Kari-Kari
By Rene J. Navarro

—for Amalia “Mals” Canlas

When I received news of Mals' death,
I was training for weeks in a high
meditation to experience taking off
from the physical body
through the Crown
called Sealing of the 5 Senses
with my Taoist master
in the foothills
of Chiang Mai, northern Thailand.
Crying in my room,
I felt ridiculous thinking
of the kari-kari I cooked
in the old apartment
in Brooklyn in the 70’s. Oxtail
simmered on low heat
for hours until it was tender,
ready to fall apart
at the slight nudge of a knife. The tripe
melted in your mouth
like the pieces of
Japanese eggplants while
the long Chinese string beans were
crunchy just on the raw
side. Shrimp paste whose smell
drifted down the hallway
when it was sauteed
in pork skin and fat with plenty
of garlic and onions,
a little sugar and ground pepper,
added balance. Fresh heart
of banana was missing
because we could not find
one in Chinatown.
The sauce was golden and thick
from the toasted ground peanuts
and achuete seeds that were
soaked in water
and mashed. A cuisine
of patient waiting,
and intuition,
as only a trained chef
could master.
It was an art I learned
at the dirty kitchen
in the old house back
in Tarlac as Mals, wearing
her dress we called
a "duster" sweated
over the firewood,
a darkened clay pot and
three irregular stones.
She raised
me and my three
younger brothers
forty years ago,
followed us to the States,
baby-sat
our children
and took care
of my father
and mother in their old age,
and
always whatever
happened, she held
her temper, and her
voice, and gave herself
to us, until she passed
away January
1997 in Spring
Valley, Rockland,
New York.

© Rene J. Navarro

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