Rice in life and history
One of the things that interests me about the coming Asean (Association of Southeast Asian Nations) integration is a change in the look of our money. The Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas recently released brightly colored updated bills known as the New Generation Currency, which are in circulation now with some of the old designs. These notes carry the same faces on the front, except that the faces now look younger; some of them even smile: Quezon, Osmeña, Roxas, Macapagal, Cory and Ninoy, Abad Santos, Lim and Escoda. On the reverse you have an assortment of Philippine animals, fish and natural wonders. When the Asean gets its act together and integrates, will we, like the European Union, create a common currency? What will it look like?
If we are to follow the lead of the euro, then our notes should carry no national bias, no national icons, nothing to distinguish one nation from another. Everyone in the union should have money that unites rather than divides. Euro notes carry doors and windows on the front, signifying their openness to each other; on the reverse are bridges that signify their connection with each other and the world. These doors, windows and bridges are arranged chronologically to give one a review of European architectural history: 5e Classical, 10e Romanesque, 20e Gothic, 50e Renaissance, 100e Baroque and Rococo, 200e Age of Iron and Glass, 500e 20th century. What is amazing about the euro is that when you do an architectural survey you can tell that each door, window or bridge looks familiar throughout Europe, but you cannot tell in which member-state you can find them. All the images in the euro do not exist. They are all made up, yet they give us a sense of Europe.
What will we call the common Asean currency? The Asean? What image or images will link all the distinct member states together? Common to all, of course would be rice. As a matter of fact when you look at the Asean flag, what you see are individual rice stalks symbolizing each member state tied together in a bunch. It signifies strength in unity, and I guess, like marriage, that bond should be for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and health till death do us part.
A discussion on rice with my students in Sophia University, Tokyo, was an eye-opener. When I asked about their rice terms, I was surprised that “honda,” which Filipinos associate with Japanese-made cars means “rice field.” That’s not all, the competitor “toyota,” not to be outdone, means “abundant rice field.” When I asked how they measured water to rice ratio if they were not using a rice cooker, they showed how with their hand. In the Philippines you put your fingertips on the top of the rice and pour water until it reaches the second-line mark on our fingers. My students did it differently, they put their palm on the surface of the rice and poured water until it reached the big bone on their wrist. Different ways but the same in many ways.
When we compared our rice preferences I said I preferred the dry, loose grain we call “buhaghag,” (which we eat with our hands), and I came to understand that their small grain, sticky rice was best eaten with chopsticks. Japanese and Filipinos have a myriad of rice snacks and rice cakes.
My students found the idea of chocolate rice disgusting and I had to explain what champorado was all about. So it seems that while rice is common to Asia as staple food, and how we prefer it over bread and potatoes from the West, rice also underscores many differences.
Filipinos see and eat rice every day but seldom notice it until it is gone or one is given something else. Until I left the family home, I was raised on rice that many guests found special. To me it was just milagrosa, courtesy of doting Pampanga relatives, no big deal. Growing up, I was told it was special, that it was not commercially available, except maybe in Everybody’s Café San Fernando. I remember a family friend who talked endlessly about its fine grain and its aroma. For me it was just kanin or plain white steamed everyday rice. Why look closely at its small grains, why swoon over its delicate flavor and distinct aroma?
I only noticed how superior milagrosa was when we ran out of it and were fed something else. I appreciated it only during a rice shortage in my childhood and the school canteen served soggy, dirty-looking rice mixed with corn. I at least knew milagrosa was expensive because it was grown in limited quantities and only available at certain times of the year.
When I was homesick in the United States in 2000, I went to a Chicago Oriental store to buy food. Reminding me of home, on the shelves were: Reno liver spread, Lily’s peanut butter,
Rufina patis, even Chippy. And though not edible, there was Family Rubbing Alcohol—di lang pang pamilya, pang isports pa. In the rice section I grabbed a bag of milagrosa, impressed that a special Philippine rice was available abroad. I read the packaging and saw that this milagrosa was a product of Thailand! What had happened to the rice of my childhood? I guess it has become history.
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