"YEMA"

Ingredients:
8 egg yolks
1 big can of condensed milk
1 cup of sugar (for caramel covering)

Mix the ingredients in a bowl. Pour mixture in a wok, and stir over slow fire until it thickens. Set aside to cool. When cooled, form into small balls. Set aside.

In a clean wok, pour one cup of sugar and stir over very slow fire. Once the sugar turns into syrup and boils, drop the yema balls one at a time, and once covered in syrup, swiftly scoop out the yema balls using two forks (one on each hand). Set aside to cool in a flat aluminum tray, placing the balls an eighth of an inch apart. Wrap with cellophane of bright colors.

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Yema was the first culinary masterpiece I learned at a young age. I remember seeing my lola, titas, and mom spend hours on end alternately stirring the sweet mixture, and then forming little balls, dropping them, then swiftly and skillfully taking them out of the pool of boiling syrup. The caramel-covered sweet balls got wrapped with green, yellow, and orange cellophane, but the greater portion oftentimes got eaten by impatient kids and never reach the wrapping stage. The colorful yemas were then stored in big cans, to be served come fiesta or Christmas time, if remain undiscovered by sleuthing kids.

I was 9 years old then, and my brother 8, when we did our first cooking experiment with yema, unsupervised. Mom was in school (she was a schoolteacher) and Dad in the office, leaving my brother and I alone with our trusted helper, Cleofe, who was busy with laundry at that time.

My brother was excited about the whole cooking experiment. We alternately knocked the eggs, and thrillingly separated the yolks from the whites before pouring them onto a silver mixing bowl. I scoured over our cupboard for the stock of groceries, looking for the Dairy Maid condensed milk and a pack of sugar. I hurriedly opened the condensed milk, and poured it onto the small mixing bowl now quarter-full with egg yolks. My brother stirred the mixture before pouring them onto a wok.

Everything was perfect. Being the “Ate” (older sister), I was the one who turned on the gas stove. My brother volunteered to stir the mixture over the slow fire. Sounding like Mommy, I advised him to do it consistently, and slowly, so that the texture would be fine and not burn. My brother did so, patiently, using a wooden flat ladle. So far, so good.

When he would get tired, I would get the wooden ladle from him, to continue mixing the batter. Oh, how good it smelled! Just the scent of it made our mouths watery. My brother and I would alternately stir the mixture, and when it was his turn, I would see him occasionally steal pinches of the now thick mixture, unmindful of the heat emanating from it. I would reprimand him, telling him to be patient and wait a little bit more; he would listen and obey at times. More often than not though, I would see him, at the corner of my eye, continue pinching portions. So far, it was not that good anymore…..

After around thirty minutes of continuous stirring, the batter had then reached the desired consistency. I turned off the gas stove, and my brother, at this point, was eagerly anticipating to partake of the cooked sweet. We decided to forego doing the caramel syrup (since it would take another fifteen minutes or so), and just divide the cooked yema between us. Being a naturally democratic Ate at a young age (ahem!), I asked my brother if he would either (a) divide the yema but I get to choose which portion I’d take or (b) I divide but he would be the one to choose which to take. As if the question at hand was a matter of life and death, it took sometime before my dear brother decided to let me do the dividing and he the choosing. So, skillfully and neatly, I flattened the mixture on the wok, reached for the bread knife, and with just authority, divided the stock into two perfectly equal portions. He pointed to the part he would take, and slowly, using the bread knife, I scraped off that part of the wok onto his ceramic plate.

Everything was well, and we began eating our respective portion (no more forming into balls the yema we made), when almost simultaneously, our attention turned to the wooden ladle still laden with bunches of yema, resting on a quiet spot near the stove. Instinctively, both of us simultaneously reached for the wooden ladle, racing to get the yummy yema now clinging to the ladle’s face and handle. My brother quipped that he should get the whole yema on the ladle being the “bunso” (youngest), but I told him everything should be divided equally, since both of us toiled to get the cooking done. He agreed to have it divided; this time, he would do the dividing, and I would get to choose.

He scraped the yema off the ladle’s face and handle, and awkwardly divided the stock into two. I chose one part, and was ready to transfer my chosen portion onto my plate, when my brother, thinking that he divided the yema inaccurately and I seemingly getting the bigger part, mumbled that I was being unfair, and was putting one over him. Of course I reacted, being the just Ate that I was (ahem!). I told him we were doing it fair and square, and nobody was taking advantage of anybody. I was about to continue to scrape the yema off the ladle, when my brother, blinded by misplaced doubt, reached for the ladle, and forcefully tried to get it from me. Not wanting to let go, I held on to the ladle and started to wrestle with him. My brother was able to take hold of the ladle, and instantly threw it towards my direction. I’d like to believe it was not intentional on his part, but the ladle landed on my head! Yes, my head!

My hair was a complete mess, with curly strands now stuck together in sticky bunches. I looked like Medusa with squirming sticky yema on my head. My brother gave out a loud guffaw, and continued to laugh heartily, pointing to my top. Blinded by rage and humiliation, I plunged towards him and instinctively kicked him in the groin. His guffaw instantly turned into gasping for air, and his face started to get red.

Afraid that he would die at that instant, I moved towards him to embrace him, whispering “I’m sorry” all the time. I thought everything was already okay when he started to breathe normally. How wrong was I! My unforgiving brother, after regaining his strength, started to pull my hair and scratch my arms. Defensively, I fought back, and started pinching him (wherever my fingers laid on) in return. With increasing intensity, both of us kicked, scratched, pinched, punched and hurled hurting words (“You pig!”, I would say….and “You bigger pig!”, he would retort) to each other.

Cleofe (who was in the laundry area outside our house when the big fight started), went into the kitchen and was in shock seeing her wards slug it out. Unable to separate and appease my brother and I, she called my aunt (who lived adjacent to our house) for help. At that time, my brother and I were already in the bathroom now throwing water at each other, almost flooding the kitchen floor. We continued to fight it out when my aunt came, and on top of her voice, yelled at us…”Joy, Joseph, stop it, or you’ll end up black and blue by your Mom’s beating. Stop it!”

It was at that time when we realized the gravity of our misdeed. Out of respect for our elder, we stopped fighting it out, although dagger looks continued to be exchanged between us. We went out of the bathroom, and saw the mess that we caused - scattered pans, bowls and utensils, broken plates, wet floor. In place of hostility, fear gripped my brother and I….We knew that our butts would again have a taste of the cold hard aluminum stick (tool used by mother to discipline us) once she would see the mess we created.

Knowing that the only sure way to escape Mom’s beating was to settle things between us, my brother and I made up, said our usual “I’m sorry”, and agreed that we would not fight that way again, not over a pan of yema. We cleaned ourselves while Cleofe took care of cleaning our mess. Waiting for our parents, we sat in a cozy corner of the kitchen, clutching our share of the yema we successfully made. (We subsequently decided to divide what was left of the yema which clung to the wooden ladle. My brother did the dividing…and the choosing…..)

Welcomed by a deceivingly peaceful and happy brood, my tired mom reached home, and upon seeing her, my brother and I raced to kiss her and ask her hand in blessing. We offered her the yema we made, and gleefully, she tasted it, and mused how lucky she was to have talented kids who could cook on their own a concoction which required much patience….

So far, so good….until Cleofe came into the picture…..

It took one day before the swelling of our butts wore off.

- THE END -