when i feel distressed, the thing i want most is my grandma’s cooking. ceremonial dishes laid center of table to be served communally (never serving yourself, only onto other plates, yourself last). pungent sinigang, fatty saucy adobo that melts into a blanket of rice, starchy sweet stewy ginitan. sometimes i crave her summer staples even more though, bowls of function, of quieting, of americana, of "eat children and let me rest." wartime rations like tuna sandwiches or canned baked beans with papercut cheddar cheese and raw chopped onions, and maybe a cantaloupe milkshake, the taste of summer encapsulated.