Kitchen Kwento

Butanding and Bicol Express

Mount Mayon rises like a dream in Donsol. 

Bicol is my father’s childhood region. It is coconut country. It is sili country. It is an alchemy of flavors, with dishes of smoky coconut milk laced with birdseye chilis. But while I dreamt of laing and pinanggat and chili-rich Bicol Express, my father dreamt of swimming next to the world’s largest fish known to haunt the waters off Donsol. So our family did it all, spending a week retracing hometowns, tracking the butanding, and tasting some of the Philippine's best food along the way.

Daet. My father grew up in the town of Daet among the movie reels and folding seats of his family's business and the first theaters in town, the Cine Sol and Venus Theater. While the theaters no longer stand, Daet's somber coastline comes alive with surfers and fishermen with their nets cast wide to the sea. I remember that town in snapshots - dinner with my first and second cousins at the beachside restaurant, Kusina Ni Angel, the heavy nighttime rains, a golden afternoon where an old man passed by on his bicycle, his hands clutching heart-shaped gabi (taro) leaves like a quivering edible bouquet. 

Rice paddies along the roadside

Okra reigns supreme at Kusina Ni Angel.

Apuao Island. It seems there is always one more island dubbed "the next Boracay" after that tiny and overdeveloped slice of heaven, blessed (or cursed?) by powder-fine white sand. Apuao was eyed by developers as a potential tourist mecca to rival Boracay, but the foreign-built resort was abandoned and its private airstrip overgrown and now grazed upon by a dozen or so cattle and sheep.

With just 700 residents, Apuao is still its own world and home to a rare silence. There are no cars, no tricycles, no jeepneys, and little electricity, just the wash of ocean waves and put-put of bangkas occasionally coming and going. Drinking water is collected from a neighbor island. I don't think I even heard a single karaoke bar in the village. 

We stayed in a home where a feisty 92-year-old-lola and a handful of local women prepared meals from the land and sea - simple and delicious boiled kamote, malunggay with fresh crabs, native chicken and green papaya tinola, and tiny clams so fresh the living creatures squirted water in my eyes before they were turned into soup.

 My first time seeing kamote, or cassava root, before harvest.

Fresh boiled kamote. 

Laing, gabi leaves cooked down to softness with coconut milk.

The Road to Donsol. There is no use stopping for Doritos or Coca-Cola when an abundance of small vendors selling fresh delicacies line the road. We passed by steaming hot boiled corn, yellow watermelons, pili nuts, salted eggs, jackfruit and lanzones...I fell in love with Belle's stall of fresh puto (steamed rice cakes) just outside the entrance to the town of Guinobatan. And lucky for us, our family friends in Legaspi city run a spot called Colonial Cafe and invited us in to sample their innovative take on Bicol's bold flavors, building off a palette of pili nuts, hot sili, coconut, and malunggay.      

Belle preparing a fresh batch of puto. She stuffs ground rice into coconut shells, fills them with caramelized macapuno (baby coconut) and steams them in banana leaves.

Don't be fooled by the neopolitan ice cream appearance - this is Colonial Cafe's very own pili nut, burnt rice, and sili ice cream.

Donsol. The beautiful, sleepy town of Donsol now has throngs of curious whaleshark pilgrims come from all over the world, filling the tiny roads with blundering SUVs and the waves with butanding-sighting boats. We first made it to the "interaction center," where we watched videos on how to safely meet with the gentle fish, then jumped onto a bangka headed into deeper waters.

It was like searching for unicorns. Nothing was sighted for over 3 hours. We began to take naps. Then a spotter called out that a whaleshark was approaching. And then another. And then another. I'm sorry to say all the eco-tourism precautions were thrown out the window - 6 people per fish quickly grew into 15 people leaping wildly into the water - but yes, being in the presence of a big-as-a-bus fish was breathtaking. 

How to talk about a creature that is a living superlative? I remember watery silence and how my entire range of vision became the silver blue, wildly patterned back of a fish. I remember feeling the most subtle current cross my skin as we came close enough to touch (but I wouldn't touch). The tiny eyes and wide, stretching mouth. The long silver fish flanking its gills. When the butanding returned to depths to deep for us to follow, we all surfaced, gasping in 4 different languages about what we had just witnessed and all unable to describe it. Maybe my dad's smile can.

