Among my vivid childhood memories is making bilo-bilo. 

I remember the sensation of rolling between my palms a dollop of cold malagkit (sticky rice) to about an inch round until smooth, putting the ball on a plate, and repeating the process, putting the balls one beside the others on the quickly filled plate, until there was no more in the big bowl to roll.

Making guinataang bilo-bilo with my great aunt Victoria—my Lola Toyang—was a regular activity that I enjoyed because of the reward at the end: I could have as many bowls of it as I could eat. But as a young child, I had only enough space in my tummy for two bowls, max.

I remember the first time she showed me how. She washed her hands then wiped them dry with a piece of cloth hanging by the sink. She dusted her palms with a thin layer of flour, and took a bit of the malagkit between her palms, where it disappeared as she made circular motions with her hands. Then, when she showed me her open hands, there in the middle of one palm would be a perfect white ball.

The products of my first few attempts at making bilo-bilo were not up to par, for a number of reasons: The size of the balls was uneven and therefore would result in uneven cooking (“Dapat pare-pareho ng laki para sabay-sabay sila maluluto”). The balls were not smooth enough (“Hindi pa makinis”). They weren’t even round at all, as though they were intended for quite another dessert (“Hindi naman tayo gumagawa ng palitaw”).

Grandparent

Lola Toyang was the only “grandparent” I grew up with. I never met my maternal grandfather; he passed away long before my parents met, and his wife was in far-off Zamboanga City. My paternal grandparents lived in America and visited only for a few weeks every few years. Lola Toyang was my father’s aunt, who also helped raise him.

She lived in their old family home—a two-story wooden house seemingly on sturdy stilts, surrounded by fruit-bearing trees like kamias, banana, guava, and avocado. It stood across from a tributary of the Pasig River which, back then, my father said, flowed with fresh, clear water so clean that he and his friends could swim in it. 

The ground floor was actually an open-air storage area, and you had to climb up a rickety outdoor staircase to arrive at a landing with benches on either side. After walking through the doors, you arrived at the living room bathed in natural light where, without fail, you would find Lola Toyang sitting, engaged in ganchillo, crochet.

It seemed that whenever we visited, she was working on a different crochet project: a bed cover one day, a tablecloth the next. Even while speaking with us, her hands were perpetually busy, twisting the crochet needle (to me, it looked like a big needle) and yarn this way and that, the spool beside her turning with every movement.

In my child’s eyes, she finished one crochet project a day! You’d see a square doily, a round doily, a table runner, pillowcases—all crocheted by her—in her small house. She gave us some of her finished products; still, because she was always busy crocheting when she was not doing household chores, I wondered where most of her work went. 

Lola Toyang married a widower when she was close to her “golden years.” They did not have children, which was why we, the children of her nephew and niece, received much of her attention. 

Memorable process

I remember the feel of the malagkit, cold and sticky, almost icky because, inevitably, some of it would stay on my hands and between my fingers no matter how hard I tried to get rid of it. Between rolling the balls, I’d rub my fingers against the opposite palm in an effort to “shed” my “dough skin”—as I liked to imagine it—onto the wooden table.

We began the process after lunch, after the dishes had been washed and stacked to air-dry on the banggerahan—the area built precisely for that purpose beside the sink made of bamboo. I’d sit—actually, crouch—on a bench so I could reach the table. Alternately, I’d kneel on the bench until my knees hurt, then I’d shift positions.

Lola Toyang would set the big bowl of malagkit between us. Sometimes, there would be music from the transistor radio to accompany our work. After the first few times of fumbling, I got the hang of producing smooth bilo-bilo of more or less the same size. She’d sit nearby and cut up kamote, ube, and saging na saba on a heavy wooden block.

When we were done with the preparations, Lola Toyang would clear the table. She’d bring water in a big pot to a boil, then, as I stood on a chair set at a safe distance to watch, she’d drop in each smooth ball in quick succession. The boiling water would suck in the balls and bubble over them before they rose to the surface for her to retrieve.

At this point, she’d tell me to wash my hands clean and take a nap while she cooked the guinataan. I don’t know if she added any special/secret ingredients while I slept. I only know that I was always awakened from my nap by a combination of the particular kind of heat emanating from the kitchen and the sweet smell of coconut milk and other sweet treats pervading the air. 

As if in a trance, I’d get up from the bamboo-slatted bed and follow that scent and sensation into the kitchen. As I sat at the table, rubbing my eyes, my hair in disarray, I’d receive in my hands a warm bowl filled with colorful delights. But I loved eating the bilo-bilo most of all! I loved how chewy each one was, and I made sure I had the perfect ratio of one ball to one spoonful of the coconut “soup.” 

In part, I suppose, I loved eating the balls because I knew I made them myself. The guinataang bilo-bilo was a warm treat that I relished before I left her home and walked the few minutes back to my parents’ house.

I have since learned about and sampled versions of the same dish: binignit (in Cebu) and tambo (in Kabayan, Benguet). Although I haven’t made it in a long time, even the versions I’ve had from street stalls evoke a particular warmth in my heart: reminding me of a time when I took things slow and enjoyed quiet moments filled with love in the suburbs of Manila.

Lola Toyang passed away in her 80s. My parents (and, by extension, I) inherited much of her dinnerware and kitchen utensils. And I have come to realize that she is part of the reason why I so love to cook.