THERE’S a veranda on the second floor of PRIMA CT, our ancestral place at the Dumangas poblacion.
Some people call it ‘the terrace’.
The fact that it is roofed, I call it veranda.
I should be correct, if not more correct.
I reserve ‘terrace’ to the rooftop of our building with its terrazzo flooring.
***
It’s a Tuesday afternoon, fourth week of February.
It’s 2:30 pm.
I just got back from the public market.
Yesterday, I made an appointment to watch how our famous miki ligis is made.
The demo was supposed to start at 11:30.
When I got there at 11:28, the dough was already made.
I’m a little disappointed, but I couldn’t show my frustration.
It’s a free class.
***
Anyway, the process was summarized and reviewed for me.
Flour. Water. Mix. Make a dough.
Let it rest.
When I arrived, the chef started kneading the dough.
Kneading is “pagligis”.
Kneading used to be done with empty long neck rhum bottles.
Nowadays, they use rolling pins.
***
In a big pot downstairs, something is being brought to a boil.
I will not disclose all the ingredients involved.
Family secret recipe.
***
Anyway, chef thought I’d only be interested in the pagligis or the kneading process.
I was interested in the making of miki ligis from scratch.
That I learned a little bit of family history, and the chef’s own personal journey to becoming a linigis cook (the ‘chef’ address is mostly mine) is testament to my journalistic flair.
***
He flattened the dough from a good football size to a 24” pizza size.
Sprinkled more flour to keep it dry.
Rolled it.
Then, cut the rolled dough thinly.
Which I thought could have been done more easily by an old-fashioned noodle maker.
Finally, he dropped the noodles into the boiling pot.
***
I waited a good half hour until all the noodles started floating to the surface.
And that’s how you make the good miki ligis.
Also known as miki nga linigis; literally, “noodles from a kneading”.
***
It was exactly how I imagined it being done.
But it is such an experience to research it, and observe it first hand.
Oh, and the stories that you get when you talk to primary sources.
***
Anyway, I’m back at our veranda looking at the mid-afternoon crowd in front of the public market.
It’s a little hot despite the threat of rain at noon.
The sun is now out with a vengeance.
The veranda has bamboo curtains, known locally as banata.
But it is really getting hot.
***
I like the superiority offered by our veranda.
You literally look down on people.
Hello, people down there!
And they look up to me.
***
In my mind, I have to know more than what these people know.
I have to be richer, smarter, kinder.
The only way I can truly justify our veranda is if I know more than what the 100 people walking about down below know.
I have to be in the highest upper one per cent. Haha.
***
Sure, they know miki ligis.
They have eaten it.
They may have imagined how it is prepared, and cooked.
But how many can really cook it?
How many actually saw it being made?
***
I think I am okay not seeing how flour and water were mixed.
But for good measure, I am checking it out again at 10 am tomorrow.
I’ll try and visit, and insist that I see even as they measure the flour.
Even as they draw the water.
I am obsessive-compulsive that way.
***
You see, I believe that with great view comes great responsibility.
From my veranda, the omniscient point-of-view./PN
