Of forks and faith

CARLOTA HILLS, Ormoc City — Lunch today is bulalo, steaming hot, the soup so savory and delicious, perfect with white rice. Yes, there has to be rice. Rice understands bulalo.

The day is very humid, and one would think something cold would be more in order. But somehow, thebulalo is perfect. There is something delicious about soup that calms — the mind, the day, ways, albeit temporarily, like a gentle reminder to pause and catch the breath. Maybe it is the knowing that somewhere in the broth, stuck within the bone, is the wiggly and jiggly marrow that is so decadent it requires, at the very least, a closing of the eyes upon enjoyment. The busyness that, thus far, marked a very long workday fades with every spoonful, the quiet perfection of the dish feeling very much like a reward. I went for seconds, and as I scooped all the way to the bottom of the pot for more meat, I saw… a fork. And then another one. Two of them in total, in the broth, making friends with meat, vegetables and bones.

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