As a young girl, one of the first things I learned to make in the kitchen was polvoron. At the time, the Philippines was suffering from the long rule of . With everything censored by the government, there was a need for a newspaper with accurate reporting. While my parents read the latest edition for developments in politics, I read the children’s cooking page. There Maur Lichauco, the sister of the late (Marcos' political rival), shared her recipes for polvoron.
Polvoron is a Filipino-style shortbread made of toasted flour, powdered milk, sugar and butter. Its origins are believed to be , traditional Spanish Christmas biscuits made with almonds, flour, butter, sugar, vanilla extract and salt. In Spanish, 'polvo' means powder or dust. Like dust, the Spanish polvorones crumble in your mouth. It is often sprinkled with powdered sugar on top, too.
Growing up, I never considered the polvoron to be a cookie. Wrapped in colourful paper called Papel de Japón (Japanese paper), cellophane or tissue paper, to me it was a milk lolly.
Unlike the Spanish polvorones, the polvoron in the Philippines is not baked. We simply toast the flour, add the sifted powdered milk, sugar and melted butter. All the ingredients are mixed in a bowl. Then they're packed into a stainless-steel mould, until a solid circular or oval polvoron is released. The tighter you pack in the ingredients, the more you can be assured your polvoron won't crumble easily. It's like the same technique you'd use for making sandcastles in the beach.
Christmas and birthday parties often include parlour games involving polvoron. Players pop several polvorons into their mouth. Then, one by one, the players attempt to whistle. With their mouth dry from this crumbly milk biscuit, everyone struggles. The ones who succeed in whistling win the prizes.
The innovative Filipinos have come up with a variety of polvoron flavours using local ingredients like chopped cashews, pinipig (Filipino crisp rice), ube (purple yam), peanut, and even crumbled Oreos. For an extra decadent polvoron, dip it in melted chocolate.
Players pop several polvorons into their mouth. Then, one by one, the players attempt to whistle. With their mouth dry from this crumbly milk biscuit, everyone struggles.
To brighten an otherwise dreary Saturday in my home town of Melbourne, I settle in at home to make polvoron.
If my eight-year-old self could make polvoron, then the adult version of me should accomplish this with ease.
My fun afternoon project begins by first cutting pieces of coloured tissue paper into 13cm x 13cm squares. Then I press the polvoron mixture into the mould and, one by one, wrap each finished shape in paper once it's unmoulded.
By the end of the afternoon, I have a colourful pile of 32 polvoron pieces brightening my drab day.
I give some to a Singaporean friend who'd fallen in love with the sweet during his visit to the Philippines many decades ago. I offer some to a Filipino friend who'd not eaten polvoron in years. I even manage to get an Australian bloke to break his intermittent fast – seeing a plate on my dining table when he visits me, he instantly grabs one. He succumbs to the polvoron temptation, unwrapping one and popping it into his mouth – ending his fast three hours earlier than planned.
Inside each colourful wrapper is a powdery milk biscuit. Source: Maida Pineda
But after eating it, the polvoron virgin has a big grin on his face. “I love this stuff,” he declares.
The next day, overwhelmed with sadness, fear, and worry, I find comfort in eating several pieces, too. With every bite, it brings me back to my childhood in Manila. I have no doubt polvoron is the Filipino glitter, spreading joy and leaving a trail of sweet dust behind.
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