ST. MICHEL FRENCH dough nut is the latest I’ve tasted of the pastry lot. Of a sudden, it reminded of my late Aunt Nena (or Auntie Nen to most of her nephews and nieces). I wasn’t as close to her as my brother Steve(+) was; she assumed the cost of his grade schooling where she was until he decided he wasn’t meant for provincial life. I don’t know how her donut compares to Dunkin’, Krispy Kreme, Mister, J. Co, and the latest Japanese variety but, imho, those would never come close to the way she made her favorite pasalubong. Aunt Nena, before she passed many moons ago, was a grade school teacher in Paracale, Camarines Norte. She lived with her mother (dear Inay of affectionate memory) on her salary and pension later on. Aunt Tranquilina was one of 5 sisters (my Mom Mamerta, among Agueda, Felipa, and Maria) and 2 brothers, Fausto and Guillermo) who are all souls now. When school ends, she always spends her sabbatical with us, and I always made sure I was first to get hold of her homemade treats (she baked rice cakes, too, but they weren’t to die for). The dough nuts were only next to what I admire her for, the first thing being her perfect set of pearly whites. She never married and I thought it significant that she took care of herself (and Inay) really well. Her desert goody is nonpareil to this day and it makes me regret to not have had the interest in my youth to ask her for the recipe. It was not too sweet, just the right sugar for any sweet tooth, fluffy but firm, and does not last the moment it is laid before drooling eyes.
She was my mother’s favorite. She bought us our very first black-and-white tv set and, when she felt she could no longer use it, her vintage Singer sewing machine. My Mom was a darn good seamstress and made full use of the heirloom. Good things not known to last, those do not even enhance her memories now, unlike the one that just jolted me.
Because Steve was her favorite, my jealous mind perceived that she was always picking on me and lets him go scot-free, even if his misdemeanors were many and almost criminal. Otherwise, we four brothers lived a peaceful existence even when she takes Steve with her back to the boondocks. And I’d be a river of shit with my bawling over our parting. It struck me as strange, therefore, when he passed in May of 2019 (after a thankfully short bedridden period), apparently in peace and without pain (for he never complained) and my grief was almost nonexistent. I was more grateful to God He granted him his wish (said aloud to me in one fit of frustration, which hit me hard then) and mine, too, come to think of it (his bed sore was enlarging and screaming “Ouch!” but he seemed not to care. He was more concerned (and probably, helplessly humiliated) that Marie, Sunny’s wife, self-appointed herself as his doting, dutiful caregiver.
Aunt Nena was already retired when Inay left and she realized that she could no longer put up with living alone so decided to fill the void my grandmother (who was already with us) left. I was conveniently working away from home when this happened so the friction between us came to a full stop. I even longed for, and enjoyed, the few weekends that I’d visit my family and sit and talk with her.
Yesterday made me wonder if, having married, she would’ve made a darling grandmother to her grandkids. I suppose she would’ve been a better disciplinarian than I will ever be. As it were, I think I failed to be a good father to my two sons is why they haven’t married and given me any extender of my father’s name. Be that as it may, I remembered Aunt Nena first before my dear techie friend Tess reminded me of my parents, Prospero and Mamerta, of loving memory, lolo and lola of my sons, respectively.
Some memories are better unremembered if they contain so little joy so I will limit myself to her legacies. She was a single educator who mentored many lives. When I was younger and we would visit her in Paracale, almost all the townspeople there knew her by her name “Miss Madrid.” My mother’s maiden name I will probably resurrect when my time is up. Who knows, my luck might bump into an Angel who answers to the functional, one-syllable, no-nonsense moniker “Nen.” I won’t even mind playing teacher with her.
Amen.
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