Truth, Fiction and Rice Cakes

I grew up on a farm and our house was at the foot of the hill and for the most part of my childhood I grew up thinking that Jesus was killed on that hill right by where I lived. During the Holy Week, on that Wednesday, a mob of people would go up to the top of the hill and they would cut down trees and carry them down(symbolical of carrying a cross?) but I don't remember what they did with the trees or where they end up taking them. All I know was that they called that hill "Mount Calvary." Yes, in the island of Cebu, Philippines.

During that whole week in my house, we were not supposed to laugh or show happiness. "This is a sad week because Jesus, the son of God is dead." My mom would say that whenever I let out a hint that I was happy. Then on Saturday, I was not allowed to take a bath because "Judas is washing himself of the blood after he killed Jesus." She would say that with contempt in her voice. I don't know where my mom got her messed up stories from, but sure sound believable to a 9 year old girl, but even after I knew the truth, I was not about to correct her or she would say, "Just because you went to school doesn't mean you know more than me." Now, that part, she was right.

Why am I bringing this up. Because during that week my mom would be busy grinding rice in our old fashioned stone grinder because whenever there is a gathering of people is an opportunity to sell something. She would make rice cakes; nothing fancy, just ground rice with coconut milk, sugar and tuba (fermented coconut sap) in place of baking powder. I don't remember my mom making anything that requires long preparation except this one. Lately, I am feeling so nostalgic of my childhood and mostly I miss my mom because I was always helping her sell whatever. It was a hard life, but it was my life and it's what made me who I am today. The only thing I regret, is I don't know how to make that same "puto", it's a shame I have to scour the internet to find the recipe. This picture that Market Manila took is exactly how my moms puto looked like except she did not make but a white puto with the purple sprinkle. The old tin pot (make do steamer) and the coconut husk for fuel makes me feel so homesick.