Mananatili: How a bowl of sinigang at 2:00 a.m. saved my life

It's been three weeks of continuous rain in Luzon. Flooding has become a regular occurrence, with the monsoon season paralyzing the country even without a typhoon.

I've been living alone for the last two years. In that time, I have built a sanctuary—a safe space, a home where I can actually be bored. Since last night, the rain has been pouring outside. Inside, I am safe.

I sometimes wonder what an ordinary life with a partner feels like, but then I look at how ordinary my own days have become. At first, it was overwhelming: going in circles, walking without a destination, shortness of breath, random crying. But slowly, I became more comfortable in isolation. I look forward to going home even if there’s no one waiting for me.

On bad days, I eat a bowl of beef mami alone at a less crowded restaurant in Quezon City.

Then came this particular night.

I opened my eyes. My room was dark. The sky outside was black. My phone was still in my right hand, and I stared at a pair of scissors I found on my left. I was still wearing the sando I had worn outside earlier that day.

I peeked at the clock. It was only 11:10 p.m. I had woken up from an evening nap with swollen eyes, remembering the whole bottle of white wine I drank as my dinner.

I slowly lifted myself from the bed and walked out of my bedroom.

I scanned my house. The newly bought clothes were still on the sofa, along with my bag, a pen, some yarn, the remote control, and the clutter I refused to hide. The empty bottle was on the dining table. I noticed the kangkong leaves sitting in the kitchen sink, their edges already wilting.

Earlier that day, I had pulled out onions, tomatoes, radish, okra, and eggplant from the refrigerator. I thawed the pork ribs from the freezer and kept them in the chiller.

I had been meaning to cook sinigang for two days.

I glanced at the clock. It was 11:35 p.m. I stared at the leaves, thinking this would be another case of food waste, so I began stripping them from their stems. I chopped the onions and five or six tomatoes, then took the pork ribs from the chiller.

I sautéed the onions and tomatoes first, slowly watching them break down into a rich paste before adding the pork, three long green peppers, and water. While waiting for the meat to become tender, I tidied the sink and took a hot shower. I have learned that I like dishes with soup. I always feel cold, and soup warms my body.

It was 1:00 a.m. when I smelled the aroma. I added the radish and the rest of the vegetables, then sprinkled in the sinigang mix. I tasted it and was surprised by how the acidity of the fresh tomatoes cut through the sourness of the powder. A mouthful of sweetness and sourness in one sip.

I've learned to cook better-tasting sinigang in the last two years. I discovered that tomatoes play a huge role and that using the proper cut of meat matters. Before, I would Google the recipe, review the step-by-step instructions, double-check the ingredients, and reread the recipe at least three times. But this particular sinigang recipe is now embedded in my mind.

I scooped myself a bowl, sat down on the sofa, and opened Netflix. I pretended it was 2:00 in the afternoon rather than 2:00 in the morning. I finished two bowls before settling back into the bedroom. The stillness was deafening.

Outside, the rain started pouring down again. I closed my eyes, inhaled, and exhaled deeply.

The decision to stay won today. I still breathe.

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