Sometimes, the best things happen just before the walk.
We wanted to buy fish for lunch anyway, so when we saw her from afar, carrying that large, black basin over her head, we waited outside the gate. She was shouting an unfamiliar word. Difficult to decipher. Perhaps, it was a name of a rare saltwater fish. As she drew near, I thought I heard tulingan, which was definitely a fish. An older woman walked on a slower pace behind her, carrying a large bucket on one hand.
When she arrived at a speaking distance, I asked her, “What are you selling?” “Tulya,” she said, a quick, shortened version of what she was shouting just a while ago. So it isn’t tulingan. Ignorant of what it was, I asked her to see it. “Help?” she said, motioning to the basin above her head. She bent her knees a bit as I held the basin with both hands helping her lay it on the road.
Inside the basin were around ten plastic bags of shellfish. This shellfish I know. I’ve eaten them many times in my life. Grew up sucking their meat from their shells on our family’s dining table. My mom merely sautes them. Simmers then mixes them with onion, garlic, ginger, and tomatoes. The shells open up on heat, letting aroma and flavor in. In return, they release whatever seawater is left within them, creating this unique gastronomical broth. My mom puts more water to create one of the most life-giving soups I’ve ever tasted.
Not long ago, my mother brought a bagful of these guys home from a day at the beach. Not having eaten them for a while, we were all excited for dinner. My stomach rumbled as I smelled seawater, mussels, and vegetables steaming from the kitchen to my room upstairs. When we finally sat down, opening shells and sucking them one by one, I wondered why I could feel on my tongue the texture of what can only be sand. My mother’s eyes grew big. “I forgot to drain the sand out!” She too was so eager to eat these things she forgot the most critical step in preparing them—soaking them on clean water for a few hours before cooking. Soaked in water, these creatures open their shells and release the sand they caught inside. We all went to bed not touching those poor shells. I’ve forgotten what we ate in their stead.
These shellfish are so good, remind me of many things, I can’t believe I can’t remember what we call them where I came from. Here, they call them tulya.
“How much?” I asked the lady. “Ten pesos,” she said. “Each bag?” I asked. She nodded.
These shellfish are seldom sold on these parts of Los Baños that I don’t mind paying for more. I’ll buy them even if she sold them for twenty or thirty pesos.
We were leaving tomorrow for two days, so I asked how long would these tulya last if I keep them in the refrigerator. When she heard the word “refrigerator,” she looked at me puzzled. The older lady behind her stepped forward and replied. “These things will die,” she said. “So I should cook them now?” I asked. “Yes,” she said.
I bought a bag, gave her ten pesos, and, remembering my mother’s mistake, immediately ran to the kitchen to put the tulya in a bowl of water. We still ought to buy fish. I remember how good ginisang tulya is with fried fish, so we continued with our walk.
When I came back from the kitchen, the two ladies were gone. On the intersection of Mt. Data Street and Onyx Street, I saw them walking like they came a while ago. Small, sturdy figures. The lady with the basin over her had has returned to shouting that elongated version of the name of the shellfish she carries, which I now know. “Tooool-yaaaaa,” she said with her tender, whole voice. Finally, I remembered what we call it back home. “Gilitan,” I told myself as I imagined how I’ll cook them later.