It is suddenly summer, and the world tilts, lurching into heat. The air shimmers, thick with the weight of a season that arrives not as a gentle guest but as an invasion. Schools empty — not in the hush of a scheduled reprieve but in surrender. Classes are canceled, students exiled from classrooms, not by choice but by the tyranny of extreme heat.
Election season, too, arrives with summer’s heat. An explosion of faces on tarpaulins, grinning with an urgency that is neither sincere nor patient. The jingles pierce the air, speeches blare from distorted megaphones. Words tumble out of sound systems, breaking the cacophony of ceiling fans that push warm air in useless circles — their efforts as futile as the promises of politicians before an election.
I long for the summers of my youth, when my 16 cousins and I were shipped out at the end of every school year to spend the summer months with our grandparents in Baguio City. Summers in Baguio City were not merely a season but a world unto themselves — a time set apart, where childhood unfolded in all its wild, unbridled joy. For my cousins and me, the city in the clouds was our sanctuary, our playground, the heart of our happiest memories.
Our grandparents’ home was the center of our summer universe. It was a house that stretched and bent to accommodate our boundless energy, its walls pulsing with the sound of our voices. We arrived in waves, spilling in from the city, converging under one roof, bound by blood and the magic of shared adventure. Every morning, we tumbled out of bed, eager to greet the day, to let our feet take us wherever curiosity beckoned.
Burnham Park was our kingdom, a vast expanse of green where we ran wild, our laughter mingling with the rustling of trees. We rode rented bikes along its winding paths, weaving between tourists and locals alike, pretending we belonged to no one — that we were children of the wind. On some days, we took boats out onto the lake, our hands skimming the cool water, our voices echoing over its placid surface.
Session Road was another familiar haunt, a bustling stretch of life and color. We walked in groups, our fingers sticky from sweets bought at roadside stalls, our pockets jingling with coins we hoarded for ice cream. That ice cream was different — colder, creamier, a taste made better by the company we kept. We licked our cones with slow deliberation, as if savoring them could make summer last just a little longer.
Camp John Hay was where we roamed, its towering pine trees and hidden trails inviting us to explore. We made up stories, imagined secret hideouts, pressed pine needles between our fingers to breathe in their fresh scent. The world felt enormous, and yet it belonged to us.
Afternoons were for rest, though we resisted. My grandfather, wise and unwavering, declared naps a necessity, and so we yielded. The house would fall into a hush, the occasional creak of the floorboards keeping watch. When we woke, still groggy, the smell of lelut balatong drifted through the air, pulling us toward the kitchen. Warm bowls of sweet mung bean porridge comforted us, the taste forever linked to childhood.
To make lelut balatong, we first washed and rinsed glutinous rice and set it aside. We toasted a cup of mung beans in a skillet until they turned brown and fragrant, then transferred them to a flat surface, rolling a bottle or a rolling pin over them to crack them open. In a pot of boiling water with coconut milk, we added the cracked beans and glutinous rice, letting them simmer until soft. A pour of coconut cream and sugar gave it sweetness and depth, while a pinch of salt balanced the flavors. We let it cook gently until thick and fragrant, then ladled it into bowls, steam rising.
A spoonful carried the warmth of home — the softness of mung beans, the creaminess of coconut milk. This was lelut balatong. This was childhood. A simple dish, but one that carried memories of sleepy afternoons, family gathered around a table, and summers spent in a home that smelled of love.
