Handmade labor of love
To my Papa, for manually cracking and meticulously picking apart crabs for me, the ultimate handmade labor of love.
Growing up in a family of OFWs meant twice the celebrations. We came up with all sorts of excuses to gather and share a meal, savoring every moment we had together before being apart once again. In these tiny moments where we were blessed to be whole, my family never shied away from spending a little more on food. We were never really affectionate or vocal with our love, but food has always been the safest language of love we all could agree on. From my Papa’s kilos upon kilos of chocolate pasalubong to appease my sweet tooth to my kuya’s love letters in the form of tea boxes that I mentioned I liked once, or the passed-down family recipes ever-present on our table.
Growing up in a family of OFWs meant twice the celebrations, and crabs, for our family, always signified that my dad was home.
We said “I love you” through our hands that prepared it and graciously accepted it through our stomachs. Through every single one of these holiday celebrations, three things always remained present: my Papa, my favorite boiled crabs, and a noisy house filled with my extended family. Nowadays, however, occasions look a little different.
Every first of November, individuals flock towards their loved ones’ final resting place—to remember, mourn, and simply linger in their grief. Amidst the sea of curated bouquets and candle-lit columbary, I stand with a petite cake and a birthday candle, singing softly in front of my Papa. On such a solemn day, I choose to celebrate his birth rather than his departure.
I lost my father a little over a week after my 14th birthday. I often mourned the loss of the years I could have had with him; memories I could have made alongside memories I struggle to remember. My father spent most of his life working overseas, dedicating his life to providing and earning. I only had the privilege to spend a total of four weeks with him every year, since he made it a point to reserve at least two weeks every July just to celebrate my birthday with me.
Years after he has passed, I desperately try to hold on to the memories I can recall and every little detail I can wrack up—even the most mundane things, such as words, gestures and habits he did daily. He would often blast music through his huge speakers in our sala, classics by Swing Out Sister, Chaka Khan, Earth, Wind & Fire, and even Beyoncé. Or how his arrival always came hand-in-hand with the distinct squeak of his rubber shoes hitting the marble floor. And whenever he was home, he would always cook my favorite dishes—one of which is boiled crabs. Rather than eat, my father would dedicate his time to tediously picking apart crabs for me, delicately searching every nook and cranny of their legs and claws, ensuring that I’d get every meaty piece. He would repeat the process again and again until I was full and happy. Only then would he start the process once more, finally taking a bite for himself.
As a teen coping with such an incomprehensible loss, I perceived grief as a solitary thing. One that is mine, perhaps with the misguided idea that it would bring me closer to my Papa. It would be another thing that was just ours, a selfish venture that highlighted my desperation to hold onto him.
Last Nov. 1, after visiting Papa for his birthday, my partner and I decided to continue the celebration at the nearby Pancake House. It was the same one he used to take me to daily as a child, after school or when I showed him the many “Very Good” stamps I earned that day. We would sit at a table for two, ordering classic pancakes. The servers would hand over their coloring sheet and a tray of broken-down crayons. Dates like these were a staple with my Papa and me. When my partner and I walked in, a “Happy Birthday Pancakes” sign welcomed us as we slid into the booth. While browsing the menu, the soft hum of After the Love Has Gone by Earth, Wind & Fire engulfed the tiny space. I could not help but tear up; I’d like to think he was right there with us.
And perhaps the drive to immerse myself in his music, his hobbies, and his cooking is a byproduct of the ever-present anxiety of living a life without him, of having more years without him than I had with him. To learn how he lived and to like what he was fond of is digging my nails into any piece of him that I could find in the scraps of people’s memories, in details found in carelessly thrown around conversations, or stories told over the holidays when everyone is drunk on nostalgia and sheer joy.
I went to Sharjah a week ago to attend a work event, where a fraction of my extended family also resides. I was welcomed by my cousin and his wife, who had both just ended their work shifts, with big smiles on their faces and a “Welcome to Dubai” sign. I spent what little time I had exploring the city with my little nephew, listening to him excitedly ramble about the place he now calls home. From double-decker buses to the metro, he made it a point to muster up any information he could, then he looked up at me and waited for an enthusiastic response in return. On my last day, they prepared a meal for me: an improved version of my favorite boiled crab recipe with Cajun sauce, shrimp and corn.
Crabs have always signified a celebration. It’s present at birthdays, homecomings, and most especially the holidays. It always signified that my dad was home, that the person we were supposed to be celebrating celebrated us instead, basking in the presence of their loved ones. He redirected the love he was supposed to be receiving to those he was coming home to. Even in the form of a simple meal, my dad never faltered in showing his love. It was in every laborious crack, extraction and offering chants: “I love you, I’m glad that you are full.” A simple meal shared exudes a remembrance, grief laced with much love and fondness. Every bite reminds me of home, of family, and of a selfless love only a father can give.
