They say the fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
This quote does not only apply to someone we are romantically attached to but also to someone close and dear to us—our mother.
From the day I was born to the day I mastered the anatomy of the digestive system, she came prepared with food packed with love. Her reminders were accompanied by scolding that I could still vividly remember whenever I long for her litanies. One time, I woke up early in the morning to prepare for school. A cup of hot Milo that was a perfect balance of sweetness from the sugar and bitterness from the cocoa powder warmed my stomach. Along with freshly baked pandesal on the side, the faint “pot-pot” of Mang Remy echoed in my ears while he traveled the whole barangay, riding his bicycle to sell the local bread.
I took a sip from my cup, electrified by the heat and woken by the sweetness. I took a bite, and the soft, airy pandesal met my mouth, not warning me that mornings like this would only be part of my memory and the future’s gist. Faster than an F1 driver’s car, I turned 16. Slowly, the bitterness of my Milo overpowered the sweetness because I make my cup now, and the soft pandesal had become stale and almost moldy. I felt nauseous, had excruciating abdominal pain, and a slight fever. My mother, who has the arm of an Iron Man but the heart of Te Fiti, caressed me with so much care. I was hospitalized, dehydrated with wobbling legs and pale lips. “She has diarrhea, Mommy,” the doctor told my mother. With guilt in her eyes, I felt sorry for not knowing how to take care of myself, being aware that she’s been struggling to keep up with the problems she’s been going through. The culprit was the moldy pandesal.
Then I turned 18. I took a sip of my coffee remembering that my 5-year-old self would gulp a cup of Milo in a minute or two. Accompanied by the stale pandesal I bought in the grocery store, which was far different from Manong Remy’s recipe, I finished my meal with a hint of nostalgia.
The sweetness I once preferred became the bitterness of what I have today. The moment I left my mom’s arms was the moment I left home. The day I refused to drink a hot cup of Milo was the day my life changed in a way I felt I was undressed with moments and clothed with just memories. Making my food or ordering somewhere to suppress my hunger felt nothing like my mother’s sinigang that filled my empty stomach and made my heart flutter. The hint of sourness from the tamarind tickled my taste buds, the kangkong leaves and okra that my father planted in our garden complemented the chewy pork belly that I wish to have a bite of again.
It is achingly beautiful to remember the moments we had as children. From the food we associate with treasured memories to moments that we regret not cherishing while we were going through them. The taste of everything before is the taste of nothing now. Humans in general are fond of food—an easy access to their hearts, they say. My mother’s love is my kind of butterfly in the stomach. The small hugs and being tucked in bed every night are something that I crave in this lifetime. The stomach pain that I couldn’t endure before is something that I experience on a daily basis. Be it diarrhea from my three-day-old spaghetti from Jollibee or the butterflies slowly dying in my stomach, it is still pain that swells in my system like the infestation of a bacterial colony.
Growing up means physically leaving the house but mentally thinking of home. Growing up means leaving the sheltered times despite having nothing but the rapid pace of ever-changing phases of life and making your own shelter. The truth is that whenever we crave something, there is an underlying meaning to it. We crave pandesal for the taste of the past; we crave Milo for the taste of the sweetness of childhood; and we crave home-cooked meals for the taste of something we once had.
Despite these hundreds of associations, certain cravings, longings, and regrets, we have nothing but these memories that molded us into someone with strong guts and a heart to face the present and fulfill one’s dreams, along with filling up the visions our parents have for us.
Because the fastest way to a mother’s heart is through seeing her child succeed in life.
Marielle Castrence, 19, is a pre-med student from Olongapo City. She is passionate about creative writing and aspires to be a film writer, aside from a medical practitioner, in the future.