Taking home the award for Overall Best Essay of Mga Kuwentong Pagkain 2022 is none other than Edelwisa Roman Gonzaga!
The 49-year-old Filipina regales us with her work titled ‘Chasing Ginilo. In the colorful account, she reminisces her fondest childhood memories in Bataan where she would make the sweet beverage with her family. Despite moving to Washington, Edelwisa still enjoys the samalamig drink by making it with her own children. Even though she is limited by the ingredients available to her, every indulgent bite still takes her back to the good old days. ‘Liquid nostalgia,’ she calls it!
Check out her full written work here:
Chasing Ginilo
My childhood food memories are disorganized like a clump of unwieldy pancit palabok strands. They’re a delicious, sometimes hideous, mixed bag of gustatory experiences, but some do stand out. Growing up in Orani, Bataan, I would regularly buy buwaya (some locals called it buhaya)- large, ensaymada-like bread that resembled the back of a crocodile, thus the name. Copious amounts of mantekilya and sugar toppings glistened in the scorching afternoon sun as I walked, ran, and skipped all the way to my grandparents’ old but imposing ancestral home. The bread left a sensational aroma that older women smoking alhambra and bataan matamis, or those washing their dirty laundry using palopalo and royal blue Superwheel couldn’t help but turn.
“Kung may pambara, dapat may pantulak.” Food must always be washed down by a drink- this old adage admonished. In our family, ginilo was the summer cooler of choice, oftentimes buwaya’s perfect companion for minindal. Originally from the neighboring province of Pampanga, ginilo was fully embraced by the people of Bataan gracing the tables of many homes and samalamig stalls. My Nanay Edna would grate mature coconut (niyog) using our trusty, if not a little rusty, kudkuran. Afterwards, the niyog would be gently pressed until the last iota of flavor was extracted.
Our homemade ginilo was rich and creamy as only white sugar and ice were added to fresh coconut milk. Boiled sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed, gave body to the drink. Gulaman would be added next- pristine white for those feeling virtuous (“ayoko ng may food color”), the more traditional red, or green, my family’s choice as we typically prepared gulaman with pandan-infused water. Pinipig rounded up the ingredients giving the sweetened coconut milk drink a tinge of nuttiness. The distinct “amoy pinipig” scent that filled the house and the popping sound the grains created as they’re being carefully toasted never failed to heighten our anticipation for the finished product.
Nutritious, filling, and affordable, ginilo was typically a weekend treat at our home. When ginilo craving struck and couldn’t wait to be satiated till the weekend, street vendors outside my elementary school filled the gap. Vendors ladled the drink in thick, reusable glasses (basyo) of local coffee and peanut butter. I would make a big gulp of the diluted version of my mother’s more indulgent ginilo. Then, I would pound at the bottom of the glass to release the gulaman, kamote, and pinipig nestled underneath. Or take all the solids, in one big, mouthful if the vendor kindheartedly provided a spoon.
Another source of my weekday ginilo was my maternal grandparents’ house. I would be asked to bring an extra glass to my grandmother Paz’s eldest sister, Lola Kaka who lived next door. The clanging ice in the glass as I made my way to Lola Kaka’s frequently empty house broke the monotony and humidity of those afternoons.
Lola Kaka was a local beauty during her heyday and was legendary for her fastidious skin care regimen. At first, I was horrified to see her fridge with jars of chilled Pond’s Cold Cream but after a while, I got used to the idea of the glass of ice-cold ginilo sharing precious shelf space with another creamy staple, albeit the non-edible kind. But times changed. I didn’t stay a carefree kid and went to Manila for college and eventually, work. Alas, no ginilo in the big city. The closest thing I could get was ginilo’s more sophisticated cousin, Via Mare’s guinomis, served as part of a shooters trio together with other iconic Pinoy treats like halo-halo and mais con hielo.
But times changed even in my hometown. My beloved ginilo is not as common as it was when I was growing up in the 70s and 80s. Its once hallowed position in the pantheon of local samalamig staples had been largely replaced by powdered milk tea and coffee concoctions. Samalamig stalls seemed to have steered clear of the once popular ginilo save for the Lenten season when the penitensya praying for full absolution of their sins and the crowd milling the streets would stop for a drink, this time not in empty coffee and peanut butter glasses of old but in plastic, single-use ones that made a screeching sound when crushed.
“Ang tagal ko ng hindi nakakatikim nito! ” my balikbayan guests would exclaim as they customized their ginilo. Nothing was more gratifying than to witness the visitors’ wistful smiles as they went for seconds, not just to quench their thirst but more importantly, to relive the good old days. Ginilo is always best enjoyed as a communal dining activity with family and friends. People can pile the ingredients high or low as they help themselves to the choices neatly laid out on the table. Indeed, as long as the yearning to connect with people through food persists, the tradition of preparing ginilo will never be totally forgotten.
In America where I now live, my Gen Z kids are still exposed to ginilo, albeit, the diasporic version using canned coconut milk and powdered gulaman. This old-fashioned beverage surprisingly meets the demands of a modern and more health conscious society. Gluten-free and plant-based, it may be considered a godsend to many.
Ginilo is liquid nostalgia. It is a balm, an antidote, to my homesickness, an edible express train that takes me back to a more genteel period. Each silent sip or noisy chug brings me to a bygone era when buwaya meant not just a ferocious animal nor a dishonorable person but a sweet indulgence to be joined in flavorful bliss by my luscious ginilo. In my reverie, the older women smoking alhambra or bataan matamis and those maidens washing their dirty clothes using palo-palo and royal blue Superwheel are giving me their two thumbs up as I continue to chase ginilo even away from the motherland.