There is a prayer that Riah Sibug Cort whispered before she even knew what she was praying for.
It was the height of the pandemic, and she and her business partner, Denise Data, were preparing to leave their home in the province for Manila, unsure of what the holidays would bring. Before they walked out the door, something moved her.
“It felt as if a quiet voice whispered to me,” Riah recalls. “Pray for a business.”
So she did. Then she told Denise, and together they prayed again, asking God for something productive — something they could eventually bring back home. Neither of them could have guessed what was already waiting for them on a table at a family gathering.
At every holiday gathering that December, Riah’s stepmother, Mommy Tin, set out a bowl. People kept stopping to ask what it was.
“Ang sarap nito.” Who made this? Can I have the recipe?
Riah heard all of it and, remarkably, never thought to taste it herself. It wasn’t until the fifth gathering, when Denise finally tried it, looked at Riah with urgency and pointed to the bowl, saying, “Eto na ‘yun,” that the moment arrived.
Mommy Tin, who had overheard them, simply smiled.
“You want it? You can have it. Make something out of it.”
Just like that.
The two former real estate consultants had left their corporate careers in Manila for provincial life with a shared dream but no clear plan.
“We were two corporate girls from Manila who had suddenly left everything familiar behind,” Riah says.
The adjustment was harder than expected. Yet, somehow, in that holiday kitchen, the answer had been sitting in front of them the entire time.
“That something we were looking for,” Riah says, “was just sitting on our kitchen table all along.”
They launched Holy Manna on Dec. 7, 2020, with P20,000 and a product neither of them particularly liked.
Riah had even said it plainly: “I don’t even like pimiento, and you don’t like cheese. How can we sell something we don’t like?”
But Denise remained convinced.
“Let’s take a leap of faith,” she said. “We have nothing to lose.”
Their first order was 35 jars for a single client. The number stayed with them: five times seven, with seven symbolizing God’s number in their faith. To them, it was a quiet confirmation that their prayer had been heard.
What followed were two years of four-hour nights. They carried boxes up flights of stairs themselves, handled every delivery from their kitchen, arrived at mall pop-ups at 4:30 a.m. and stayed until midnight.
There were tears, Riah says, born of both joy and exhaustion, and a constant process of figuring things out as they went.
“We were simply figuring things out as we went.”
Their families kept them going. So did the belief that God sees every effort made in good faith.
Old Days,” was not born from a brainstorming session. It emerged from what they repeatedly witnessed at their pop-ups.
Customers would sample the spread, then pause, caught somewhere between the present and a memory. Some smiled. Some laughed. Some cried.
“They remember parents, grandparents and loved ones who have already gone home to the Lord,” Riah says.
A simple jar of chunky cheese pimiento could transport someone back to a childhood kitchen, to a parent who cooked, or to afternoons that now exist only in memories.
This is why Riah and Denise refuse to see Holy Manna as simply a food business.
“We don’t simply want to sell a product,” Riah says. “We want to know the people who come to our booth, even if it’s only for a few moments.”
At every pop-up, they end each transaction the same way:
“May God’s peace, light, love, joy and hope be with you and your family.”
Some loyal customers now wait for the blessing if the pair forget to say it. Many of those customers have become friends. Some have become family.
People drive three to four hours to visit their booth, not only to pick up an order but also to pray with them, encourage them and speak words of blessing over their business.
“That’s not just support,” Denise says. “That’s family.”
Nearly six years later, the vision remains the same. They want Holy Manna to become a staple on every Filipino table.
They are already hearing stories of families bringing jars overseas and of loved ones abroad requesting it by name as the only pasalubong they want.
Still, the dream remains a humble one.
“We’ve never wanted to be anything extravagant,” Riah says. “Our prayer is to remain simple — a homemade staple that finds its way to family tables and becomes part of life’s little moments.”
The kind shared over breakfast, merienda, quiet afternoons and lively celebrations.
The kind that brings people together.
It turns out that was exactly what had been in the bowl all along.