Why bahay kubo still matters

By Noel Galon de Leon

After two months of hitting the gym regularly and surviving on a diet of mostly green things, I found myself unexpectedly thinking about something from my childhood: Bahay Kubo. Yes, that song. The one we all sang in kindergarten with matching hand gestures, pretending to pull vegetables from an imaginary garden. Back then, it was just a catchy tune. I never gave it much thought. But these days, as I try to take better care of myself, as I think more about how I live and what I put into my body, that simple folk song started to mean something entirely different to me.

I began to see Bahay Kubo not just as a children’s song, but as a quiet reminder of how to live well with less. And not just to survive, but to thrive.

The lyrics paint a picture of a humble nipa hut surrounded by vegetables, sitaw, bataw, patani, and many more. It seems like such a simple image. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how brilliant it actually is.

That small space growing so many different crops is a smart, sustainable way to live. It’s like a miniature food forest, full of life and diversity. There’s something deeply logical and nourishing about that setup. It doesn’t rely on a big piece of land or high-tech equipment. Just the basics, good soil, sunlight, and care.

Somewhere between a leg press and a post-workout protein shake, it hit me: this song was quietly teaching us principles that eco-experts now call “permaculture.” Long before that term even existed, Bahay Kubo was already showing us how food, health, and harmony with nature are all connected.

That realization became even more meaningful because of the way Maurice and I live now. We’re in a small home inside a modest subdivision. No big yard. No garden out back. Just a narrow garage, a few sunny windows, and the usual city noise in the background.

And yet, I started to see the possibilities.

I used to dream of a big house, one with long hallways, lots of rooms, and a backyard for dogs to run around in. But after almost ten years of teaching, commuting, and watching people burn out trying to “have it all,” my dream began to shift. I realized that smaller spaces, when lived in intentionally offer something even more valuable: freedom.

Freedom from clutter. Freedom from unnecessary expenses. Freedom to focus on what actually matters. It’s not about settling for less, but choosing what’s truly essential.

And that’s exactly what Bahay Kubo celebrates.

When people ask, “But can you really grow your own food in a small house?” my answer is simple. Yes, you can. I’ve done it.

Back during the height of the pandemic, when staying home became the norm, I turned to gardening. Not in a big, showy way. Just the basics. Basil in an old ice cream tub. Tomatoes in a used water jug. Mint growing wild in a clay pot. I used what I had and placed them where the sunlight reached, on windowsills, garage corners, anywhere they could grow.

And it worked.

There’s something incredibly fulfilling about picking ingredients you grew yourself. The vegetables tasted fresher, yes, but more than that, they felt personal. There was a quiet joy in it. I found myself talking to the plants sometimes, thanking the chili bush for its fire, urging the lettuce not to wilt. It may sound silly, but it kept me grounded.

Now I want to pass that experience on, especially to my nephew Cliff, who’s currently staying with us. He’s sharp, always on his gadgets, fast with tech, but sometimes I worry he’s growing up too far removed from nature.

So I decided to turn a small corner of the garage into a little teaching garden. It won’t be much. A few pots, some hanging planters, maybe a raised bed if space allows. But we’ll fill it with the vegetables from Bahay Kubo. We’ll learn their names, not just by singing them, but by feeling their textures, smelling their leaves, tasting their flavors. We’ll cook with them too, maybe even recreate Lola Mary Ann’s laswa, a simple Ilonggo soup that’s basically Bahay Kubo in a bowl.

Lola Mary Ann has always lived that way. Her front yard is a messy, wonderful patchwork of edible plants. Her kitchen is modest, but her food tastes like love, like home, like memory. It’s the kind of life that Bahay Kubo quietly promotes, one rooted in what truly nourishes us.

In a world where people spend so much on imported produce, diet fads, and plant-based meal kits, the song reminds us that wellness doesn’t have to be complicated or expensive. Sometimes, what we need is right outside our window, or growing in a reused jug by the door.

Yes, it’s a folk song. But it’s also a way of life. Be rooted. Celebrate diversity. Make the most of what you have. Grow something and share it.

For me, this journey, from getting into shape to growing my own food to revisiting a childhood song has changed more than just my body. It’s shifted my mindset. I was chasing better health, and I found a deeper connection to the land, to home, and to myself.

If you’re feeling lost in the rush of modern life, I encourage you: remember Bahay Kubo. Hum it as you cook. Try planting something from the song. Let it remind you that abundance isn’t always about having more. It’s about appreciating what’s already there.

Whether you’re a fitness junkie, a busy parent, a minimalist, or someone just craving green in the middle of the city, try starting small. Plant a seed. Watch it grow. Reconnect with your roots, in every sense of the word.

Your health, your wallet, and your soul will thank you.