Halo Halo in Tucson, Arizona

My two sisters and I grew up in Tucson, Arizona in the 90s. During the summer, our parents did not put us into school or camp, but left us to our own devices. We did not have the Internet yet, but we were privileged to live on an acre of undeveloped Sonoran desert. As the eldest, I haphazardly misguided my sisters into the desert realm, getting cholla cacti stuck in our feet, and harassing the poor harvester ants and western fence lizards. Later into the summer, when the dreaded hum of cicadas meant that it was too hot for us to venture outside, we usually found ourselves making alien voices in front of the stand fan, watching cartoons, or fighting. Usually it was a mixture.

Once in a while, when my Mom was feeling nostalgic for her childhood in the Philippines, she would make us halo halo. We knew it was one of those days when her sunshine-drenched kitchen floor was occupied with two huge bowls (usually reserved for popcorn), and a small, 4-legged wooden stool that looked like it was for a 3 year old. On top of the stool was a wooden plank with something that looked like a pizza cutter glued to the end of it, except it was half the diameter of one and serrated. It reminded me of a weapon that Shredder would use in the Ninja Turtles (also known as a coconut grater).

My sisters and I would take a little break from our spats , circling my Mom like vultures as we all wanted a change in scene. My Mom would sit on the stool and plank for what felt like hours, using the coconut grater in front of her to scrape some coconuts until both huge bowls were filled. My sisters and I restlessly floated in and out of the kitchen while she did this, inhaling the coconut scent that overwhelmed the room and stealing bits from her bowls for tasting. Eventually she would get to a block of ice that she made earlier, using another special tool to manually shave it. After all of her hard work and her bored children never offering to help her, she would gather us, our fancy tall glasses, and the ingredients in the same spot.

Delicately, she would fill the glasses with sweet red beans, coconut jellies, the coconut meat, and shaved ice. She would pour evaporated milk on top of everything until it looked like ice cream. She handed us each our own with long spoons. My sisters and I were feral heathens, but during these special halo halo moments, we were all in silent reverence in respect to my mother’s sugar offering. She told us to mix everything, and the kitchen was filled with the noise of our metal spoons clanking on the walls of our glasses. Sometimes I disobeyed her as it was too pretty for me to mess up (I still learn the hard way that my Mom is usually right). Sometimes we took our glasses outside, and hoped to devour the Halo Halo before the sun turned it into the equivalent of soggy cereal. The contrast of crunchy ice on the insides of our cheeks and the Tucson sun burning the outsides of our cheeks was delightful. I would chew the ice without knowing that this is pretty much impossible or at least cringe-inducing for adults.

Now that I’m much older, I am too far in distance and time to experience these moments again. It is almost like those memories are the not-too-sweet halo halo, bottled up in a tall glass that freezes it in time, and protects it from the wrath of the ever-warming planet. Honestly, I would not want to go back. I hope since then that I have been paying more attention to the details my Mom leaves, not taking them for granted, and offering my helping hand.