P is for Palengke

On the road to the local palengke (market)

Mangaldan, Pangasinan. At 5 am, the tinny, insistent noise of a cellphone alarm jarred me from fitful dreams. My sister and I slowly crawled out from under a cocoon of blue-green mosquito nets, and readied ourselves in the dim house, the same house our mother lived in as a child. The neighbor, Ate Lidia was leaving at 6 for the palengke (market), and I had asked if we could please, please join her. After sampling the delicious cuisine of my mother's hometown, I wanted to see where it all came from.

Mom, sister, Ate Lidia, my cousin Jan, and I piled into a tricycle taxi. Usually the province felt like the temperature of warm stew, but on this morning the air was cool and sharp on my skin. My loose hair whipped in the wind as the motorcycle sped us down the near-empty road, past vibrant green rice fields, and through the bumpy streets of town.

We stopped at an intersection where rainbows spilled onto concrete. Shoppers laden with bags sifted through displayed vegetables. Hands among long green beans, red-skinned onions, and glossy purple eggplants, some vegetables displayed in baskets, others in brilliant piles, no table needed. Lidia easily sought out the choicest produce. Walking through - grazing the market, it felt like - she squeezed a bean between her fingers to test it for firmness, and examined a tomato's mottled skin. With her generous smile, she commented to our mom which are pangit (ugly) and which were good to eat.

Bangus, the pride of Pangasinan

After tying up shopping bags full of vegetables to the back of the motorcycle, we traveled towards the river and the fishmarket, to find bangus and other fresh fish. Bangus, a tender, finely-boned milkfish, is the pride and lifeblood of the region. Pangasinan's bangus is said to be the best-tasting in the world.

And find it we did. The bangus were just plucked from the waters, their smooth silver bodies supple and eyes clear as marbles. These fish were a far cry from the plastic-wrapped, frozen filets I remembered from childhood. Haggling men and women counted out fish and coins. Shrimp and tiger prawns wriggled furiously inside hot pink and blue plastic tubs. Fishermen shattered blocks of ice with bolos and hammers into steaming white fragments. Old women and young girls balanced round, woven bilaos on their hips, full of green-and-yellow kalamansi and red sili, the freshest flavorings to complement fish.

Back home, Lidia smashed ginger and garlic with the side of a knife. Scales were scraped off from the fish and flew all over the kitchen, the innards plucked out from slit open bellies. Although she had a gas burner, our Lola Remy preferred the clay stove out in the back. Fed by bits of wood and coconut charcoal, that stove imparted a delicious, subtle smokiness to everything cooked over it.

With sinigang on the menu, I was excited to see how they would make the sour tamarind base. We had already gone to the market in the morning, hand-selected vegetables and fresh fish. What unique ingredients would be added to the pot, I wondered? So it was with some surprise when I saw the familiar yellow Mama Sita packet with instant powdered sinigang base appear. It was a healthy reality check for the Fil-Am-romanticizing-the-province mindset the morning had put me in.

In less than 20 minutes, a meal of fresh squash blossoms and tendrils, sinigang (a one-pot soup soured with tamarind), and garlic sauteed prawns was ready. Everything was so fresh there was no need to overcook or overpower the delicate flavors. I could honestly say everything was delicious (somehow even the instant Mama Sita sinigang tasted better than I ever remembered it). With each mouthful, I tasted the harvest of the water and land, the smokiness of the cooking fire, and felt that somewhere, in my belly, I could sense my mother's world a little more deeply than before.

We left the province that afternoon for a 12-hour drive back to Manila. With sleepy eyes I watched the town fade away through the car windows, become replaced by a ribbon of roadside stalls hawking fresh goat, salted eggs, and jars of pink shrimp paste. At one point, I woke up as we passed nearly a mile of stands selling nothing but yellow and red watermelons, cut into rounds and hanging from twine to display the colors. The road itself was a long, winding stretch of palengke.

Haunted by the inescapable US fastfood chain

Post-Palengke. The scenery closer to Manila was a sharp contract to the palengke. We passed dozens of McDonald's, Pizza Hut, Chevron stations, and Starbucks, where my dad stopped for a tall espresso that tasted, well, just like the ones in California. I thought about how even on vacation thousands of miles away, it seemed impossible to escape these familiar glowing logos. They served as reminders of the ways US multinationals have commodified and disrupted foodways both within and far outside its own borders.

