Adobo, You Will Be Mine. In 7 Parts and an Addendum.

One. This is my memory only because other people tell me it happened; I don’t recall. I was given, at the age of six or so, a small brown doll, which I promptly named Adobo. At about the same time, I was given a black kitten. I named him Willie Mays. But I digress.

Two. My Lola Naty made the best damn ichara in all of Daly City. She was a goddess among women. What I’m about to say amounts to sacrilege, but I will say it. Her adobo contained too many chicken wings. Waiting, now, for lightning to strike.

Three. My cousin says she cannot believe that my chosen accompaniment for adobo over rice is Reduced Fat Ruffles Potato Chips. She eats hers, she says, with a banana. This makes no sense to me.

Four. First apartment, first job, all that. I call my mom with what is undoubtedly the PROP (Pinay Rite of Passage) question: How do you make adobo? She’s so cryptic. A spoonful of this, a handful of garlic, water to cover, blah, blah, blah. How big is a spoonful, Mom? Oh, you know, like a cooking spoon. Well, what if my cooking spoon isn’t as big as your cooking spoon? Gotta run, honey—let me know how it turns out! And don’t forget: you need pork and chicken! Mom, wait! What does “water to cover” mean? Click. Well, the rice was good.

Five. Newlyweds, first house, new city. Having given up long ago on deciphering my mother’s maddeningly vague directions (she is the same, by the way, with beef stew), I turn in desperation to Bon Appétit magazine. A Filipina writes in with her recipe for adobo. Thank God in all his heavenly wisdom. But what’s this? Skinless, boneless chicken breasts? Cook it in the oven? Because I have no friends or reasonable distractions in Alexandria, Virginia, I give it a go. That night I dream of tracking down the woman who sent in the recipe and suing her for falsely representing Filipino cuisine. The rice was good, though.

Six. 10-year-marriage, three small kids, and I still can’t make a pot of adobo. Enter the New York Times and food writer Mark Bittman. He gives exact measurements (are you listening, Mom?), though he’s stingy on the garlic. I cut out the article and stick it on the refrigerator where I circle it for weeks, wondering if it’s worth the effort to pounce. Turns out it was too heavy on the vinegar. But the rice was good.

Seven. I have slain the mighty adobo beast. My mom’s version kicks ass what with the pork/chicken combo, but I’m all about chicken breasts (with the bone and skin). Half rice wine vinegar, half white vinegar. More garlic than Mr. Bittman says. And my mom was right: water to cover. Broil the meat after braising. Prepare for praise.

Addendum. These things cannot be rushed. When you are ready, the universe will grant your desire. When you are ready, the adobo will come to you. When you are ready, friends and family will fall at your feet, begging. Have a bag of Reduced Fat Ruffles at the ready. And a banana, just in case.

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Many bloggers are waxing poetic about adobo today, creating an adobo love chain that stretches from here to, well, there. The fabulous Wily Filipino, who started it all, has gathered all the links together in his 12/8 post...