I stood in a wet market recently, staring at a small bundle of chili and a few sprigs of spring onions priced as if they were luxury items. That moment made the message painfully clear: relying entirely on the market for everyday food has become a quiet but costly mistake. Growing vegetables and spices at home is no longer a hobby; it is a practical response to a stubborn reality.
The prices of basic kitchen staples have been climbing with little mercy. Tomatoes, onions, garlic, ginger, chili—items that once felt ordinary now demand careful budgeting and second thoughts. Each visit to the market feels like a test of patience and restraint, where one must choose what to leave behind. This is not about indulgence or lifestyle trends; it is about survival at the household level, where every peso now carries more weight than before.
Planting at home changes the relationship between food and money. A pot of chili by the window or a cluster of pechay in recycled containers quietly cuts daily expenses without fanfare. No plastic bags, no sudden price hikes, no panic buying. When something is needed, it is simply picked, washed, and used. The savings may seem small at first, but they accumulate steadily, the way quiet habits often do.
There is also a certain satisfaction in knowing exactly where food comes from. Home-grown vegetables are not rushed by profit or soaked in chemicals for transport and shelf life. They grow at their own pace, responding to sunlight, water, and care. Even modest harvests feel honest. In a time when trust in food sources is often shaky, honesty matters.
Space is no longer a convincing excuse. Buckets, old basins, empty bottles, broken pails—these have all proven capable of holding soil and life. Balconies, doorsteps, rooftops, and window ledges can host kangkong, basil, mint, tomatoes, and spring onions. Gardening has quietly adapted to urban limits, proving that abundance does not always need land; sometimes it only needs intention.
Planting also restores a sense of control often lost to inflation and supply problems. Watching leaves grow where there was once bare soil counters the helplessness that rising prices bring. It teaches patience, attentiveness, and respect for effort. Failures happen, of course, but even they sharpen awareness and discipline—qualities useful far beyond the garden.
There is humor, too, in discovering that a once-forgotten pot has suddenly produced something edible. It feels like finding spare coins in an old pocket, except better, because it feeds the body and calms the mind. Neighbors notice, conversations start, cuttings are shared, and what began as a private effort slowly becomes communal. Food, after all, has always been social.
The answer does not lie in grand programs or complicated solutions. It begins quietly, with soil under the nails and seeds pressed into waiting pots. When households grow even a fraction of what they consume, dependence eases, and resilience grows. In a time of rising prices and shrinking patience, planting at home is a small, steady act of wisdom.
A welcome drive
Reports that DPWH Secretary Vince Dizon is riding along the Maharlika Highway from Quezon to Bicol, then to Samar, and onward to Mindanao deserve public commendation. If true, he should be seeing the real and painful condition of the highway, especially its most neglected and abused segments. It is a welcome move, but only if it leads to decisive action rather than staged publicity.
The Samar portion of the Maharlika Highway has long been a national embarrassment. Motorists and commuters endure broken pavements, uneven surfaces, recurring potholes, and stretches that seem permanently under repair yet never improved. Travel that should take hours drags on endlessly, damaging vehicles, risking lives, and exhausting ordinary people who rely on this road for work, trade, and basic mobility. A firsthand ride through Samar should leave no room for excuses, sanitized reports, or technical justifications that downplay the daily suffering on the ground.
For decades, rehabilitation funds for this highway have been allocated and reallocated, yet the road remains largely in poor condition. The pattern is familiar: short repairs, substandard materials, quick resurfacing that collapses after a few months, followed by another budget request. This cycle has fueled persistent suspicions that public funds meant for lasting infrastructure have been siphoned off by corrupt figures protected by silence and routine. The Samar highway stands as a physical record of failed oversight and tolerated wrongdoing.
If the secretary truly travels this route, he should also see the deeper problem beyond cracked asphalt. He should recognize how poor road conditions strangle local economies, delay emergency response times, raise transport costs, and isolate communities already burdened by poverty and disasters. The Maharlika Highway is not a decorative project; it is a lifeline. When it is allowed to decay, the state effectively abandons the people who depend on it.
There needs to be a firm, transparent, and uncompromising action. Independent audits of past and ongoing projects, strict accountability for contractors and officials, public disclosure of project details, and the use of durable standards instead of cosmetic repairs must become non-negotiable. The cycle of corruption and neglect of the Maharlika Highway in Samar must be broken so it can finally serve its purpose as a road for progress rather than a monument to plunder.