Wedding photo of Edelwisa’s parents (Courtesy of Edelwisa Gonzaga)
Fairies don’t always have wings and wands. Sometimes, they live among us, right inside our very homes.
I grew up in the Philippines with my parents being the neighbor’s food fairies. Only seven rows of crumbling hollow blocks that looked like overstuffed sandwiches came between our property and the neighbors. Time of day and day of week were good predictors of what was in store for the folks next door. If it was the crack of dawn, it was seafood, the freshest catch of the day. The frequent recipients, Aling Jing and Mang Celso, would hold the colorful fishnet bag tightly as it constantly shook from the leaping fishes that seemed to know their hours were numbered.
At noontime, Mondays through Saturdays, it could be a bowl of hot meals for Aling Jing and Mang Celso. Nothing fancy, may even be considered peasant fare by the snooty ones, but nevertheless special—because nothing got out of my mother’s kitchen unless it was delicious enough to be shared with others. And then there was Sunday, the best day to get a random food treat from home. Only the finest dishes graced our tables to match my mother’s “Sunday Dress, Sunday Best” mantra.
Over 40 years later, I asked my mother, albeit belatedly, why she kept on sending a steady stream of food to our financially challenged neighbors when they were not always able to reciprocate. With a twinkle in her eyes and a warm smile, she said, “It’s all about the joy of giving.”
There are many like my parents who exchange food with their neighbors—some are able to return the favor, others are not. They don’t intend to be called do-gooders, nor do they aspire to be on the neighbor’s good side. Simply no strings attached. They do it just because. What’s the name for this gesture? No Tagalog or English word for it. There was no perfect match in other languages either, at least none that I knew of. Even the mighty, all-knowing Google was stumped for the right term. I was scrambling for an answer—until I met a proud Ilocano.
With a twinkle in her eyes and a warm smile, my mother said, ‘It’s all about the joy of giving’
Among Ilocanos, the third largest Filipino ethnolinguistic group, there’s a distinct name for edible treats shared with a friendly neighbor or family member who lives nearby—padigo, also called padigu. And yes, it came from what others would consider an unlikely source, Ilocanos, oftentimes notoriously misjudged for being tight-fisted, but among the most generous people.
Padigo is a more spontaneous, natural, and instinctive act of generosity with food. It is kindness you can eat. Nothing is imposed or expected. Padigo is that thoughtful gesture too delicious for words. It’s about sharing a portion of the day’s harvest from the fat of the land or the bounty of the seas. Padigo is the firm belief that the gift of food will generate happiness. Call it the Filipino’s ancient concept of “satisfaction guaranteed.”
As the world shrinks into a global village, making everyone virtually a neighbor, padigo’s more contemporary definition has likewise expanded to cover any food, home-cooked or store-bought, shared with others—still voluntary, not forced, and with that element of surprise completely untouched.
Dutch American padigo (Photo from Edelwisa Gonzaga)
However, even with the word padigo nicely tucked under Filipinos’ aprons, we cannot put our noses in the air and haughtily declare ourselves the global purveyors of edible benevolence. The practice, while perhaps nameless in many cultures, is not exclusive to anyone. In the same way, I didn’t grow up with the word, but certainly did with the tradition.
The kitchen gods must have been pleased with the food fairies masquerading as my parents, such that padigo seemed to have followed me to North America. I’ve personally enjoyed the beauty and universality of padigo from day one since leaving my country of birth. As I uprooted my family to start afresh in Washington, padigo consisting of adobo, steamed rice, and bokchoy inside a Coleman ice chest, and a beautifully arranged basket of cookies, tea, and chocolates awaited my brood even before I could take my first step inside what would be our new home as immigrants.
A lady wearing traditional Dutch clothes brought in the Dutch-American padigo—a WelKom basket including gouda
As if an American Welcome padigo wasn’t enough, a few days later, a lady wearing traditional Dutch clothes brought in the Dutch-American padigo—a WelKom basket with gift cards from local merchants and glorious food that naturally included the quintessential Dutch cheese, gouda, which was really good-ah.
To this day, my American neighbors occasionally bring a platter of freshly made sweet confections. The other folks next door, Ukrainians, give us trout from the waters of scenic Washington. Indeed, humankind has not lost its appetite for spur-of-the-moment kindness.
But when will I start my own padigo escapade? I can’t rely on my mother’s grease-smeared, padigo-tested clothes. However, whatever little kitchen bravado I had was somehow extinguished when I moved to America. I just didn’t have the courage to offer non-mainstream food that may be deemed “too ethnic, too exotic.” I don’t long for a tepid response that borders on feigned delight for the sake of politeness and propriety. I want the receivers to love my food, devour it to the last morsel. I’m used to oohs and aahs, to loud bangs, not whimpers.
Lumpia would be among W.H.’s last meals
Then one day, I just felt the timing was right. My husband and I wanted to bless a family that’s been gracious to us. The matriarch, W.H., was already under hospice care, living on borrowed time. It was now or never. Good thing my love for the family was greater than my insecurity. As my pastor-husband preaches, “love banishes all fear.” Off to microwavable containers went the first set of lumpiang Shanghai (Filipino spring rolls).
The verdict? “This is so good! I’ll drive to your place if you have extras,” W.H.’s grandson jokingly said as he dipped his fifth lumpia in the sweet chili sauce. Another bite and he added, “Sign me up for Filipino cooking lessons!” The padigo was a huge hit! Lumpia would be among W.H.’s last meals. Had I tarried, I would have lost that opportunity to honor her with my humble padigo.
Yes, my food might not always meet the textbook definition of “sugar and spice and everything nice.” It probably won’t induce Proustian memories, as my non-Filipino friends didn’t grow up with it. It might even be ugly and funky to some. Nevertheless, it just might awaken dormant sense of culinary adventure and liberate some tastebuds that had been taken captive by the same old repetitive flavors.
Opening the senses to unexplored tastes and textures might just be among the best gifts you can give to people who don’t share your skin color or heritage. Start with the surefire crowd pleasers, then slowly move to a more complex fare.
So go ahead and dash to the kitchen. Make that gloriously greasy adobo, share that durian fruit that smells like hell but tastes like heaven. Begin your own padigo journey. Ultimately, it’s about sharing who you are, one plate or bowl at a time.
