a decade or so ago, people who ate pulang bigas were considered unsophisticated.

“It’s now boiling. Give it a stir and lower the heat.” 

My personal education in rice began in the ’70s, when rice was sold by the salop or ganta. A ganta was approximately 1.5 kg. A wooden box would be filled with rice, the excess leveled flat and then poured into a paper bag. I also had a grand uncle the clan nicknamed Putol, because apparently during WWII the Japanese fired at his hand when he was seen doing buriki, i.e. stealing rice by poking a hole in rice sacks. There were also stories of sisid rice, rice salvaged from ships sunk by enemy fire. 

During the early years of Martial Law, rice was rationed due to the oil crisis in the Middle East. I listened to the adults recount stories of people fighting and killing each other over rice. On my way to school, I saw long lines of people waiting to buy rice. Shortly after, rolling stores called Kadiwa sold cheap rice together with other basic commodities.

Rice has been a staple even before the arrival of the Spanish conquerors. There were accounts of banquets served to Spanish guests consisting of rice, meat, fish, fruits, and local wine. Rice was an important part of many rituals – to celebrate births, marriages, and new moons, appease gods, and many others. 

It was only when I got older that I began to appreciate the nuances of rice. I thought rice was rice and couldn’t understand why my parents would get upset if the rice was not masarap. Rice, I realized, wasn’t merely a canvas for the ulam. It was THE main course and ulam merely complemented it. You may have the best adobo but you won’t be able to enjoy it without rice…and extra rice please! 

Can you feel filled and fulfilled with a bowl of the best sinigang or a spicy bowl of goat kaldereta without rice? Even pancit is not spared by some people who insist on eating it with rice! Does rice now make sense to you? 

My first few attempts at cooking rice were not always successful and I learned many tips through the years. Kitchen wisdom that has crossed over to the rice cooker era. 

Undercooked – get a piece of newspaper, soak it in water, and put it on top of the lid with your flame set on low. You can also add a little boiling water to the rice and put a piece of banana leaf over it. 

Too soggy – add a tablespoon of salt on the lid and continue to simmer on low heat. 

Reheat rice by fluffing the cold rice and mixing in a pinch of salt and tablespoon of vegetable oil. Drizzle a bit of hot water and put on low heat till it is like new. 

In the pre-non stick era, lay a piece of banana leaf on the bottom of the pot to prevent tutong (charred rice at the bottom of the pot) from forming. Wind one or two pandan leaves together and put it on top of your boiling rice to make it more aromatic. Want some puffed rice? Dry out leftover rice under the sun. Store when completely dry and fry when needed. Add sugar syrup for some ampao action.  

Laon, mabango, maalsa are desirable characteristics of bigas. Buhaghag or malagkit are a matter of preference. There is lugao for those in a pinch and arroz caldo for post-party recovery. We always “rice” to the occasion.  

For sweet concoctions we mostly turn to malagkit to make champorado and various kakanin. The late Gilda Cordero-Fernando used to serve a sort of deconstructed champorado, pouring chocolate espeso over fresh green pinipig. It is as good as you can imagine it right now. 

The prized pirurutong which gives the natural purple color to puto bumbong even has its own festival in Pampanga. Whole, ground into the clay-ish galapong or pulverized into flour, rice is processed to make suman, bibingka, puto, puto caramba, sapin-sapin, palitaw, cochinta, buchi, carioca. Rice permeates our lives. 

In one of my market trips to Lemery, Batangas I learned about palupsi. Palupsi is a Southern Tagalog creation known in Batangas, Quezon, and the Bicol region. It is sticky rice cooked in coconut milk and served with both salt and sugar on the side. Much like a choose your own adventure snack — sweet or savory or both. It is served during occasions when family togetherness is celebrated. It is comforting, versatile, and easy. Something nice to share on a mom and daughter afternoon with remembrances of dishes cooked through the years, reflecting the stages of their lives. 

She lifted the lid. “It’s done!”

Whoever taught you to cook rice loved you, the constancy of their love following you with every warm nourishing spoonful of rice. Thanks, Mom. – Rappler.com

Giney Villar is a Certified Executive Chef by the American Culinary Federation. She champions Filipino cuisine and likes to play with her food.