Bittersweet Flavor of the Sea

My stomach growls in hunger, and on instinct, I open the refrigerator in search of something to eat. There are hotdogs sitting lazily in the corner, but I don’t feel like eating anything oily right now. There’s a jar filled with condensed milk, and for a second I entertain the idea of making pastillas and call it a day. Just as I was planning it in my head, my mom yells from across the room, nagging me to close the refrigerator door and conserve energy. With a sigh, I checked the freezer. Out of curiosity, I reach for the red container. Inside is full of small, ghostly white squids — or as we call them in our dialect, nokus. 

I have long expressed my hatred for this seafood. I can only tolerate squid when it is deep-fried into golden calamares. But our family doesn’t make it that way. They are cooked into adobong nokus — a dish I’ve kept away from my mouth for as long as I can remember.

“Why did you buy nokus? You know I don’t like this,” I ask my mother, hoping she might change the dinner plans.

“Well, just because you don’t like it, does not mean we don’t. Now that you have it in your hand, go ahead and let it defrost at the kitchen sink,” she commands.

I felt defeated. As a picky eater, I had already predicted that this would be another one of those nights where I stubbornly refuse to eat and go to bed with an empty stomach. How can anyone like adobong nokus? It’s more than an unappetizing dish to me, it’s too fishy, too chewy, too black. 

I watch how the ice melted from the pale bodies of the squids as they defrost. And in that moment, the memory of my Papa came rushing in. 

It was 2015, and my Papa was preparing the spices at the countertop. He was slicing garlic, the vinegar was uncapped, and the soy sauce was waiting to be poured. I wait by the dining table, curious about what will be served to me for dinner. He told me earlier that he would make me something I’ve never tried before. Since he prepared the familiar soy sauce and vinegar, I had a guess it would be an adobo dish. That evening felt special — my father, a seaman, had just returned after 3 years of working overseas, and now he’s cooking our dinner. For a moment, it felt like my childhood was complete, and my family was perfect. 

That night, he served a big bowl of adobong nokus in front of me — dark, glistening, smelling faintly of the sea. My expression shifted from excitement to confusion. I had never seen a dish like that before, he was right. It was odd-looking, the black pigment of the sauce is putting me off, and the squid does not look edible.. Papa laughed at my face, assuring me it tastes better than it looks. He grabbed a spoon, and made me taste the sauce first. The saltiness of the soy sauce and the sharpness of the vinegar balanced into a slightly tangy taste with a hint of sweetness. I also felt a slight bitter taste from the squids’ ink mixed into the sauce. It did not taste like the other adobo dishes, but it had something else, something only Papa could make. Maybe it was the way he cooked it, or the warmth in his laugh, but somehow I find myself liking it.

That was my first encounter with the dish — a taste I could bring myself to love again after my father left. But today, I find myself standing by the kitchen counter again, watching Mama recreate the same dish in her own way. No recipe book, no instructions, just hands that knew exactly what to do. First, she carefully washes the squid, her fingers swift and practiced as she removes the eyes. On the chopping board, ginger, garlic, and onion wait like a trio of performers before their act. Into the pan they go, sizzling as they hit the heat, releasing an aroma that clings to the walls like memory. She adds the squid next, covers the pan, and lets it release its own water, like the nokus is telling its story in steam. Then comes a sprinkle of salt, a dash of vetsin, and a shake of pepper —seasoning by feel, not by measurement. A splash more water deepens the broth, and finally, a bit of cooking oil swirls in, giving the sauce its silky finish. No measuring cups, just trust. 

It’s simple, almost quiet, but there’s something sacred in the way she moves — like this is more than just food, it’s muscle memory wrapped in love. 

I used to think adobong nokus was an Ilocano dish, simply because it was only served in the household of the Ilocano relatives. I was almost right. Upon research, it turns out the dish originated in coastal provinces like Ilocos, Negros, and Cebu where rich in squid or nokus. Adobo itself was rooted in the influence of the Spanish era, and  adobong nokus is one of its many Filipino variations, created by those who lived in areas where seafood was more abundant than meat. That explains why my Father used to cook it often — he was a seaman, and I’m not just referring to his profession. He’s literally a sea man. He lives in Manay, Davao Oriental,  in his aunt’s house located just a few blocks from the seashore. This shows how our surroundings and the things around us shape the food we make and the food culture we build. That’s why adobo comes in many forms: chicken, pork, and even vegetable ones. What we see in our homes, backyards, and nearby places often ends up on our plates.

It also reflects how my Mama cooks her version of adobong nokus. She does not add tomatoes or sugar that would give it a slight hint of sweetness. Instead, she adds gata or coconut milk, giving the dish a rich, creamy taste. Mama works with what’s already in our kitchen — she provides what she can, and I am in no position to criticize the adobong nokus she serves. That dish is built from her hands and her heart, from the efforts of a mother who never once allowed being a single parent to stop her from giving me the life she believes I deserve.

This was my first Sunday back home since college began — my first taste again of Mama’s cooking. Every bite of this chewy squid used to remind me of sad memories I have always wanted to forget. But that has changed. Now, each bite of nokus, I am reminded of the tireless days and nights Mama endured just to give me the life I have right now. Her dry, veiny hands that worked through stacks of  papers during the week sti find the strength to slice the squids into pieces. Her weary eyes, strained from hours of staring at the computer screen, do not even flinch at the sting of each onion she cuts. This dish is my quiet reminder, to always look ahead, and to cherish the present, rather than be bound by the melancholic memories of the past. For in every bite of Mama’s adobong nokus lies the taste of her love, patience, and unwavering strength. It’s funny how one dish can carry both pain and comfort, how something so simple taste so bittersweet.