Learning Lumpia

“You could use ground turkey, but I use beef,” my father-in-law Rudy said.

“Do you cook the meat first,” I asked him.

“No. No. No.” he replied. “It will be hard as a rock. Use a small amount, about a teaspoon, the oil will cook it.”

We were sitting in the hospital when Rudy gave me his lumpia recipe. Well, I was sitting in a chair, next to his bed. He was propped up by pillows, tubes and iv drips spread across his lap. He had six months to live, if that. Time was running out. We talked about lumpia.

It seems trivial now. To discuss deep fried food. We could have said more. Lumpia felt safe.

Being a typical cook, Rudy never used a recipe. It was all up here, in his head. And every time I came to visit, he would cook up a feast. Pancit topped with hard boiled eggs and grilled shrimp, chicken adobo studded with garlic, short ribs that fell off the bone and fried rice. But the shining star on the table was his lumpia.

Tightly rolled wrappers filled with ground beef, a sprinkle of paprika and sometimes, if you were lucky, a few raisins thrown in for sweetness, all fried to golden perfection. When he’d place the pan of lumpia on the table, we knew it was time to eat.

My father-in-law wasn’t perfect. He was quick to anger in his younger days and expected obedience from his kids, my ex-husband included. His temper was soothed by old age. And I’d like to think him making lumpia was his way to make up for the past. To show his family love, in the best way he knew how.

Making lumpia isn’t easy. It can take hours to pry the wonton paper from the rest, fill it a fourth of the way, wrap in the corners and roll tightly before sealing with a bit of water. And this is all before you even begin to fill the pot with oil and bring it to just the right temperature to cook a few at a time so as not to crowd the pan. No, making lumpia isn’t easy. It’s an act of service for the ones you love.

No one else had my father-in-law’s recipe. No one wanted to ask. Asking for a recipe meant facing the inevitable truth that lied ahead. Instead, they asked for more tests. More medicine. More time.

Rudy passed away a few days later, right before Christmas Eve. Friends came. Family came. Everyone came. And no one brought lumpia. That was Rudy’s job.

I’d like to say that in time, I made his lumpia. But of course, I haven’t. I know no matter how closely I follow his directions it won’t be the same. But don’t worry. I have the recipe. I keep it here, in my heart.