Rambutan
You don’t forget the first time you hold a rambutan in your hand—that bright red thing with wild green hair. It looks like it’s about to wiggle away if you’re not careful. When my cousins and I were kids, we’d pretend they were baby monsters or tiny alien eggs. We’d chase each other around with them, below the summer sun when Castillejos Street was still alive with youthful games. Here in Quiapo, you can find them stacked in small mountains on the side of the church, right where the vendors shout “Bili na, mura lang, matamis! ” next to stalls selling tuyo , herbal oil, statues of saints, and phone cases. The fruit glows under the Manila sun like something not meant to be real. When I was younger, I didn’t like touching them. Too weird, too hairy. I thought they’d sting me. But my Lola would buy a small plastic bag of them after mass, slipping a few coins to the old woman who sold them. Back at home, she’d sit with my Lolo who just got home from tricycle work. She had a small bowl ...