13/10/2025
What the smoke leaves behind
Long before I understood what love was supposed to sound like, I already knew what it smelled like.
It’s the rich, savory scent of soy sauce and garlic, mixing with the smoky aroma of charcoal burning at sunset, and the sharp, comforting scent of warm oil over an open flame.
The charred, mouthwatering smell of ihaw-ihaw didn’t just mean food was ready. It meant that my Lola was showing her love in her own special way.
Every day, just before the sky turned gold, we would start preparing. Rain or shine, tired or not. In her thin cotton duster, she’d pull out the grill and the folding table.
Helping out, I’d arrange plastic containers packed with marinated meat, along with sticks of isaw, hot dogs, betamax, and barbecue—whatever we could afford that day.
As dusk deepened, the skewers kissed the flame, coals glowed to life, and the air carried a tender, familiar smoke. Before long, the whole street smelled like childhood.
She grilled meat like the way she raised me—slow, steady, with quiet strength and endless care.
While other children were tucked into bed with bedtime stories, I was raised by the rumble of passing jeepneys, the pop of fat hitting flame, and the gentle rhythm of Lola’s pamaypay as she patted my back.
My grandmother never said, “I love you” like in the movies. But she handed me the biggest piece of liempo without saying a word and made sure I ate first. She would count coins in silence to see if she could buy the dress I had been begging for.
She stood in the smoke until her eyes watered... never once stepping away.
That’s how my Lola loved me—not with grand gestures or applause, but by simply always being there, with constant care. Love that smelled like grilled meat and charcoal, lingering long after the fire had died down.
These days, not only does my stomach grumble when I catch the smell of food being grilled, but there’s also a deep ache of longing in my heart.
Because somewhere along the way, ihaw-ihaw stopped being just a meal—it became a gentle act of love, offered fully, with nothing asked in return.
A reminder that sometimes, the greatest acts of care aren’t just spoken through tender words, but shown in a plate handed to you, still warm from the fire.
Written by: Belgrade Nicosia E. Batronel
Illustrated by: Shiena Marie M. Palisan
