I grew up eating food prepared by my wawa. Wawa was my mom’s aunt, who lived with us. She oversaw our whole household like a general and the kitchen was her domain. It was clear that cooking was not just a chore to her, but more an expression of love and care for us.
Every Saturday, she would get up at the crack of dawn to go to the market, where she would banter with and cajole her suki for the best meat, fish, fruit and vegetables.
She would meticulously look over slabs of meat and pork, poking, smelling and turning the pieces over and insisting, much to the chagrin of her butcher suki, on the choicest parts to be carved out and double ground or chopped (evenly, min…
Keep on reading: Nourished by Wawa’s love