My Love Affair with Adobo
An Ode to my late grandmother, Mahomita
There are scents that linger long after the flame has faded, aromas that rise from memory like steam from a simmering pot. For me, that scent is adobo. Garlic sizzling in hot oil, vinegar sharp and unapologetic, soy sauce deep and soulful, bay leaves curling like old letters. It’s the perfume of my childhood, the heartbeat of my heritage, and the first dish that taught me how food could speak.
My love affair with adobo isn’t just a casual fling, it’s a lifelong devotion. And this story is my tribute to the woman who shaped me, not just as a cook, but as a person. My late grandmother, Mahomita, cooked with instinct and heart, folding stories into every dish. Her kitchen was my sanctuary, her cooking clothes a tapestry of time. She taught me that food was never just sustenance—it was storytelling, ceremony, and love that brought people together.
Her adobo was never measured, never rushed. It was always slightly different. Sometimes sweeter, sometimes sharper, sometimes with tofu or hardboiled eggs... but always perfect. It was the dish she made when we celebrated, when we gathered, or when I simply needed comfort. It was her signature, her warmth, her legacy.
As I grew, so did my palate and my path. I trained under masters, traveled across continents, and fell in love with flavors that echoed the soulfulness of my roots. Other cuisines became a second language. Desserts became my lullabies. But no matter how far I wandered, adobo remained my compass.
It reminded me where I came from. It reminded me of her.
Today, my grandmother’s legacy lives in every simmer, every stir, every plate I serve. I carry her recipes in my bones, her wisdom in my flame, and her spirit in every kitchen I enter. Adobo is more than a dish, it’s a love letter to my past, a promise to my future, and a celebration of the woman who taught me that food, at its best, is a form of love.
So, when the garlic hits the oil and the vinegar rises to meet it, I smile. Because I know my grandmother is there, stirring beside me—her stories rising like steam, her love lingering like the scent of adobo in the air. And someday, I’ll pass the spoon to my daughter, sharing not just a recipe but a legacy.
May we all keep stirring, preserving the flavors of our heritage, honoring the hands that fed us, and passing on the warmth that only tradition can hold.
