Food as Love Language: A Mother-Daughter Story

When I think about my relationship with my mother, I don't just remember conversations - I remember the rhythm of her hands kneading dough, the careful patience in her voice as she taught me to caramelize sugar without burning it, and the way our kitchen filled with the sweet aroma of ube and jack fruit during every holiday.

My mom is an incredible baker. She could whip up the most perfect turon or create the creamiest ube halaya that would disappear from family gatherings before the main course was served. My fondest childhood memories aren't from trips or toys - they're from spending entire days in the kitchen with her during Christmas and birthdays, me as her eager sous chef, soaking up every technique like a sponge.

Those kitchen moments taught me more than recipes. My mom showed me that baking requires patience - you can't skip steps, you can't rush the process. Making leche flan, for example, demands complete attention. Too much heat and you'll burn the sugar glass on top; too much steam and the custard becomes too firm. These lessons about patience, precision, and care have shaped how I approach everything in my life.

Growing Up Between Two Worlds

I spent my early years in the Philippines before moving to California as a baby. Growing up, my parents always cooked Filipino food at home. We rarely went out to eat - and when we did, it was a huge treat. Whenever my siblings and I begged for McDonald's or Little Caesars, my parents would say, "We have food at home" - meaning our rich, flavorful Filipino dishes.

As kids, we hated it. We wanted pizza and burgers like our friends. But now, as a mother myself, I'm incredibly grateful. That "stubbornness" preserved something precious - a wealth of culinary knowledge and cultural connection that I'm now passing down to my own children.

The Circle Continues

I have two little ones now - a one-year-old and a three-year-old. What once felt like "chores" in my mother's kitchen now feels like sacred time. I understand now that when my mom insisted I help her bake, she wasn't just teaching me to cook - she was sharing our heritage, creating memories, and showing love in the way our family knows best.

My kids don’t cook yet but when they do I plan to recreate those same holiday moments that my mom and Lola (grandma) created with me. Because in our family, food is our love language. It's how we comfort, celebrate, and connect. My Lola practically raised me because my parents were always working. She made the most incredible adobo and arroz caldo - dishes that could heal any bad day or celebrate any good grade. When I taste those flavors now, I'm transported back to her kitchen, feeling completely loved and cared for.