By Break-up week. The streets full of slush. The dogs all muddy. Pete and I worked the night shift Friday. We talked between codes about the kids — his daughter's wedding planning, my sister's pregnancy. The talking was the keeping.
Lourdes is 75. She is slower. She still cooks. She still tells me to find a husband even though I have one. Angela came over Saturday with the kids. We cooked. We argued about pancit proportions — she uses more soy, I use more calamansi. We are both wrong, according to Lourdes.
I made bibingka Sunday. The pandan leaves, the coconut, the salted egg, the cheese on top. The dessert that is also a small church.
A reader wrote me a long email this week about her grandmother's adobo, which differed from mine in every measurement. The differences were the conversation. I wrote her back. The writing back is the work.
I called Lourdes Sunday night. The call was the call. The call was always the call.
The Filipino Community newsletter announced a fundraiser for typhoon relief in Samar. I committed to making three hundred lumpia. The number is the number. The number has always been the number. Three hundred is what I make. The math has stopped surprising me.
I drove the Glenn Highway out to Eklutna on Saturday. The mountains were the mountains. The lake was the lake. The body needed the open road. The open road did its work.
Angela texted me a photo of the kids. I texted back a heart. The exchange took thirty seconds. The thirty seconds was the keeping.
I had a long phone call with Dr. Reeves on Wednesday. We talked about pacing and rest and the way the body keeps a log of what it has carried. Dr. Reeves said, "Grace. The body remembers. The mind forgets. The cooking is the bridge." I wrote the line down. The line is now on a sticky note above the kitchen sink.
A reader from New Jersey wrote in about her grandmother's adobo, which used pineapple. I had never heard of pineapple in adobo. I tried it. It was strange. It was also good. The strange and the good are not opposites.
The break room had cake Tuesday. Someone's birthday. We ate the cake. We did not ask whose birthday. The cake was the cake.
The therapy session this month was about pacing. Dr. Reeves said, "Grace. The pacing is the love for the future self." I am working on the pacing. The pacing is harder than the loving.
Auntie Norma called Sunday to ask if I had a recipe for a particular merienda from Iloilo. I did not. I said I would ask Lourdes. I asked Lourdes. Lourdes had it. The chain.
The neighbors invited us over for a small dinner Thursday. They are an Iñupiaq family — Aana and her grandson Joe. We ate caribou stew and rice. I brought lumpia. The kitchens of Anchorage have always been the small UN. The food is the proof.
The grocery store had no calamansi. I substituted lime. The substitution was acceptable. The acceptable is the working version of perfect.
Lourdes called me twice this week. The first call was about a church event. The second was about a recipe variation she had remembered from her childhood. The remembering was the gift.
Pete and I had a long phone conversation Tuesday. We talked about the family — his and mine. The talking was the keeping.
I made tea late at night. The tea was the small comfort. The comfort was the marker.
I checked email at the kitchen table while the rice cooked. There were one hundred and twenty unread messages. I closed the laptop. The unread can wait.
The bibingka I made that Sunday — the pandan, the salted egg, the cheese going golden on top — was not a recipe so much as a memory I keep returning to, and not every kitchen has the banana leaves or the clay pot to do it right. When I want that same feeling, that same coconut warmth that Dr. Reeves might call a bridge, I come back to this “Impossible” Coconut Custard Pie: it forms its own crust as it bakes, which always strikes me as a small miracle, and small miracles are exactly what a break-up week in the Anchorage slush requires. The coconut is the coconut. The pie does its work.
“Impossible” Coconut Custard Pie
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 50 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 2 cups whole milk
- 1 cup sweetened shredded coconut
- 4 large eggs
- 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
- 1/2 cup granulated sugar
- 1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
Instructions
- Preheat. Heat your oven to 350°F. Grease a 9-inch pie plate well with butter or nonstick spray.
- Blend the batter. Combine milk, eggs, flour, sugar, butter, vanilla, baking powder, and salt in a blender. Blend on medium speed for about 30 seconds until smooth and well combined.
- Add coconut. Stir in the shredded coconut by hand — do not blend it, so it stays distributed throughout rather than pulverized.
- Pour and bake. Pour the batter into the prepared pie plate. Bake for 48—52 minutes, until the top is deep golden brown and the center is set with just a slight jiggle.
- Cool before slicing. Let the pie cool on a wire rack for at least 30 minutes. It will firm up as it rests. The crust forms on its own at the bottom — this is the impossible part, and it works every time.
- Serve. Slice and serve warm or at room temperature. A dusting of toasted coconut on top is optional but welcome.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 265 | Protein: 6g | Fat: 13g | Carbs: 31g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 175mg