Pancit Was Always Enough

 Pancit Was Always Enough

 “We didn’t grow up with much. No towering cakes, no balloons, and not much food. But there was pancit—always pancit—cooked with what we had, served in the biggest tray we owned. It wasn’t fancy, but it brought everyone together.”

—Renz Roland

That quote hit me right in the heart—because I lived it too.

In our home, pancit wasn’t just a meal. It was the centerpiece of our simplest joys and our quiet triumphs. It didn’t matter if the table lacked anything else. If there was pancit, there was something to celebrate.

I remember the taste of Apong Estang’s pancit; it wasn’t just seasoned with soy sauce and calamansi. It was seasoned with wisdom, patience, and the warmth of her kitchen. Hers was the kind of pancit that filled the air before the guests even arrived. That pancit tasted like a grandmother’s embrace, quiet, consistent, full of love. I miss her still. Sometimes I swear I can smell her cooking on days when the heart longs the most.

Mama Arlyn’s pancit always arrived at the table like a silent cheer. She’d cook it with care, serving it with a smile that said, “I’m proud of you.” Even when life was tough, her pancit reminded us that we were enough. That we had each other. That somehow, in her eyes, I was doing just fine.

Deng, my sister, makes her pancit the way she lives—vibrant, a little spontaneous, and always full of flavor. Her version comes with stories and laughter, shared over mismatched plates and borrowed chairs, just like in Renz’s words: “Sometimes, there wasn’t even Coca-Cola. Just powdered orange juice in plastic cups, borrowed chairs, and laughter that didn’t cost a thing.”

And there was Darang Angela. Her pancit wasn’t loud. It was grounding. It tasted like truth and time—like she had been through enough to know that simplicity was where joy lived. Her pancit didn’t try to impress. It just wanted to comfort.

We didn’t feel poor. We didn’t have much. But “in those moments, with pancit on our plates and people we loved beside us, we had all we needed.”

That’s the kind of richness I carry with me now.

So today, when life gets too fast or too complicated, I think of those gatherings. I think of pancit.
A humble dish, yes.
But in our home, it meant we had love.
We had family.
And that was always, always enough.