And I couldn't help but think of the Bay Area I left behind. Considered a hub for American foodiedom, its growing flurry of street food carts, artisan products, and food blogs fill me with excitement. But still, I couldn't shake the feeling that in all the "buzz" it is easy to forget that these, too, are not new. The intimacy of the palengke is in my roots, in all our roots. Fresh, seasonal, and local food is not a concept, and its more than resistance to a commodified food system. Its simply how our relationship to food is meant to be.

Palengke Picks:

Death of the Palengke

Market Manila

O is for Oh My Gulay

  
OMG: adobong kangkong with crispy garlic.

Except for the occasional lilikoi juice or seaweed salad, as a teen I rarely ate from the plant kingdom. A "real meal" to me went something like...Spam musubi, noodles, adobo, or sticky bbq. But somewhere along the way, the plant kingdom called. I slowly learned to crave and to cook dark leafy things cooked with lots of garlic. Sauteed mushrooms turn me to mush. After years of ignoring my parents and picking out the little green half-moons from the pinakbet, I finally get how bittermelon is delectable. Oh my gulay. I love those vegetables.

There's a half-truth in the perception that Filipino food is meat-heavy. Yes, our culinary heritage has meaty favorites - from sisig, to lechon, to adobo and more. But these dishes are only a sliver of the spectrum, without the traditional gulay dishes that use just-picked vegetables and fruits. As one of my titas says, "Well of course we would cook with gulay. We just go outside and pick something from the garden!"

I had the chance to taste more of the Philippine's wealth of gulay - some dishes rich in familiar flavors, others new and unexpected. Here are some flashbacks from Jan. 11 foodtripping:

Casarap Restaurant and art gallery, Batangas

Casarap is self-described as a “greenhouse cafe in the midst of a self-sufficient and successful organic farm.” This garden-art gallery-green restaurant was founded by Emma Alday, an environmentalist, slow food advocate and former nun. Located right at the 90 km marker off the National Highway, I estimated a quick 30 minute trip. But we somehow got lost for 2 hours, taking unmarked turns, and caught behind funeral car processions. But that's life, and it set the tone for a laid-back 4-hour lunch in the garden.

Gulay that's easy on the eyes

A charmingly painted sign tells guests to be aware Casarap serves slow food - both in cultivation and in preparation. This salad of edible cobalt-blue flowers, crispy cassava, and tiny pepinos was just one of the gems we finished off, together with fresh halo-halo, coconut ice cream drizzled with lambanog (a local coconut wine). There were many others I hoped to try - including wild fiddleheads in coconut milk - but we learned that reservations must be placed in advance so the ingredients could be harvested to order.

Nipa hut dining at Balinsasayaw Restaurant

Balinsasayaw is a Palawan-style restaurant that has taken root in Batangas, and its my mom and dad's favorite spot. The sprawling, garden-like grounds always seem to be full and bustling. I order a fresh buko (young coconut juice), sip slowly, and wait...

...for our orders to arrive. The vegetarian Palawan Express is the stuff dreams are made of, and its just spicy enough, rich with coconut milk, and subtly sweet from tender vegetables. Like the famous Bicol Express, this dish is studded with chilis and radiates a spicy heat relatively uncommon in Filipino cuisine, something that makes this Bicolana very happy.

Returning to the Bay Area, I already miss the flavors of the Philippines. But I feel inspired to take some of the flavors I've come to love using local-grown gulay. More to come!

Oh My, There's More Gulay:

Oh My Gulay Restaurant in Baguio

Happy Slip Utters Oh My Gulay at 1:25

N Is for New Year's Abundance

I greeted 2011 surrounded by a riot of color, taste, and sound. From the rainbow-hued wet market, the tartness of green mangoes, to the fiery scent of exploding firecrackers, the new year began with an overwhelming sense of abundance.

So much beauty surrounds us. With that, three glimpses of New Year's from the Philippines:

Mahogany Market, Tagaytay City. An edible forest of bananas tower in green, gold, and orange-yellow.

 

My spirit is fed in returning to roots. In Pangasinan, my mother's home province, the land shimmers with emerald rice fields, fish ponds jumping with bangus, salt fields, and a hundred family stories.

Nasugbu, Batangas. I love the quiet invitation of the table - a place to gather, share food, and build rhythm at the beginning and end of the day.

