As I
woke up to a knife continuously hitting something, a scared feeling came across
me. Questions were being thrown in my mind like darts. Who's in my house? Am I
going to die today? Am I reaming or is this real life? What is this noise that
I am hearing? Hiding behind every corner I came across, I tip toed to the
kitchen. A slight feeling of relief covered my body like a blanket as I saw my
young mother cutting and gathering all the meat and vegetables. My mother was
making her delicious pancit. A small smile grin stretched across my face,
knowing that there was some sort of special occasion being held today.
Ever
since I was a little girl, pancit has always been my favorite Fililpino food.
My mom would always make it for birthday celebrations, special occasions, or
just for fun. The smell of the friend noodles being made made my mouth water
and my mind wonder off elsewhere. I quickly remember of every special occasion
that I've ever had since I was little. My mom has been cooking it way before I
was born, for she learned it from her mom who learned it from her mom, and so
on. It's been a family tradition for a long time.
When I
came to the kitchen, my mom already had cut the vegetables and gathered them
onto plates. I watched as she carefully placed the thick and thin noodles,
mean, thin cut carrots, and other colorful vegetables into the big medal wok.
She turned on the stove and I saw the red hot circle slowly being lit. In a few
minutes the aroma of all the ingredients started kicking in. It filled my nose
and the whole house itself, and the memories had rushed back once again.
"Why are you always cooking this?" I asked my mom. "It is
believed that the pancit's long brown noodles are meant to symbolize a long and
healthy life. That is why my grandpa died at the age of 104. He kept eating the
pancit that his mother made for him on his birthday's," she responded. She
concentrated on the pancit as she spoke. "Wow," I thought to myself.
Not only does it taste delicious but it helps you live a long and healthy, too.
Still managing to apply her focus on the special dish that was being made, she
continued to speak some more. She told me that she learned how to make it when
she was a little girl from her mom and that her way of making of pancit was
different for she used both thick and thin noodles.
I
helped her stir the noodles, twisting and turning it in differed directions in
the work, as she slowly poured in the sauce. Towards the end she added a little
pepper and salt, which had satisfied my taste buds. It dripped down the bottle
and created squiggly lines all across the noodles. When the pancit was done my
mom set it on the table and began placing in into each of our paper plates. The
long noodles hung from the tongs, glistening with oil, while a few vegetables
slipped out. I was so excited to eat the pancit.
I never
thought the pancit would have any special meaning behind it until now. In
minutes, my mom had already begun to make me feel thankful that she always
cooked the dish. I stood for awhile, still watching her prepare the dish, and
tried to soak in all this information. My head felt like a sponge; filled with
a bunch of liquid. Pancit suddenly became really important to me. It seemed
like one of the only things from my childhood that I could pass on, knowing
that it'd last forever. The grin that I had on earlier stretched even more
farther across my face into a smile. I was thankful that my mom had learned how
to create pancit. I know that this is a recipe that will always be passed down
from generation to generation.
