(On the Geometry of Filipino Food and Memory)

The broth simmers in circles—

a Euclidean elegance

of sour and warmth.

Sinigang, sinuso, sinta—

all begin with sin.

I taste tangents of childhood

in every sampalok swirl,

each vegetable falling like constants

into the same ancestral pot.

Adobo’s vinegar reduction is

an exponential curve of patience,

its flavor intensifying

as time → tomorrow.

In kare-kare’s golden surface,

I find calculus—

a thickness approximating nostalgia

with every stirred derivative of peanut.

Rice: the absolute value of comfort.

Pandesal: a soft limit approached

each morning with hope.

In Filipino cuisine,

we do not just eat.

We solve for longing,

we digest history,

we integrate memory.

And still,

the leftovers taste better the next day—

like a theorem proven twice

to be true.