On Typhoon Food and Struggle Meals

Video Credit: GMA Public Affairs/Kapuso Mo Jessica Soho

Last night I was with my mother at the dinner table, eating while she was scrolling through Facebook. She started chuckling at a post and flipped her phone around to show me the source of humor. “The fastest street chef in the Philippines… is Riel Quijano,” the voice boomed in a classic newscaster cantor from her speaker. What was louder was the cacophony of pots and pans and clanking of a makeshift can opener in the video’s B-roll, as the aforementioned Riel rushed away to fulfill orders of instant noodles, corned beef, canned tuna, and a variety of other convenience food. “You would love what he cooks, baby.” She smiled and motioned with her lips to point at my bowl of Spam and rice. A simple meal, but it was nourishing. The video went on, as students and patrons lauded Riel for his ninja-like abilities and the accessibility of his pricing. For anything from 85 to 100 pesos, you could get a full meal. In the end, he revealed the inspiration for his work came from the desire to provide for his special needs child. Riel was brought to tears at his admittance, and I was reminded of the indomitable strength of the human spirit. Beneath the video were complaints of the praise, spewing hate onto what was otherwise a wholesome video: “I can make that at home.” “Why do people pay for something they can do themselves?” “This is so easy to cook.” My mother interrupted my doom scrolling. “So sad. He works so hard but he only makes 2 dollars for every plate. Right, anak?” “Yeah. But I miss food like that.” “You always eat that when we don’t have money hahaha. You’re in America now but you still eat it.” Her laughter was jaunty and in good faith, but it was rooted in the less pleasant memories of home. Even Spam was a luxury rarely afforded for my family. I wonder why I gravitate to these “plain” meals—stuff like Vienna sausage omelets and sardine stew with tomatoes and noodles—the kind that Chef Riel would make at his midnight diner. It calls into question my claim for the label “foodie”. How could a culinary connoisseur relegate herself to factory mystery meats and the unspoken goods? The plebeian delights that if plated in a professional kitchen, would be akin to committing one of the seven deadly sins. The concept of “struggle meals” is nothing new. It’s an idea that has floated around the zeitgeist of the Internet and resonated with other lower to middle class people. Microwave mac and cheese, Maruchan Ramen, deli meats burnt to a crisp, and sleeping off the hunger—are all some examples of what exactly a “struggle meal” is. To me, they’re all very relatable, but the “struggle meals” of my household always had a uniquely Filipino twist, always accompanied by tales of my island home. “I ate this when Typhoon Ruping hit my home. It blew off the roof of our house. Your grandmother and I with your uncles and aunts rode into a storm, sailing on a very small boat, when suddenly–” “Your dad is just joking.” My mom would interrupt with a look of disbelief, chortling at his retelling. “It wasn’t that bad, baby.” “But it was!” My dad would slurp on the last bits within the thin plastic bowls of 1-minute chicken rice porridge and pick at the bright red cheesy hot dogs we got from the local Filipino store. It wasn’t the motherland, but in these moments it felt like I was back in the Philippines, heaving in the humid air. “Casey, this is typhoon food. Your dad is an expert on this.” He would whisper to me like it was a secret. I was young, so I consistently replied in utter joy that “I love typhoon food!” That always got my parents laughing, but the weight of the food on my fork and the generations of Filipinos before me who had nothing else to eat but this “typhoon food”, would never be fully realized for a while. I began on this train of thought a few months ago, when my hunger struck at the witching hour, and like always, my skills in the kitchen were limited to boiling water for my favorite brand of noodles from the Philippines: LuckyMe. Ironically enough, I never feel lucky when I make them. They always feel like I have hit a low point and I am at the part of the movie where the protagonist realizes that they’ve hit rock bottom, and need to crawl out of the hole they’ve dug themselves into. I find myself pondering a lot during this time of the night where all is dead silent. My thoughts race and they echo as they bounce around in my head. I am suddenly aware of all that has happened and all that will. The stove burner always ticks loudly, announcing to the white walls of my humble abode that I am midnight snacking. As I wait, the fumes of natural gas light the flames underneath the old and dilapidated pot my grandmother has kept since her childhood days of bonfires in the mountainous farmer province she lived in. The pot is charred midnight black—full of history, full of flavor. It’s a weird purgatory I enter when I finally drain the noodles from the pot and mix in the ominous powder simply labeled “FLAVOR”. It’s always quiet and all I can hear is the shuffling of my flip flops. I feel pathetic until the noodles make contact with my lips. The cycle doesn’t end until I empty my plate. I’m not sure what happened in between the years, why these meals became a bit more sad rather than a joy to have. Maybe I became too aware. At some point, I hypothesize, these meals moved down from my rankings when I dove into the world of food critics. My childhood favorites were too low-brow for a Michelin star. But like a bad ex, I still find myself coming back. It’s my “personal brand of heroin,” as sparkly vampire Edward Cullen once worded it, and I don’t think I can ever detach from “typhoon food”. Maybe my people’s pain and struggle can never be removed from the context surrounding “typhoon food”, but I think what I cling onto is the hope that tomorrow’s food might be better. I’m nostalgic for that optimism. It’s become too scarce. “We should visit Riel when we go home, baby.” My mom sweetly suggested. “I would go.” “You’re not tired of this kind of food?” She gave me an earnest look. “Never. It’s like home to me.” I hope and I pray that Riel’s pots, my family’s pans, and my people’s stove tops never stop boiling, frying, and breathing love into the exiles of the culinary world. My blood pressure might hate me, but my stomach will never refuse these chosen rejects.