Home is in a Recipe

Discovering how food transcends nourishment to embody love, memory, and belonging.

BY NATHALIE DE LOS SANTOS

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I CAN STILL SMELL the faint aroma of simmering broth and sweet custard whenever I think of my father, Joe, and the way he transformed our home each time he cooked. Food in our household was the language through which we expressed affection, remembered our roots, and passed on stories of those we loved. Growing up as a Filipino-Canadian, I often felt a tug-of-war inside me—one side longing to fit into the Canadian world around me, and the other yearning for the flavours and traditions of a land I had never fully known. Through my father’s cooking, I found a bridge between these worlds.

From as far back as I can remember, our Filipino heritage was wrapped up in lovingly-made dishes. My dad spoke of his childhood in the Philippines, reminiscing about how his mother—my grandma—would cook for hours on end, especially during the holidays. She was meticulous, he said, carefully selecting each vegetable, seasoning each cut of meat until it was just right. He’d whisper stories of the first time he tasted Kare-Kare at around nine years old, marvelling at the velvetyness of the peanut sauce. It was at a big fiesta in his hometown, where his mother reigned in the kitchen as though it were her personal domain of love, order, and tradition.

That same spirit filled our own kitchen in Canada. Growing up, we had a lumpia assembly line. My father would make the meat mixture. I would unwrap the spring roll wrappers, frozen sheets from the store. If I tore a piece, my sister, who would roll them, would make fun of me. My mom would fry them. One of these occasions, while chopping carrots into tiny cubes, my dad spoke of the time he first immigrated to North America in the 1960s. He had desperately wanted to recreate the pancit his mother used to make, but he couldn’t find kalamansi at the time or decent shrimp, so he tried using celery and carrots—anything he could forage at the local grocery store. It was a disaster, he confided with a sheepish laugh, and he threw the whole pot out in disappointment. Homesickness, he said, never tasted worse. It was a cautionary tale that stuck with me: the importance of ingredients, not just in cooking, but in life. Even if you tried your hardest, certain flavours—certain comforts—could only be found in the place that birthed them.

Yet the most memorable stories he told me were of Christmas in his old Filipino home. My grandma would decorate every corner of the house—hang bright curtains, deck the halls with lights, and trim a Christmas tree that sparkled like a promise of hope. She would then cook for an entire day before everyone arrived. Cousins came from different provinces, aunts and uncles traveled from overseas, and the table groaned under the weight of lumpia, pancit, kare-kare, and embutido. The house erupted in laughter and music, and my grandma—like the conductor of an orchestra—glowed with pride in the kitchen.

Over time, my father did his best to visit her during the holiday season, catching flights whenever he could to be part of that familial warmth. But he also recalled, with a tremor in his voice, the Christmas when she passed away. She had already set up the tree, put on the special curtains, and prepared many of the dishes in advance, knowing her health was fragile. Then, suddenly, she was gone. And there stood my father in an empty kitchen, the decorations still shining—her final gift to him and to all her family. He confessed that the pain of that memory never left him, a bittersweet reminder that even in parting, love remains.

Hearing his stories as a child, I never truly grasped the depth of his loss—how lonely it must have felt to come home from overseas to find that precious presence gone. Yet as I grew older, I came to understand how he poured that longing into our own family traditions in Canada. It was his way of keeping her alive. Our house would be decked out in festive lights well before the first snowfall, and a window would grow with a parol—a Filipino lantern—symbolizing the Star of Bethlehem and the shared warmth of our heritage. He and my mother decorated the largest pine tree we could afford, ladening it with ornaments collected over the years.

And then there was the food—my father’s “crowning jewel,” as he called it—his leche flan. Every Christmas Eve, in a tin, he’d caramelize sugar at the bottom, whisk eggs and condensed milk, just the way his mother had taught him, and steam them to perfection. The aroma was dizzyingly sweet, floating throughout the entire house. It was the aroma of his past, of my grandma’s kitchen, and of my own present. I never knew but each bite was part of a time and place I’d never actually known. And yet, it was mine.

I learned to see that these acts—the kneading of dough for ensaymada, the shredding of vegetables for lumpia, the swirling of a wooden spoon in a pot of kare-kare—were not just techniques. They were traditions, living stories passed down through generations. Food transcends the simple act of eating; it embodies love, heritage, and connection. My father’s cooking taught me to be proud of my dual identity, bridging the flavours of the Philippines with the experiences I had in Canada.

This pride blossomed into something even more profound as I grew and began to cook on my own. I saw that my father was giving me the piece of his homeland he carried in his heart. When I stirred a simmering pot of sinigang, or lined a tray with banana leaves for steaming suman, I felt the presence of my grandmother, father, and all the ancestors whose recipes paved the way. My father’s mother might have never set foot in our Canadian kitchen, but her loving spirit infused every spice, every careful taste test.

Now that I’m older, Christmas has become my favourite time of year. Our house glows with a patchwork of decorations: old ornaments from my grandmother’s time, modern Canadian keepsakes, and cherished trinkets my parents picked up in their travels. My mother, who discovered she had quite a knack for Filipino desserts, prepares cassava cake and suman. My father, with a now-seasoned but still meticulous hand, cooks a feast that could feed twice as many guests as we expect. We invite our neighbours, some of whom have never tasted Filipino food before, and their joy at sampling embutido or kare-kare for the first time warms my heart.

On those evenings, I notice the same glimmer in my dad’s eyes that I used to see when he recounted his childhood in the Philippines. It’s the glow of belonging—of celebrating something precious and hard-won, a cultural identity preserved across oceans. I think of how he must have felt when he first tried replicating pancit as a young immigrant, disappointed that it didn’t taste like home. Now, decades later, he’s grown into the role of the family’s head cook, armed with knowledge of substitutions, an unwavering devotion to flavour, and a determination to pass on what matters most: the bond that comes from shared meals and traditions.

There are moments when I imagine our lost loved ones, especially my grandmother, watching over us in the flicker of Christmas lights and the steam rising from the stove. I sometimes feel the pang that my father must have felt, the ache of an unfillable void. But that ache doesn’t overshadow the warmth; rather, it reminds me that love, although sometimes tinged with grief, is what unites our family across time and distance.

When I picture my own future, I see myself teaching my children the same recipes, encouraging them to stir the pot, or showing them how to roll perfect lumpia wrappers. I imagine them decorating a towering Christmas tree, brightening the house with lights, and stringing up little parols in the windows. And of course, I see them marvel at the golden custard of my father’s leche flan, their eyes lighting up as they take that first sweet bite—like I did as a child.

In this way, I have come to cherish the threads that connect the Philippines to Canada, weaving through my father’s memories, my grandmother’s traditions, and my own experiences. No matter how far we roam, whether by necessity or by choice, we carry within us the love instilled by those who came before. If cooking is the gesture, then love is the recipe, and the kitchen space creates the nourishment that feeds the soul.

I recognize that I am both Filipino and Canadian—and that I belong to a legacy far grander than any single place. In all the flavours, the decorations, and the stories shared around the table, I see the power of the kitchen to transcend grief, time, and distance. It is the comfort of a warm, familiar meal. It is the echo of my grandma’s and parents’ voices saying, “Welcome home.” And it is, at its heart, the understanding that we carry our loved ones with us, wherever we go, one dish and one cherished memory at a time.

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