There's More:

Generations of Filipino Vendors at Mahogany Market

Undermining Abundance - the Big Business of Creating Scarcity

Manila Man and Bananas

M is for Manila Galleons

 Maiz - a taste of history

The aftermath of the Manila Galleons haunts my kitchen: I can taste it in sweet maiz kernels, flame-colored chilies, and the earthy bitter of cacao. This history is in the spice cabinet, in a glass jar of scarlet atsuete seeds, and the creamy green flesh of a perfectly ripe avocado I might mix with sweet milk, Filipino-style, or eat savory and mashed into guacamole.

Corn, tomatoes, atsuete, avocado, potatoes, chayote...These ingredients are inked onto the pages of Filipino cookbooks older than my grandmother, and are as common to my family's diet as wheat and rice.Yet these ingredients arrived on Philippine shores from the Americas, through a bitter history of trade, slavery, and with it, culinary exchange.

UNESCO chose 2010 as an international celebration of the Manila Galleons. The massive Spanish trading ships sailed from 1563-1815, at a time when indigenous peoples of the Philippines and the Americas both struggled under brutal wars for independence. Then the largest sea vessels of their time, the ship's watery paths spanned three centuries, 9,000 miles, as connective tissue linking Mexico with the Philippines, and eventually, Spain.

While transporting luxury items for the Spanish, the galleon route led to food exchanges between Mexico and the Philippines. Tamales, corn, tomatoes, potatoes, cassava, and yucca took root in Filipino soil and kitchens. Foods from Asia were also adapted into Mexican cuisine, from mango, tamarind, coconuts, to ceviche, a variation on the Filipino kinilaw, a raw fish "cooked" by acidic sour fruits.

Imagining Bicol Express without chilis, or sili, is mind-blowing.

Beyond food, there was an exchange of people, a story I one day hope to understand more deeply. It was mostly Filipinos, not the Spanish, who acted as the ship's laborers, as navigators, crew (and maybe cooks?). Facing the brutality of Spanish oppressors, an estimated 10,000 Filipinos escaped the ships in Acapulco, while more escaped to the bayous of Louisiana and along the California coast, intermarrying with indigenous communities.

This history continues in obvious and subtle ways, and in which food is only one entry point. When my musician friends travelled to Acapulco to perform traditional Filipino kulintang, they were surprised to find Filipino songs at a local karaoke bar. Tiangge, a common Filipino word for market, is derived from the Nahuatl word, tianquitzli. As I walked the streets of San Francisco's Mission District yesterday, I caught sight of a favorite treat that marries the flavors of both Mexico and the Philippines - chili pepper mangoes.

Where does your food come from?

More Info:

UNESCO Dia del Galeon 

La China Poblana 

La Nao de China

Patenting the Manila Mango? 

Filipinos in Mexican History

 

L is for Lupa

Waipi'o Valley: taro paddies and muddy ankles remembered.

There is nothing like a lake in midsummer. The first baby step into Lake Del Valle was all warm, coffee-colored waters swirling gently. In the second step, all the mud of a drowned valley swallowed my feet. Diving in and escaping to deeper waters was necessary.

Floating on my back, I smelled smoky summer BBQs, tasted lake water tinged with lupa (earth), and dreamed. Funny how those earth-tinged California waters took me back to other rich, fertile lupa on the Big Island, Hawai'i, and a place I have not touched for years but which haunts me still.

The sweet fragrance of Waipi'o rises up from the valley floor. As a youth, I was blessed to spend a summer night in Waipi'o hosted by Native Hawaiian aunties and uncles who continue traditional taro farming. I learned how much like Filipinos, Hawaiians living in their own homelands must struggle for self-determination. In keeping alive the root of Hawaiian foods, they also keep alive ancestral ways of life for future generations.

Linking earth, water and sky: taro, gabi (Tagalog), kalo (Hawaiian)

We stepped barefoot into the taro paddies, called lo'i kalo in Hawaiian. The mud surrounded my toes and ankles a warm, smooth second skin. As the hot sun beat down and heart-shaped leaves fluttered around us, we harvested taro and surrendered to the rhythm of the Valley.

Nothing was wasted. We learned how the thick green stalks were saved to be planted again into the earth and grow again. Water diverted from the river slowly flowed through the lo'i and reconnected, just as clear as before. No artificial fertilizers were added, and the river was not starved, a stark contrast to conventional agriculture. After washing the thick mud from the taro and our bodies, we spent hours preparing the taro, later filling our bellies with a feast of freshly pounded poi and leaf-wrapped lau-laus.

That night, belly satisfied, I listened to the rain patter onto the tin roof, the same waters that had flowed through the paddies, into the ocean, and now returned to the island. I slept, filled with gratitude for the gift of our hosts for sharing their home and a meal deeply rooted in the land.

