Savoring kinhason

Remember the old Whorfian assertion that the Eskimos–really the Yupik and Inuit people–have many words for “snow”? The linguistic hypothesis states that a language’s vocabulary is definitive of a particular worldview–in this case, that the Inuit people live so intimately with a snowy reality that they can divine its specificities in their language. It’s a controversial linguistic-relativity hypothesis, which has long since been debunked, but it is nonetheless true that the Inuit have many, many words for snow. And it’s not difficult to understand why. Just like we have many, many words for rain [ulan, ulan init, taligsik, salibo, alindahaw, nagiknik, etc.], and many, many words for rice [bugas, humay, tipasi, kan-on, pilit, etc.].

Then there is shellfish.

We have many words for shellfish, something that has been gloriously celebrated in a very popular Bisaya novelty song by the Boholano artist Yoyoy Villame, that the wealth of vocabulary we have of it certainly paints a people that knows this particular food very well–and the manginhas culture that has developed around it.

In Kinhason, Villame sings: “Amo ta kamong suginlan / Sa kinhason nga akong nailhan…” And the proceeds to name all the varieties of local shellfish: Tapok-tapok, libod-libod, saka-saka, sungkod-sungkod, balise, dalo-dalo, liswi, anso-anso, anogpong, ammaahong, ani-ani, lampirong, tahong lumban, sigay punikti, punao, saang, tipa, lito, bulitoud kuya, buraga, takuri, tabangki, bilong, bagonbon, pako, bugobugo, bongkawil buto-buto, tamislat, tagimtim, talaba, kandiis, balongkot, balisala, tukamansi, kalaykay, sangka-sangka, wasay-wasay, katipan, dalingasay, saliut, tuway dagatan, baluso, bulalo, udpan, bao ug tambuli, kibol, buki, sihiI.

That’s a lot of shellfish.

In the City we live in, the act of gathering shellfish is called manginhas, and to get to the heart of it, it is fundamental to seek the hours of either waning or waxing light–the beginning of morning or evening, depending on the season–and go forward to sea, in the low tide, and forage among the sand and seaweeds for kinhason.

One late afternoon, hungry for such a morsel, we did just this. We had tried to buy kinhason at the small early morning tabo at a nearby beach–but we kept missing the catch. At the local tianggue, only a few vendors sold shellfish, usually tahong harvested all the way from Bacolod.

But we were after the realization of memories: that of Renz’s lola teaching him to eat shellfish with an alpeler or safety pin, from a simple spicy soup of aninikad. We were also after the realization of an intangible heritage: to gather and then to eat kinhason the way it was traditionally done among local fisherfolk.

It was with a sense of adventure that we parked our car along Flores Avenue in Dumaguete and waded to the shallows of Piapi Beach. Together with several other kindred spirits, we began to gather what we could under the waning light.

The pagpanginhas can be as simple as bringing a pail and picking up shells, but shellfish gleaners who regularly do it take note of many factors–tide, weather, time of the day, month of the year, clarity of the water, phases of the moon.

We had earlier asked for details from Manong Vilio, a fisherman who lived nearby. He told us that between September and February, it was advisable to pick shellfish in the morning, especially during a waxing moon, when the abundance of shellfish in the shallows was guaranteed.

Between March and August, the ideal time was low tide in the late afternoon or late at night. Whatever agitated the water, Manong Vilio told us, would hinder our hunt: if the water got too cloudy, either by strong current or by rain, shellfish could be hard to spot in the sand. But a steady low tide current could help. It also helped when the sun was out and there were no clouds in the sky.

The pagpanginhas done, we prepared for the meal by leaving the kinhason in a palanggana of seawater, overnight and in room temperature. The live shellfish would then self-cleanse, getting rid of any waste inside their system by filtrating through the water. (It is advisable to throw away any shellfish that remain closed after the overnight soaking.) In the morning, we proceeded to parboil the shellfish, along with the brine they sat in, which we call lapwa. This was meant to sterilize the shellfish.

We then placed the kinhason in a pot of water and proceeded to bring it to a boil. We threw in what ingredients we could to flavor the broth: ginger, tomato, red onions, spring onions, and garlic–and chili for a nice kick. When the shellfish softened, the dish was ready. The resulting tinolang kinhason made for a light yet flavorful meal with rice.

Some shellfish–like punaw, tahong, or balisa’a–offer their meat up for ready access, their shells open for the picking. Others like aninikad and bungkawil require special tools: a large safety pin or the thorn from a pomelo tree or a calamansi shrub, all handy in the exquisite picking of meat inside their fortress of shell. This was the variety we prepared, so we sterilized our alpeler over the flame of a candle for a few seconds, and with it we began reaching in for the delectable shellfish meat from inside an aninikad. It took patience and practice, but the eventual sweet taste was vindication for efforts duly rewarded.

There are, of course, a few other ways of serving kinhason, including cooking them atop a hot grill and then drizzling them with calamansi or Pinakurat when they’re ready. Or one can simply eat them raw and freshly plucked from the sea.

However you prepare them, the shellfish shine as stars in the dish particularly because the way you cook them and the ingredients you cook them with support their natural uncomplicated flavor: a soft yet meaty morsel that hints at a briny, elusive sweetness. But when you give it your full attention, that sweetness is heightened.

We had partaken in a tradition that not only Renz’s grandmother had enjoyed but also the local fisherfolk of our City. It became an education: Renz’s grandmother preparing that bowl of kinhason soup at her table, the shellfish gleaners awading among us in the waters, Manong Vilio sharing his deep knowledge of pagpanginhas. And knowing all that now, we hope to find more delicious shellfish.

_________________________________________

This is based on Renz Torres’ essay which won honorable mention in the 2021 Doreen Gamboa Fernandez Food Writing Competition.

Author’s email: [email protected]