by Jade Laud
In our home, the scent of golden, frying dough is more than just a prelude to a meal; it is a time machine. Empanadas are my mother’s signature dish, a cherished staple that graces our table whether we are celebrating a grand milestone or simply gathering on a quiet, ordinary evening. But the secret ingredient in her recipe isn't found in a pantry—it is rooted in the quiet, pre-dawn hours of her childhood.
The origins of this family tradition stretch back to a time when my mother and her brother, Tito, were just children. Long before the sun broke over the horizon, their Lolo (grandfather) would rise. At 5:00 AM, enveloped in the quiet chill of the early morning, he would step outside and take his post. He was waiting for manong, the local street vendor who walked the neighborhood carrying a humble Tupperware container filled with treasure. Whenever that lid popped open, a cloud of delicious, warm steam would escape into the cool air—the unmistakable, comforting aroma of freshly baked empanadas.
Often, my mother and Tito were still tucked away in their beds, lost in their dreams, while their grandfather stood vigil in the dawn. Lolo never minded the early hour; he waited simply so that the very first thing his grandchildren would experience upon waking was the gift of a warm pastry. The joy it brought them was undeniable. Every morning, as they bit into the savory dough, their smiles rivaled the brightness of the sun that had finally decided to rise.
But seasons change, and the inevitable passage of time eventually brought a heavy, agonizing silence to those mornings.
When Lolo passed away, the dawn felt colder. The hardest part wasn't just the encompassing grief; it was the daily, agonizing reminder that arrived the moment manong walked by. The sight of Lolo’s favorite chair sitting empty on the porch was a hollow ache that settled deep in their chests. The children were forced to step out into the early morning light on their own, standing in the exact spot their grandfather used to occupy, painfully aware that he would never again be there to hand them their morning treat.
Yet, from that profound loss, a beautiful legacy was born. My mother took that grief and kneaded it into something enduring. She refused to let the memory of those mornings fade, turning the empanada into her own culinary masterpiece. Today, as she cooks those familiar golden pockets for our family, she isn't just preparing food. For her, an empanada is a vessel of cherished memories, an unbreakable bond of family, and a daily tribute to the man who waited in the dark so she could wake up to warmth.
For my mother, and now for all of us, life simply isn't complete without it.
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