A Little More:

Taro: The Roots of Hawaiian Culture

Save the Banaue Rice Terraces, Save Filipino Heritage

The Deeper Meaning of Food

K is for Kamayan

On Sunday morning, I left Oakland behind for a taste of the Delta's summer abundance. It reminded me of the most delicious thing about a roadtrip: the flavors that grace us in passing. A slow dinner, a quick snack, or nibble of dried fruit imprint a taste to the landscape even as the path beckons.

I don't know about you, but I usually don't bother or remember to pack forks or spoons. I'm pretty happy eating kamayan, or eating with the hands. It only adds to the visceral experience of eating, just like the lips, mouth, and even sense of hearing and sight also partake in a meal.

We stand on the levees,then put our feet in the cool water, surrounded by tule reeds, bamboo, and cornfields that stretch green into the horizon. Thickets of California blackberry hang heavy with fruit. I reach greedily for the fattest, darkest berries, which seem to be guarded by huge spiders and thick webs clotted with insects. Tiny thorns prick at my ankles and shins, sharp as a kitten's claws. Its a blood exchange for the gooshy, sun-ripened berries that stains my fingers and hands purple. I save the best in a cup, eat the rest out of hand.

From the green fields emerges the small town of Isleton. Live funk music and the smell of seafood waft out of Isleton Joe's restaurant. Outdoor tables are packed with folks chowing down on bowls full of fresh crawfish, the restaurant's specialty and fresh catch from the region formerly dubbed "Crawdad Town USA."

Taking a cue from our neighbors, I order a 2-lb bowl. But when the metal bowl arrives, overflowing with supernaturally red crustaceans doused in hot sauce, I almost panic. I can eat shrimp heads and fish eyes without hesitation. But these small creatures came without instructions, their shells tough as lobsters and almost too hot to handle. Where to begin?

After 10 minutes of struggle, a friendly fellow diner comes to the rescue. "I grew up in New Orleans," he explains, "I was watching you eat and couldn't take it anymore." Crawfish in hand, he demonstrates how to twist the tail, and then suck out the salty-sweet tail meat. Ah-ha.

It takes nearly an hour to work through the bowl, twice as slow as the skilled diners next to us who are onto their second order of crawfish and third round of Coronas. My mouth and fingers burn from the chili sauce and my hands have slowed down. But there's no rush. It feels like those family gathering in the Philippines, the ones where a slow meal stretches out into an entire afternoon.

Returning to Oakland, I know my hands will carry the tingling stain of red chili sauce and purple berry juice, just as my feet are dusted with fine silt from walking along the water. If the water alone doesn't call me back soon, the tastes of the Delta will.

More:

Crawdads in the Delta 

Delta Blues

J is for Jeepnified

The art of re-purposing

I'm writing from Seattle, with just a moment to pause from the Filipino American National Historic Society's (FANHS) national conference. In the midst of workshops, storytelling, reunions, and bites of food, this colorful assortment at the FANHS national archives caught my eye.

Now stuffed with markers and pens, those familiar cans of Ligo sardines, Philippine Brand mango nectar, San Miguel beer brought back remembered meals. Re-purposed into beautiful and practical containers, they were a heartwarming sight, a reminder of how many Pinoys follow the "3rs" - reduce, reuse, recycle -  as a way of life.

Call it "jeepnified" - in the same spirit of Filipino innovation, reclaiming WWII US military vehicles into colorful public transit, the famous jeepney. In that mode, there's no such thing as waste.

F is for the Filipino American Farmer

Filipino farmers in the asparagus fields of Stockton, California. Image from Little Manila Foundation.

Four years ago, I was asked a question I still seek the answers to. "When was the last person in your family a farmer?"

I didn't know what to say...and felt a little ashamed. Sure, I loved reading Carlos Bulosan's America is in the Heart. I chose produce from farmer's markets, not just because they tasted good but because the food came directly from a person, from a place. But I never heard stories of our family's farming history, and conversely, never asked. All I knew was my family's "white collar" history of immigration - how my parents, my titas and titos had crossed the Pacific as nurses, technicians, and teachers. It felt like a kind of amnesia. Who were - or are - the family farmers?

While I may never learn the names of direct farmer ancestors, my life would not be the same without the legacy of farmers in this country and their experiences, struggles, and hard-won triumphs carved into the land. When I look at photos documenting the waves of Filipino farmers in the 20s and 30s, I see my grandparents and great-grandparents in their faces, and my heart rises.

