There’s something about Cebuano puso (pronounced pu-SÓ, with the stress on the last syllable, unlike the Tagalog púso, which means “heart”), that humble hanging rice wrapped in woven coconut leaves, that feels like summer: tightly packed, built to last, and ready to go. Long before anyone talked about reusable containers or meal prep, we had puso, portable, practical, and made with care.
In my hometown of Talisay, where lechon is king, the market had a section just for cooking puso. They came tied in dozens, stacked in buckets of steam. Vendors bought them by the bundle for their lechon and barbecue stalls. While some prefer freshly steamed rice, puso has its own magic once it cools. The coconut leaves lend a subtle flavor — earthy, a little sweet, familiar.
In many towns, making puso was a way to earn a living. Families wove them at home and sold them by the piece. It didn’t pay much—just centavos—but it helped. Even kids got involved, weaving while chatting or listening to the radio. Each weave had a name: kinasing (heart-shaped), binosa (rounded), kinhason (seashell), binaki (frog). These shapes carried family stories and local identity. They were more than just containers.
To cook puso, you fill each pouch halfway with rice, then boil it. The grains expand and take the shape of the weave, soaking up the tea-like bitterness of the leaves. At a glance, it might look like kakanin, but it’s just rice, neatly packed and thoughtfully made.
Rice from a pot can get sticky or soft on long trips. Puso holds its shape. You grab one with one hand, a stick of grilled pork in the other. It goes well with spicy sukang tuba, that sharp, cloudy coconut vinegar, and a bite of Cebu-style lechon, rich and salty and crisp.
At big gatherings, no one bothered with foil trays or plastic tubs. We packed the puso in rice sacks and slung them over our shoulders. You took as many as you wanted, and if you didn’t eat one, you just put it back. No need to explain. Most were smaller than a fist, maybe half a cup of rice. Some vendors made bigger ones, but the small ones always hit the spot, especially when you were chasing that last bite of sud-an, the dish that finished your plate. You’d pass the puso around. Then someone would pull a Gillette blade, usually tucked behind the ear, and slice it open. The layers of leaf would peel away to warm, fragrant rice.
It’s not just food. It’s memory. The feel of it in your hand after a swim. The way it goes with dugodugo (blood stew), ngohiong (a local spring roll), or sinuglaw (grilled pork mixed with vinegar-cured fish). Even now, I keep puso in my kitchen when I want to feel a little closer to home. There’s comfort in its shape, its scent, the way it reminds me of simple things.
Next time you’re heading out on a road trip, leave the Tupperware. Bring puso. And a few stories to go with it.
Because it’s not just what’s inside that fills you, but the act of unwrapping. That quiet gesture of opening something made by hand and passed from one hand to another, which is a reminder that food doesn’t have to be grand to mean something.
For puso to last, memory isn’t enough. It takes practice. It takes people who still know how to weave. Markets that still cook. Young folks willing to carry the tradition forward.
And I think they will. Because lami, that Cebuano word for “delicious,” “good,” “right,” isn’t just about taste, but that easy joy you get from sharing food without ceremony. When we eat, no one cares who you are. You sit. You eat. You’re part of the barkadahan — the group, the crew, the ones who get you. You pass the rice, split the pork, and call each other bai — friend, brother, someone like you.
Lately I’ve been thinking about going home. Sitting by the shore with nothing to do but eat lechon and puso. No plates. No forks. Just a hand for the rice, a hand for the meat, and the sun on my back. Maybe that’s the heart of it. Not the ritual. The simplicity. The feeling that something warm, something good, is waiting inside those coconut leaves. A gulp of tuba from a bamboo spout, smoke in the air, waves in the distance. You don’t explain that kind of moment. You just live it. Then you carry it with you.
After the meal, there’s nothing to clean up. No pots. No dishes. Just banana leaves for plates. You toss them properly and walk away full, in every sense of the word.
