A pot of mechado, a bottle of beer and thee

Indulge this Aling Kusinera for awhile. Mechado is special to me and my siblings. We associate it with our mother, the great cook Gliceria D. Lolarga, who lived (almost) to feed and care for us to a healthy adulthood. Her mechado wasn't special Sunday fare--it was served on a regular day with us fighting over the sauce and the meat.

That is, until I tasted the mechado of sculptor Jerry Araos that used the fat-marbled batok of the cow. The dish is served at Gourmet Gypsy Cafe, 28 Maginhawa St., Up Village, Qc, immortalized in the menu by his daughter Waya.

For today's lunch, I brought down a couple of beef shanks from the freezer last night to thaw out overnight in the chiller. After breakfast, I rubbed garlic salt on the meat, a tip I picked up from Chef Mike Tatung of the FB program Simpol. The salt helped speed up the tenderizing of the meat.

With Kai as my kitchen helper, we prepared the carrots, potatoes, garlic and onions while I nagged Rolly to look for a slender bottle of black olives to add further flavor to the dish. We had run out of bell peppers.

Pot of mechado simmering on the stove

Using my daughter Kimi's cast-iron pot, I sauteed what Chef Tatung called the aromatics together with overripe cherry tomatoes. The meat was fall-off-the-bones tender after almost 45 minutes of simmering in its marinade, water and tomato paste.

When it was time to serve my take on Mommy's mechado, Rolly said that all it lacked was a dash of red wine to enrich the sauce.
He rated our ulam for lunch and for tonight's dinner a "7.0." I didn't ask for Kai's opinion anymore. It was enough that she was part of the preparatory stage.

Another day in the life in the kitchen.

The art of improv

Yesterday was market day for Kimi as we were running low on supplies. Before she left, she brought down from the freezer a piece of chicken breast. I was to make chicken curry out of that one piece. And it wasn't even fat.

Midway as Kai and I prepared the ingredients, she quartering the potatoes, cutting the carrots and slicing the green and red bell peppers while I took care of the aromatics (garlic, onions, ginger and green chilies), I remembered my mother Gliceria D. Lolarga. When she was alive, she'd prepare a side dish of hard-boiled eggs to go with the curry.

It was the first time my husband Rolly heard of such. He surmised that it must be because Mom had to feed eight children so she needed extenders the way one put potatoes in an adobo dish.

I cut the chicken into several bite-size pieces. Kai timed the boiling of the eggs. I usually allow the eggs to boil for eight minutes to ensure the yolk isn't runny.

My grandchild was in a good mood--her mother and guardian was out, after all, and she could watch TV while having her lunch. Fishing for compliments, I asked her what the grade of our ulam was. From the living room she shouted: "Ten!"

I think the eggs did the magic.