A Note on Sour

During sticky, humid evenings, piping hot sinigang is refreshing. I used to try and find the largest kangkong stalk from the large bowl of the soup set on our lazy susan at dinner time, and then use it as a straw to drink up the tart refreshing broth in my own bowl. There are always a couple of floral patterned platitos on the table filled with freshly squeezed calamansi juice combined with patis. Its citrusy funky scent wafts as the round glass spins by. My mother, the genius that she is, separates the meat off the pork bones, dips it on the platito using her bare hands and puts it back on her plate only to scoop it up again with steamy jasmine rice. This wisdom that I observed from her, is the ultimate bite of sour on sour. Sourness lingers throughout the meal. Thick pineapple slices that pricked my tongue usually followed the course. That, or sweet mangoes bleeding yellow, scored and flipped like a blooming flower. In Manila, this is how we dined.

Immigrant mothers who work two jobs cooked foods that lasted days on their only day off. A large simmering cauldron of this sour liquid rarely gets eaten fresh, as each family member rarely saw each other to have a meal together. This sinigang is designed to be eaten later. In America, I preferred charred burgers and fruity milkshakes. But sinigang reheated over the stove the next day is far superior than freshly made sinigang. It all boils down to the broth: melting taro roots thicken the stew, disintegrating pork bones add grit and milkiness, meat reduced to miniscule shreds, and the kangkong leaves’ sliminess lend a silkiness, while its hollow stalks remain ever. so. crisp. This is the sinigang of dry winter; a heavy coat. And while I prefer the flavor of day-old sinigang, I usually eat this by myself. No merry-go-round of food on the table, no platitos containing sour salty amber, no sweet flowers nor pricked tongues that follow. In Los Angeles, this is how we dined.

Sourness has duality. It adds freshness, yet it’s a sign of ferment. It uplifts, but it sits on a high note. It tenderizes, but it also preserves. It awakens the senses, yet it’s an indication that something is approaching its expiration. We turn sour when we part from things we love. In thinking of sour moments, sweet foods are eaten for comfort. But when sugar sits in the mouth for too long, the more sour sweetness becomes.