there it was. a sad sponge cake baked in a ring mold and relegated to the corner in the window of this mexican bakery under the local train stop nearest my place.
immediately, I remember manong jun and his fishpond of fat milkfish.
manong jun was one of mother's suitors while I was growing up. i remember mother baking this type of sponge cake, what foodies affectively call savarin, over and over when manong jun was still paying visits to our house.
my lanky friend was the one who made me realize this. he told me that he knew my single mother was expecting some suitor that night when the afternoon before he could smell mama's baking all the way to their place, five houses down the gravelly road towards the town plaza.
during what could only be described as a good week for her, that is, at least two suitors visited her on alternate days, mama was this wired, grinny woman exultant of what she claimed as her newly discovered oven recipes. that was her word. not newly learned, but discovered.
the french lawyer and gourmet, brillat-savarin, said that the discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star.
that was my mom, my then happy mom. now she is married to a certified philanderer, one who has, to the schadenfreude of our neighbors, sired a daughter from another gullible, island-smelling woman.
the thing with manong jun was that he was pathetically mousy. he would come to our house, often bringing some squirmy milkfish, and then just sat there, right on the bench, the rusty bench in our arid garden patio without the slightest intention of touching my mom. I was already in high school then and this baffled me to no end.
the last time I was home, during a lazy afternoon, mother ordered a run-of-the-mill sponge cake from the local bakery for our siesta nosh. I couldn't bring myself to ask her why she's not baking anymore.
we both dug into the ordered cake as soon as it was delivered. and for a commercially baked confection, the texture was very slight, almost melting as soon as it grazed the roof of my mouth. unlike mama's which had assertive hints of rubberiness.
i gushed and gushed. but mama curtly cut me off. "oh please, this is such a lightweight. give me something definite, something pushy."
walking one afternoon towards the fish market, I think I saw manong jun driving home his beat up tricycle, empty fish pails flapping on top of the souped up vehicle. maybe I was just too far from him or the light was already quickly fading because I could hardly see his face, like it was expunged or something.