Thud Thud Yum

I was spoiled growing up. With my family having helpers around the house, I didn’t have to touch a single chore. This would unsurprisingly lead me to hating the thought of doing such menial tasks. To young me, they didn’t give me anything, not like doing my assignments which would give me grades, or playing games that gave me points or a new item. A reward. That was what I wanted out of doing something. 

This coupled with the loose emotional control I had as a youth made me quite problematic. What little chores I did were accompanied by my whines and the deepest of frowns when my mother wasn’t looking. A complaint filled rant to myself would often follow the chore’s end. 

But there was one person that I couldn’t say no to and would never complain in their face, my father. Something he knew very well as he took advantage of it one slow day and called me out of my room and into the dining area. 

Once I got there I was greeted by a kilogram of sliced pork, a chopping board, a bowl and a meat tenderizer. My task was simple: tenderize the meat. Knowing I had zero cooking knowledge, dad wordlessly took the meat tenderizer, placed a slice of meat on the thick chopping board, and slammed the hammer-like tool onto meat with no mercy. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

The vibrations of the chopping board and the table echoed throughout the dining area. The pork softened and stretched as the tenderizer broke down its muscle fibers. After a few seconds, dad placed the now tenderized pork in the bowl and handed me the tenderizer. He told me he was going to go rest and just call him if I needed something. 

Despite my annoyance and silent complaints, I got to work. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

Bits and pieces of pork went flying and got to my face and clothes as  I slowly made my way through the kilogram of pork. My arm, weak from my sedentary lifestyle, was also hurting from the strain. My mom passed by to check in on me, and teased me about how horrible I looked. When I asked if I could do it a bit lighter, “Nope,” she told me much to my dismay, “Dad needs the pork to be properly tenderized”. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

I furiously slammed the tenderizer again and again. My anger and annoyance at the whole situation only grew by the piece.

I didn’t even know what dad was making. He wasn’t that much of a cook, usually letting my mother or a helper do it because he would be too tired from work. So imagine my utter confusion when the first thing my dad told me after coming back was to get some lemon soda from our store’s stock. I didn’t question it though since that short trip gave me some much needed rest from all the hammering. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

After almost an hour, I finally finished my task. An entire kilogram of pork thoroughly tenderized. I was so exhausted that I didn’t even have it in me to be a spoiled brat about the whole thing anymore.

An odd yet pleasant smell then filled my senses as my dad joined me at the table. With him was a bowl of liquid which he began putting the pork on. It was a marinade, I realized, one made with vinegar, the lemon soda I got earlier, and other ingredients that I didn’t recognize. 

And just like that, as suddenly as dad got me from my room, my chore was done. 

The next day, I walked out of the room for lunch to pause at the one of the mouthwatering smells I ever sensed. On the dining table was a glass tray, a rare sight given that we only used it for special occasions, and on it were some familiar pieces of pork, drenched in a light brown sauce.

“It’s Pork Steak,” Dad said when I finally asked what the dish was, “You helped make it, so you should try”. 

Now, I’m a very picky eater, if I didn’t like the food I would get the urge to throw up. But after doing all the tenderizing yesterday, I might as well taste the fruits of my labor.

When I put that first slice into my mouth, it was like I ranked up in one of my games. The sheer satisfaction I got from it was insane. It wasn’t quite an explosion of flavor, it was simple yet its savory taste was addicting. The meat that I worked so hard on was soft and tender, I barely had to chew.  Before I knew it, I ate through probably close to a quarter of the Pork Steak, and I ate so much rice with it that my stomach was actually hurting. 

Since then, my dad only had to mention Pork Steak and I would drop everything to start tenderizing the meat. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

The sound of me working would fill up the house. There was little to stop me from being able to eat that dish once again. I worked on the meat harder than even my exam preparations. It was the Quest with the greatest reward. 

It became another thing to look forward to during special occasions. My dad’s Pork Steak was my Thanksgiving Turkey, or my Halloween Candy. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

I didn’t even know how to make Pork Steak. Apparently, it was a secret recipe that my dad got from my late great grandmother. From the little that dad shared, the tender meat would absorb all the flavors from the marinade that bathed the meat overnight. Beyond that I knew nothing but I didn’t care. All that mattered was the meat in front of me got tenderized and led me to another feast greater than any win streak. The first chore that I didn’t mind doing.