10/05/2026
This is perhaps one of the most poignant shots I took in one of my trips back home. My Mama buying fresh river clams for sinanta.
She didn’t have to go. She had plenty of help. Someone else could have easily gone to the market for her. But this was a ritual etched deep into her bones, a language of love she spoke all her life.
Yes, before chefs called it “market-driven cooking,” there were mothers like mine.
This was her daily grind, making sure there was always fresh catch on the table, until her feet and limbs slowly denied her of the very thing she knew by heart.
The market was her choreography.
The bargaining. The careful choosing. Love, in her hands, often came home wrapped in thin plastic bags damp from the palengke.
Back then, I never thought much about these mornings. They felt ordinary, folded into the rhythm of our days.
Now I see them differently.
This Mother’s Day, I honor the women who loved through labor. Through cooking. Through showing up day after day, carrying home nourishment like it was their calling. 🤍
