1.Why are so many Filipinos poor?

2.When males lose their jobs in the

Philippines, does it mean they lose their
manhood?
3.Why are so many people numb to the fact
many Filipinos are starving? How do you
feel about beggars on the street? Why do
you feel that way?
Show & Tell
RECIPE OF LENGUA
Ingredients
2 lbs. lengua (ox tongue)
3 cups beef broth or sock
cups whipping cream
1 (10.5 oz.) can condensed cream of mushroom
1 cup sliced button mushrooms
1 large yellow onion, chopped
5 cloves garlic, crushed
6 cups water (for boiling the ox tongue)
Salt and ground black pepper to taste
3 tablespoons cooking oil
Instructions
Boil 6 cups of water in a pressure cooker. Add the ox tongue. Cover the
cooker and pressure cook for 35 to 40 minutes or until tender.
Remove from the pressure cooker. Let it cool down. Peel the outer layer
off the tongue. Slice the ox tongue into thin pieces.
Heat oil in a cooking pot.
Saute onion and garlic.
Add the sliced ox tongue. Cook for 2 minutes.
Pour the condensed cream of mushroom and beef broth in the pot. Stir.
Let boil. Cover and simmer for 35 minutes.
Add the sliced mushrooms and whipping cream. Continue to cook for 40
minutes in low heat or until the liquid reduces to half and the sauce starts
to thicken.
Add salt and ground black pepper to taste.
Transfer to a serving plate. Serve.
Share and enjoy!
Have you ever eaten Lengua? Why
or why not? If you were to describe
who usually eats Lengua, who would
you be describing? Is the dish
something alien to you?
Lengua para diablo
(The devil ate my
words)
I suspected that my father sold his tongue
to the devil. He had little say in our house.
Whenever he felt like disagreeing with my
mother, he murmured, The devil ate my
words. This meant he forgot what he was
about to say and Mother was often
appeased. There was more need for
appeasement after he lost his job.
The devil ate his words, the devil ate his capacity for words,
the devil ate his tongue. But perhaps only after prior
negotiation with its owner, what with Mother always
complaining, Im already taking a peek at hell! when it got
too hot and stuffy in our tiny house. She seemed to sweat more
that summer, and miserably. She made it sound like Fathers
fault, so he cajoled her with kisses and promises of an electric
fan, bigger windows, a bigger house, but she pushed him away,
saying, Get off me, Im hot, ay, this hellish life! Again he was
ready to pledge relief, but something in my mothers eyes
made him mutter only the usual excuse, The devil ate my
words, before he shut his mouth. Then he ran to the tap to get
her more water.
Lengua para diablo: tongue for the devil. Surely he
sold his tongue in exchange for those promises to my
mother: comfort, a full stomach, life without our
wretched want . . . But the devil never delivered his
side of the bargain. The devil was alien to want. He
lived in a Spanish house and owned several stores in
the city. This Spanish mestizo was my fathers
employer, but only for a very short while. He sacked
him and our neighbour Tiyo Anding, also a mason,
after he found a cheaper hand for the extension of his
house.
We never knew the devils name. Father was
incapable of speaking it, more so after he came
home and sat in the darkest corner of the house, and
stared at his hands. It took him two days of silent
staring before he told my mother about his fate.
I wondered how the devil ate my fathers tongue.
Perhaps he cooked it in mushroom sauce, in that
special Spanish way that they do ox tongue.
First, it was scrupulously cleaned, rubbed with salt
and vinegar, blanched in boiling water, then scraped
of its white coating now, imagine words scraped
off the tongue, and even taste, our capacity for
pleasure. In all those two days of silent staring,
Father hardly ate. He said he had lost his taste for
food, he was not hungry. Junior and Nilo were more
than happy to demolish his share of gruel with fish
sauce.
Now after the thorough clean, the tongue was
pricked with a fork to allow the flavours of all the
spices and condiments to penetrate the flesh. Then it
was browned in olive oil. How I wished we could
prick my fathers tongue back to speech and even
hunger, but of course we couldnt, because it had
disappeared. It had been served on the devils platter
with garlic, onion, tomatoes, bay leaf, clove,
peppercorns, soy sauce, even sherry, butter, and
grated edam cheese, with that aroma of something
rich and foreign.
His silent tongue was already luxuriating in a multitude
of essences, pampered into a piquant delight.
Perhaps, next he should sell his oesophagus, then his
stomach. I would if I had the chance to be that pampered.
To know for once what I would never taste. I would be
soaked, steamed, sauted, basted, baked, boiled, fried
and feted with only the perfect seasonings. I would
become an epicure. On a rich mans plate, I would be
initiated to flavours of only the finest quality. In his
stomach, I would be inducted to secrets. I would be the
inside girl, and I could tell you the true nature of sated
affluence.
Banana Heart Summer (Murdoch Books,
2005) ( Random USA, 2009) (Anvil Manila,
2005)