In Bacolod I saw barbecue stands
with skewers of chicken classified
by parts: livers, gizzards, wings,
breast, and isol (bishop's nose
or chicken butt)— all marinated in
coconut vinegar, lime, and annatto
oil. My favorite is the latter, for
the enticement to eat with the hands,
dip the sizzled flesh into finger
bowls of garlic-laced vinegar. Fat,
that unctuous texture in the mouth.
In the '50s, poultry industries
began to dump turkey tails in Pacific
markets. These are parts that aren't
usually served at squeamish dinner
tables. Fish head and collars, marrow
bones; oxtail and tongue, pig snouts,
hocks, ears— everything our grandmothers
charred or salted, sautéed with the holy
trinity of garlic, onion, and tomato.
Our mothers packed sausages into
cleaned casings, thickened stews
with blood. Their kitchen knives
sang. Our hearts and bellies filled.
Our faces shone around the table.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
