Falling in Love with Humbang Binisaya

Every time we got birthdays, our family would really throw a feast, or maybe, sometimes, just a little salu-salo. But in our home, there’s a dish that is always present and cooked on every occasion: on Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, or even in a small birthday celebration with just  only one viand. A home also isn’t complete without its dish that tells its own story and ours is the Humbang Binisaya– A savory pork belly dish that swims in its sweet and salty sauce. It would fill the house, even the temporary outdoor kitchen my uncles built, with warmth, a stack of laughter, and the aroma of bond. The secret of our Humba’s rich flavor has something that is much deeper.

I’ll admit, I never liked Humba at first. The oiliness turned me off, and the thick sauce looked too heavy for my taste buds. As a child, I would quietly scoop only a cup of rice on my plate and avoid the glittering dish my lola would proudly serve. I really couldn’t understand before why everybody loved it so much. Mom would really tell me to at least try it, because we would never know if it's blunt on the tongue, unless we taste it. Lola would also smile at me and say, “One day, you’ll learn how to love it.” I thought what she meant was the dish, but now, I know she was talking about something else more.

My lola told me that cooking Humbang Binisaya used to be a luxury for them. When she was young, her family was so poor that they wouldn't even risk buying a cola drink. A kilogram of pork was expensive back then, and it couldn’t even feed the entire family, so they could only cook Humba during special occasions like birthdays and fiestas. Even when times were hard, they would really find ways to celebrate. Lola also told me that my great-grandfather, who had high blood pressure, would really sneak a munch with a smile as he said it was worth the risk. It was not just a dish for him but a sweet savoring story that’s worth taking even when life is hard. 

The same spirit still fills our home every time we prepare Humbang Binisaya and here is a little scoop on how we do it: First, the pork belly is thrown into a big pan with a little bit of water to simmer it until its oil comes out and use it to make the chunks have a little crisp. Next, pour the spices and bring out the nice aroma. After that, bathe it with soy sauce, vinegar, and a little sugar. Then we add the banana blossoms, a few peppercorns, laurel leaves, and our quiet secret– a splash of freshly opened clear lime soda which will give the sauce its subtle sweetness and shine. I think what really made the dish perfect and has a distinct taste from others is its unique flavor. In cooking, our family doesn't just talk about measurements written in a paper, but it's the tantsa-tantsa– the careful and heartfelt estimations passed down only from memory. Add a little more soy sauce if the color is pale, sugar when the taste is too heavy, or clear lime soda if it needs more thickness. The mixture is left to simmer slowly, unhurriedly, until the fat turns tender and the sauce thickens into a glossy coat that clings lovingly to the meat– just like a child to its mother. 

Cooking Humba has always been a family affair for us. When preparing it, I feel nostalgic of the familiar air and bond. My uncles would set the fire, my cousins and I would run to Auntie Beth’s Sari-sari Store to buy the forgotten betsin and would secretly buy the change for an ice cream, and my lola who commands everybody what to do, just like a grand chef in a fine restaurant. The rest of us, mostly my Aunties, would gather up in the kitchen and tease one another while chopping the spices. They also added some chikas which made the work more interesting and fun to do. Someone always laughs too loud, someone always gets scolded for stirring the pan the wrong way, and someone would sneak a bottle of clear lime soda, when no one’s looking– I bet that’s always my younger cousins. By the time the sauce thickens and the meat is tender, our house would smell the warm aroma not just by the dish but by the love that we have for each other. The Humbang Binisaya became our story that’s simmering on one platter. 

There was a time where it’s just me, and my lola celebrating Christmas Eve. Lola finally taught me the recipe. I followed her every move. The way she poured down the soy sauce without actually measuring it, how she smiled softly after tasting the sauce, and how she knew the simmer when it's right, even when she's deaf. At first, I didn’t understand why she cooked so slowly, or why she’d hum some old songs she remembered when she could still hear, while stirring the pan. When the flavorful smoke was felt and the sauce got the right glossy color, there’s something that I also realized. As I took a taste, it felt as if the time had slowed down. I would remember the stories my lola once told me about and it's like blending into the dish itself. I fell in love not only with the dish but with the story that comes from every bite because somewhere in the balance of sweet and salty, it has a taste to remember and it has the feeling that stays, and maybe, I’m just still learning to savor it.