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Island
Beginnings
by Kaity Jimenez '01, Milpitas, California
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| Kaity Jimenez '01 found a tale of
magic and long-distance love. |
Strings of yellow light twinkle around the plastic Christmas tree.
Gifts are wrapped perfectly in colorful papers and ribbons, but they are
tossed into an unorganized pile on the floor. "The boxes are really empty,
but it makes the bakery look a lot more welcoming. Especially for Filipinos,
who are mostly Catholic." An angel crowns the Christmas tree; its gold halo
brushes the ceiling of the bakery. "The angel is so beautiful. My daughter
picked it out and mailed it to me last week. She loved the gold wings. I
do too." The angel's hair covers most of the plastic wings. Mario reaches
up to stroke its golden locks.
The tree is the only thing in the bakery that towers above Mario. Most of
his semi-bald head shines in the light, but the sides of his head are covered
with patches of uncombed black hair. He says, "I lost this hair many years
ago; I came to the States with a full head of thick hair. That year, it
started to fall out in the front and middle of my head. After that, year
after year, I lost more and more hair. Maybe it's the stress. Or the oven's
fumes burning it off." He chuckles.
The pastry display case stands next to the luminous tree. "Gold Ribbon Bakeshop's
specialty!" A white sign is taped onto the glass, Pan de Sal."In Spanish,
it translates to 'bread of salt.' Of course, the bread doesn't taste salty.
It's just the name." Behind the sign, clear bags filled with fluffy rolls
sit; the golden color of the bread radiates next to the Christmas lights.
Each roll is pushed against the others so the bread is tightly packed into
the plastic bag. "I try to fit at least eight in each bag because that's
what we sell. My boss, Uncle Clement, sells eight pan de sal for one dollar.
Very, very good. Very, very cheap."
Mario races into the kitchen, through two swinging doors. The squeaky doors
have two windows; behind the doors, the chaos of metal pans and flour-dusted
tables is hidden. "Straight ahead is my wooden table; nobody touches this
but me. This has been here since Gold Ribbon Bakeshop opened in 1987. We
used to be down the street, but when we had too many customers, we moved
to this place here. This building used to be a shoe store, but they went
out of business, so we took over. And Uncle Clement brought my table from
the old bakery to this new one."
Mario heads towards the tower of red lockers next to the sink. "Number 238
is my locker." He covers the rusty lock with his hand, concealing his secret
combination. In the back, a picture is taped to the locker. One photograph:
a tan woman with long black hair, wearing a green summer dress and next
to her, a young girl, maybe 5 or 6 years old in a blue bathing suit, wearing
orange inflatable wings on her arms. The photo of his wife and daughter
is old and ripped around the edges. However, blue ink marks the dingy borderlines
of the picture: "August 18, 1990." He stares at the snapshot of wife and
child. "They are with me always, watching me bake, watching everything I
do. God knows it." He kisses the crucifix on the gold chain around his neck
and with the same fingers he touches the cross with, he then touches the
picture.
The baker shuts the locker, allowing the lock to bang against the metal.
He walks over to his table, which is occupied with spatulas, measuring spoons,
icing paper, and cocoa. Black streaks, from the scratches of knives, mark
the yellow wood.
Using a rectangular blade with a wooden handle, Mario cuts a strip of dough
about five inches wide. He rolls it into a tubular shape, massaging the
dough with his "magic hands." His gold wedding band shines against the yellow
dough.
"This ring is 18 years old." However, despite his love for her, he has not
seen his wife in four months, since he visited her in the Philippines on
one of his only week-long vacations of the year. He takes these vacations
twice a year, once to see his wife and daughter during the summer and another
week during the winter. Back in 1984, his Uncle Clement took Mario from
his wife to make money in the United States; they had been married for just
two years. The new baker planned on bringing his wife and baby daughter,
Megan Mae, to California a few months after he had settled there. However,
complications with immigration prevented Megan Mae and his wife Anna from
living with Mario in California.
"I write them a letter every day." He uses his "magic hands" not only to
knead dough, but also to write letters of encouragement to his wife and
daughter. And every night, he assures them that "they will be home with
daddy in California one day. The system is so complicated; I often have
to translate my letters for my lawyer into English, so that he can help
me get my family over here." While Megan Mae and Anna are alone on the islands,
all Mario can do is bake; with his salary, he is able to send an envelope
of money to them week after week. "Financially, I'm supporting them, but
God knows that's not enough. I am a father. I need to be there to watch
Megan grow." He licks his lips of their dryness and rubs the corner of his
head in frustration.
When each roll has been detached from the mass of dough, Mario throws them
to Francisco who is waiting at the other side of the table. A tray full
of breadcrumbs sits in front of the assistant; he smothers each small ball
of dough with bread bits to form a crumb coat. Francisco throws the dough
back at Mario and the master baker catches it in mid-air behind his back
with his flour-dusted hand. Francisco gleams with admiration. Mario arranges
the rolls on a baking pan in six rows and four columns. "I gotta be careful
here. If I put an extra row onto the pan, Uncle Clement will be furious.
An extra row means an extra four pan de sal, which means that the pan de
sal are too small. Every day, I get a complaint. 'Oh no, these are too small.'
Tomorrow, they'll be too big. And the next day? 'Sorry Mario, these are
too dry.'" He counts the rolls with his finger and when finished, he nods
his head and whispers, "Twenty-four."
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