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In the bukid, I watch current ends of our bloodline press seed into soil, fertilized by the blessings of our ancestors. Each seed would grow, in the over soaked soil, yellowing upon maturity. Once cut from their root, they’d be forcefully flaked off of its color, no longer protected by a golden husk. They’d be shipped, some to other parts of the Philippines — local, while others, would export to America, Europe, Australia  — before they’d cook into a new culture, a new dish, a new life. Away from the bukid they’d go, leaving a new imprint on our culture and their location.


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