Lost: My Father and his Nilagang Baka

My father was a lot of things, and a decent cook was one of them, he loved cooking for us. My favorite meal that he prepared will always be his nilagang baka. It consisted of incredibly tender beef ribs that melted in your mouth, pechay that crunched as if it was just freshly picked, corn as yellow as dandelions, and bananas that were sweet to the taste buds. 

That dish and the nights we would eat it marked itself in my memory very distinctly. Memories from my early years were often fleeting – they come and go never to be recalled again. But those dinner nights were different, the memories were so intact, so much so that I can visualize it clearly even to this day.

Around that oblong shaped table gathered me, my mother, my sister, and my father. We had a very unique family dynamic, with each person’s characteristics being vividly different from each other. My father was jokingly braggadocious, my mother was sharp-tongued and loved banter, my sister had the most contagious laughter and I was the gluttonous eater of the bunch.

Those nights were something I cherished very deeply. The noises of cackling and chatting corroded the silence of the room. The dish’s aroma being wafted around the room by the ceiling fan. Before, I always thought that those happy nights would be an endless cycle, but alas fate had other plans. 

If only the promise of endless happy nights were not but an illusion. After what my father did, everything was never the same. Our futures were derailed out of its destination. My father’s presence became a distant shadow, my mother’s banters became enraged insults, my sister’s laughter became deafening silence, and my eagerness became emptiness. 

The beef was no longer tender, but rough and rugged. The pechay was no longer crunchy but soggy, the corn was no longer bright but dull, the banana was no longer sweet but bitter, the soup was no longer warm but cold. 

The dish my father had kept cooking before was no longer just a memory, but now a vessel that bore the soul of the sin he had committed. Everything about him became taboo for my mother and sister, a reminder that he was not to be remembered fondly. But for some reason I never really felt the same as them.

Of course, I will always condemn my father for what he did, but I don’t believe that that one fateful sin reflects every part of him. He may have betrayed our family, but I believe that when he cooked for us and ate with us, there was nothing reserved for us but love.

As I walk down memory lane and see portraits of those nights and that dish, I only remember happiness, laughter, and warmth in contrast to my mother and sister. I never felt any hints of betrayal, lies, and deceit – there were no foreshadowing of our future in that dish. Which got me thinking about the argument about separating the art from the artist.

There exists an argument – whether or not one can separate the art from the artist. People say that a piece of art is a reflection of the nuances of the personality, views, and values of the artist – making the art an extension of the artist themselves. 

But if I were to give my two cents, I would be standing on the side of separation. In my specific case, a decision or a choice an artist makes no matter how controversial does not erase what their art did or meant at the time of making it.

That dish, despite what my father did, is still one of my favorites. When I recall the dish, it feels like I still have that distinct taste lingering in my mouth. The noises of laughter and banter still ring loudly in my ears. But all of it is just romanticized nostalgia, it is no longer attainable.

As much as I hate to, I have to accept reality. I have to accept that there will no longer be dinner nights filled with chattering around a table. I have to accept what has become of each of us. I have to accept that I will never be able to taste the dish again. And yet the memories persist and the fondness never left my mind

Maybe that’s what separating the art from the artist means. Appreciating and loving the art despite the things that the artist has done. Nilagang baka to me remains the same, that meat is tender, that pechay is crunchy, that corn is bright, that banana is sweet, and that soup is warm. It lives on in the exhibits of memory lane, untouched by sin but cradled with love. My father’s hands may have stirred warmth and ruin, but the flavor that lingers in my mind is mine to cherish.