fold, roll

“Good morning, maganda. Did you sleep well?”

Lola’s eyes looked up to study her granddaughter and hear her answer, but her wrinkled fingers did not stop folding for a single second.

“Good morning, Lola!” Little Celine’s pigtails bounced into the kitchen after her. “I couldn’t stay in bed anymore. Mama said I was waking her up because I fidget too much when I’m awake.”

Seven-thirty in the morning was not too early for a fourth grader who needed four dance classes a week to tire her out for bedtime. Seven-thirty in the morning may have been too early for Lola at this point, but the ease of routine softened the blow, and the family had to eat. By now she had already prepared breakfast and was moving on to lunch—her hands folded spring roll wrappers for lumpia, the special kind that nobody else’s lola could make better.

“Ay. Come help me then, if you have so much energy.”

Adjusting her round tortoiseshell frames, Lola dipped her thumb in a saucer of water, smeared it across the wrapper’s corner, and pushed the lumpia into its neat rolled form. Her wedding ring made little imprints in the dough; fifty years had swollen her fourth finger around it, but she wouldn’t have taken it off, anyway, if she had the choice. Her husband—Lolo to Celine—had been frying the lumpia she rolled since they were first married all those years ago.

Even Celine was old enough to know that Lola was an artisan—she did not really need the help. But Celine had always wanted to learn. Lola’s special lumpia were Celine’s favorite to eat at family gatherings. Besides, even if she couldn’t quite perfect it now, the lumpia would have to be passed down eventually. When Lola’s hands got tired.

Celine tried to copy Lola at first, but the wrapper split in half: not wet enough. The second one drowned. Eyebrows furrowed, she tried to save it from the swimming pool of water.

“Too much, naman. Just try again.”

Lola was encouraging, but never patronizing. Celine watched Lola’s hands defy her age, nimbly sealing roll after roll.

“How come it’s so easy for you, Lola? Can you help make mine pretty, like yours?”

“It’s in my blood. Just practice—it’s in your blood, too. My Lola taught me, just like I am showing you.”

Celine tried to copy Lola’s facial expression. Maybe it would help. She was startled by Mama’s hands on her shoulders.

“Relax, cookie. Breathe out a little,” Mama said.

Celine looked up—Mama’s hands were starting to look like Lola’s. It was no secret that Mama was growing into her mother, her curls just a little bit longer, darker; her glasses the same tortoiseshell, just squarer; and her short fingers, just a little bit smoother, younger. She was named for Lola, too: Felicity, the American way for Lola’s name, Felicitas. She picked up a wrapper and rolled a lumpia, one that matched Lola’s perfectly.

Celine’s eyes widened.

“Did Lola teach you, too?”

“Yes, cookie. When I was about your age,” Mama nodded.

“I bet you learned faster than me,” Celine’s eyes lowered. “I can’t get it.”

Mama shook her head and took Celine’s hand in hers, guiding it through the water saucer and onto the wrapper. Celine saw it then—her hand was just like Mama’s. Smaller, of course, and lighter, but the same. Crease for crease, stubby fingers and flat palm. She had noticed that Mama was gentler, so she tried pressing softer. Her lumpia sealed this time. It was ugly, but it would work. Lola looked.

“Your Lolo can fry that one. Good job, naman. Now try to make it neat.”

The three sat in silence for awhile, folding and rolling the filling. At times they would fall into unison: fold, roll. Fold, roll. Celine’s lumpia weren’t perfect, but they were getting better. Almost like Mama’s, but even Mama wasn’t as fast as Lola.

Papa’s footsteps echoed in the kitchen. Everyone looked up.

“Good morning, everyone! Punkin, do you need a boost? I can barely see your eyes over the table,” he laughed.

Celine looked up at him, eyes wide.

“No thanks, Papa. I’m making lumpia, I have to focus!”

Papa smiled.

“Ah, focus is good for you to learn. You’re like me, artistic. Always a million things on the brain.”

Celine nodded, though she didn’t know what on the brain meant. She had always been more like Papa. Mama liked to say that’s why she was stubborn, and why she had so many questions and too much energy. She was obviously her Papa’s daughter, though she never understood why people looked at them funny when she held his hand at the bookstore or the market. Maybe it was because she didn’t get his blue eyes, though she always wished she had. Brown was so plain.

“Punkin, I came to ask if you would help me walk our new puppy. To get your exercise in for toda—” he didn’t finish his sentence. Celine was already up.

“Oh, can I? Please, Lola?” Mama and Lola hadn’t liked the puppy at first, but even they had come around to him. They hadn’t wanted to get attached. Mama even suggested they name him adobo, after a Filipino food that they made with chicken but Celine knew that Lola’s family in the Philippines made with dog. Celine and her brother had cried, pleaded, for a different name. She loved that puppy with everything, just like Papa had loved his first puppy, Joshua.

“Yes, maganda,” Lola smiled. “Just finish your last lumpia. Thank you for your help.”

Celine folded up the last lumpia—sloppily—and bounded out of her seat. She would be back in time to keep Lolo company when he put the lumpia in the oil to fry.