It was a Saturday at home in Pangasinan. I was 15, I think. There was something good on TV, though I can’t remember what it was—only that, on a Saturday night, there was always something worth watching.
Dad made curry fried chicken, which was quite inventive—but then, that was how he approached our meals. While every other Filipino family was having yet another adobo or kare-kare, we would be eating hamburgers with all the trimmings, T-bone steaks served on individual cast-iron plates, or beef stew with both rice and bread.
Strangely, though, he never made that curry fried chicken again. I’ve tried to replicate it over the years, but it has never tasted the same. I suspect there are only two possible reasons: either it followed a very specific recipe, or memories—especially those involving taste—are never quite as faithful as we think they are.
So, if I could go back in time, I would watch him make it and take notes. I would also tell him that I loved him, and that I valued and cherished everything he had done for us—something I never really had the chance to say while he was alive.
Ryan Amor 
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