Spaghetti

(Pinoy spaghetti sauce on whole wheat pasta.)

If there was one thing I looked forward to during my birthdays while growing up, it was my grandmother’s spaghetti. (Okay, I also had balloons and gifts and other party items to look forward to until I was around seven. Then the Gestapo in our house banned parties when I started school.) The culinary critic in me would go as far as saying that my grandmother’s spaghetti was no fantastic dish. Anyone born in the Mediterranean would not recognize the thing. In fact, its only resemblance to the authentic dish is its slightly reddish sauce and the ground beef, or should I say, lack thereof. It had a glaring red sauce that was both sweet and sour, with no hint of tomato whatsoever. There was the occasional bit of beef, outnumbered by slices of red hotdog. And who could forget the slivers of hard-boiled egg, and the copious amounts of grated American cheddar on top? Yes, it was one of the many incarnations of the Jolly Spaghetti that have invaded Filipino households.

My grandmother was the only cook in the family (or perhaps no one dared to share her kitchen). My mom never cooked. But the same Gestapo that banned my parties banned me from playing outside with other children. Hence, the TV became my playmate. Optimus Prime became my role model; Sesame Street became a devotion (dare I say religion?); and Nora Daza became my source of wisdom. Well, okay not entirely. But yes, I learned to cook at an early age.

Eventually, I concocted my own version of spaghetti. It had more meat. It made use of tomatoes from cans, and had nothing to do with banana catsup (and who knows what they’re really made of?). My pasta was al dente, and not soggy. Best of all, it had mushrooms! My dish was initially a hit. My folks loved it. I loved it. But nothing drew me as close to the fire as that plateful of soggy noodles bathed in glaring red catsup sauce that my grandmother makes.

Perhaps because it brings back so many memories of my childhood. Perhaps, it reminded me of the other things that my grandmother made for me and my parties. That spaghetti was her. It was her own creation, and a statement of her culinary skills. It was a product of her years of experimentation. Further, that spaghetti was my party. It always brought back memories of other children running around our house, and the times I would open the gifts they brought for me!

In medical school, I had a classmate who worshipped his mom. While that is usually an adorable attribute of any straight guy, he took it to levels that would disturb any sane person. He once brought a large tub of baked macaroni that his ‘legendary’ doctor-mom made. It was enough for maybe three hungry wrestlers; and athlete he wasn’t! He apparently wanted to “share” his treasure. A close friend of mine, imbued with much wisdom, declined a taste. But my culinary ego could not resist and he gladly offered to share some of it. I barely made it beyond the second bit of pasta. The macaroni was pasty, to say the least. The sauce was bland and anemic. Even that shaving of cheese seemed out of place. There was nothing else to say. It was like eating air. He abslutely loved it though. Well, he worshipped his mom. That was what I kept repeating in my head, and it kept me sane until I finished the spoonful.

I don’t worship my grandmother, or any other member of my family for that matter. But I have utter respect for her and the years she spent learning and toiling in front of the stove to keep our stomachs satisfied. For most of us, there is always that dish, no matter how bland or spicy or weird which will always bring back memories of our childhood, or evoke memories of our special moments. Sometimes, and especially for gastronomes and gourmands, our tongues may object to the combinations of flavors, or lack thereof, in whatever we are eating. But we have to “eat with our brains,” too. We have to treasure all those memories, respect our elders, and relive those special moments.

Over the years, I have learned to make different types of pasta sauces – Bolognese, a la puttanesca, marinara and even my own version of Pinoy spaghetti. I would like to think they are better that anyone else’s. But nothing, as I’ve said, would be as significant as the one I grew up with. And sometimes, I wonder, if somewhere down the road, someone else will grow up eating my cooking, no matter how “off” the seasonings may be.


Pinoy Spaghetti

Half a pound of chopped bacon (I know, but you won’t feel it, trust me)
One or two Spanish chorizos, chopped
Two or three sliced sausages/ hotdogs (use whatever sausage you like if hotdog gives you nightmares; even longganisa and/ or salami is okay, just don’t tell me about it)
One pound lean ground beef (I prefer lean, to lessen the guilt of the bacon)
One to two bay leaves
Four cloves chopped garlic
Two chopped onions
Chop together: one small carrot, one large stalk celery, one small red bell pepper, one small green bell pepper
Two to three large tomatoes, chopped
Two cups tomato sauce
One bottle banana catsup (if you do know, don’t tell me what they’re really made of)
Two to three cups beef broth (water and instant bouillon works, too. Go ask your conscience)
One teaspoon each of dried oregano and dried basil.
Salt, pepper, sugar to taste

In a large saucepan set on medium heat, render the fat off the bacon. Saute until lightly browned before adding the Spanish Chorizos and sausages. Add in the ground lean beef and cook until browned. Add one or two bay leaves as the beef is sautéing.

When the beef has browned, add in the garlic and onions together. When softened, add in the rest of the chopped vegetables. Deglaze pan with beef broth and tomato sauce. Add the rest of the ingredients and the dried herbs. Simmer until the sauce has thickened and the meat has become tender. Adjust seasonings.

Filipino tradition is to top the spaghetti with sliced hard-boiled eggs and grated American cheddar.

(Traditional Filipino-style spaghetti)