From Seattle to Stockton, Waipahu, the San Joaquin Valley, to Fruitvale, Filipino farmers were among those who worked the earth, harvested apples, cut cane, built thriving communities, survived the spiritual pains of loneliness and racism, and shaped the long, beautiful, and painful history of this country. There are vital lessons to be learned from the Delano manongs, whose efforts united Filipino and Mexican agriculture laborers and birthed the UFW movement, to farmers in the Philippines, where rapid climate change is ravaging crops and people, and many work without owning the land they till.

I've found a little thread that ties my family to farming. Before our lolo (grandfather) became a pilot in WWII, he studied agriculture. His family line, my mother's side, grew mangoes, cacao, rice, and raised fish, and I had the chance to visit those fields and fishponds with my mother. It's small, but it is a beginning. There is more to uncover, reclaim and understand.

Looking deeper, I can only feel more respect for all farmers here at home. Their legacy is relevant to all of us - as people with Filipino roots, as Californians, as those who have ever eaten a peach or stalk of asparagus, as those connected to US history. We are part of this legacy.

More: there are amazing resources, organizations, on this rich history past and present. Please suggest more to add to this list, look them up, and thank a farmer near you.

Little Manila Foundation 

Delano Manongs: Forgotten Heroes of the UFW

My Soil

Asian Farmers Organization

Poster from the multi-awarded "Romance of Magno Rubio," based on Carlos Bulosan's plays

A is for Atomic Foods

 

Coming home to Atomic Foods, Pasco, Washington (aka Atomic City)

 

 

Today kicks off my 26-day, 26-letter food writing challenge. And in true gemini fashion, I hedged on where to start. Do "A" for ampalaya (bittermelon), I thought. Maybe atis, to be sweet, or even artichokes, almonds, aphrodisiacs, or arugula. So why "atomic" - the opposite of anything you'd want to eat - on a food blog?

 

Beginnings choose themselves. The inspiration comes from a recent visit to my birthplace in eastern Washington, where my nomadic parents dropped anchor long enough to have me. Driving through a mythical landscape of tumbleweeds, strip malls, sacred sites, the wide Columbia, and the toxic Hanford nuclear wasteland, we spotted Atomic Foods. "Turn the car around!" I begged my Uncle Sim, a local resident who had seen this place hundreds of times.

Atomic Foods was tiny. Inside, Gatorade bottles and cold turkey sandwiches were side-by-side with Virgin of Guadalupe votives and mass-produced dreamcatchers. Outside, it was just one more place to feed your car some gas.

Facing the atomic bright mural, I wanted to laugh out loud its absurdity, even as I felt a shade of furious. Not at the store, but at history. I had learned that here, in WWII, the atomic supply chain became a deadly part of the food chain, poisoning fish, land, people and water. Toxins like beryllium, asbestos and plutonium joined the menu, as Fat Man and Little Boy A-Bombs were cooked up to be dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Once a top secret nuclear site, this history is written loud on the landscape. Next to Atomic Foods is Atomic Laundry. Our Filipino family left in 1987, when the Hanford Nuclear plant shut down plutonium production. But if I went to high school here, my local high school mascot could have been "The Bombers." If we stayed until I turned 21, a few miles away at Atomic Ale I could've tossed back some Plutonium Porter and Proton Pale Ale.

This past can't be taken back, but hopefully it will be learned from. As we left, driving into a sunset bright as some kind of radioactive Western, I told my uncle this was the first Atomic Foods I had ever seen. "Maybe its the only one of its kind," he said. I wish it were true.

 

 

More on the Tri-Cities:

"Go Bombers Go!"

"Columbia River Toxins Moving Up the Food Chain"

 

On the road.

The Challenge - 26 Days, 26 Letters, 26 Kwentos

Abundance.

Its the middle of the summer in Oakland, with ripe red strawberries, shiny blackberries, and early tomatoes bursting out of boxes at the market. So it seems only right to bring some of that abundance to writing!

Inspired by the' "poem-a-day" challenge, I've embarked on a challenge over the next 26 days of July to write a kwento-a-day, one for every letter of the English alphabet (yes, there's 26 letters and I counted).

Some kwentos will be pretty, others scrawny, but they will BE THERE, so stay tuned! Got ideas? Looking for recipes? Love it or hate it? Send your kwento over!