When my nephew Jeff turned eight, I saw what a grand celebration looked like through his eyes. We had two kilos of grilled tilapia, a pack of his favorite hot dogs, a loaf of bread, three bottles of Coke, and a 350-peso bento chocolate cake that made him smile all night long. But most importantly, we had Uton bolok from our neighbor, literally, rotten fish. This was all his mother could afford while working away in Manila.
When she called that evening, Jeff’s first words were about the Uton bolok. He bragged about it because it was his mother’s favorite. He talked about his birthday, how happy he was, and his visitors, who were all his cousins. I couldn’t help but laugh. It was sweet how he could easily take pride in the simplest things. My siblings and I grew up like that, too, never with the luxury of asking for more. Gratitude, I suppose, was something we learned early; we were told to be thankful, and we understood what it meant to have just enough.
Growing up in the rural side of town, I don’t remember craving anything fancy. Food was just something to fill the stomach and keep us going. But when I left for college, my world widened. I wanted to taste, see, and know more about what life was like beyond our small Kohu back home.
Kohu is a Tboli word for kitchen, and ours was special. It stood outside our house, with no door and one side completely open. Anyone could come and go. Most of our neighbors had theirs the same way, which made sharing easy. If smoke wasn’t rising from a family’s Kohu, it meant they hadn’t cooked their meals yet, so someone nearby would always send food over. Looking back, maybe that’s why life felt lighter.
Sometimes, I eat out alone. On good days, when one of my two scholarships took pity on me, my wallet would allow a small indulgence, like a cup of iced coffee that didn’t come from a sachet of my favorite Nescafé stick or Kopiko black, a snack I couldn’t afford on ordinary days, or a meal that seemed new to me. Yet no matter how many flavors I try, nothing will compare to the food back home. The smoky scent of grilled tilapia, the sweetness of cheap chocolate cake, or even the rottenness of Isda Bolok, which made an eight-year-old’s birthday unforgettable.
In the middle of the first semester of my second year in college, I had so many tasks. I float through classes, half-present, half-drowning. But somehow, I survived: like how I got through the day after a 110-item exam, reporting preparations, while getting drained body and soul by outside organization errands. Surviving, in itself, feels like something worth celebrating.
My friends, Iyah and Lorah, told me we deserved to eat out. I said yes. We celebrated that win at McDonald’s, and we got there as the sky began to drizzle. We laughed while saying things that didn’t really matter, trying to outtalk the sound of the rain. I told them I wondered why I never seemed to crave things the way others did, like the McChicken Iyah had been dreaming of all week. Her answer left me speechless. She said maybe I never crave what everyone else does because I was never given the chance to.
She was right. We were never given the privilege of choosing those things as our favorites, or even of thinking about them on special days. I get why we talk so often about craving food, coffee, alcohol, even affection, because they’re all edible forms of nostalgia. They fill spaces. It’s a cliché, I know, that the closest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but it’s true. Food was the first thing that came to my mind whenever I missed home.
Every time I think of comfort, I think of Lubed, the cassava suman my mother makes. It was sticky and sweet, wrapped with her patience and care. I think of Papang, rushing home from the farm after catching one of his beloved chickens, the moment he hears I’m visiting. I think of our dirt-washed wooden table, the clatter of discolored plates, and worn-out utensils softened by years of use. These things instantly make me feel somewhat whole.
Being away for one year and three months now, I think of my chanaks – my nieces and nephews – and how their eyes light up when I come home. Yembun would always ask, “Wen tenafay newitem tita?” (Do you have bread with you, tita?) They would just accept whatever there is, even just a few pieces of candy. They fight over meals most of the time, and fill every corner of the house with noise and laughter whenever we eat together.
I think of Mamang and Papang now alone in that same house, and I wonder how they are, whether the silence feels heavier between them. Their love cooled with time, and maybe it was only us – their children and grandchildren – who kept the warmth alive. Perhaps that’s why I can never fully settle wherever I go. Because comfort, for me, has always carried the sweet, sticky, savory, and fleeting taste of home.
Sometimes, when the city grows too bright or too empty, I close my eyes and hear the buzz of a tricycle passing by. I smell rain on the pavement, and for a moment, even if I’m miles away, I’m home again. Perhaps we only crave what we’ve loved long enough to miss.
Jeff didn’t make a wish when we finished singing Happy Birthday. Maybe he didn’t know how to, or he just didn’t have anything to ask for because he didn’t know what else was there. Our world, after all, has always been made of small victories, but I hope Jeff experiences bigger ones.
I hope my chanaks learn to dream more and to look past what’s missing and still see the light in ordinary days. I hope they believe that even the smallest hope can grow into something vast and kind, not just the ones that come wrapped in the smoke of a shared kitchen, or in the laughter over a table that has seen better and silent days.
I hope they dream of the ones that make them know that even in their wanting, they were never truly without.
Hezel Ann Todi Sulan is a Tboli writer from Lake Sebu, South Cotabato. She is a Feature writer for Bagwis, Mindanao State University – GSC’s publication. She was also a Fiction Fellow for the 2025 SOX Writers Workshop and a Fellow of Sugilanon 2025, a children’s story writing workshop by Room to Read.