My earliest childhood memories were
of conflict, but not of the mortal kind. My mother, a third generation
Malaysian born Chinese of Southern Chinese roots had the gumption to
up and marry my father, a first generation Malaysian born Indian of
Ceylonese Sri Lankan descent. This marriage had resulted in me, a silently
chubby cheeked and brown-kneed girl and my brother, who was the endearing
one with a little rotundness about his being. My childhood was a war
of the senses and tastes, with the smell of curry leaf battling that
of ginger steamed fish; of pork chops and French fries with peanut and
squid soup; Western-style carton milk which tasted like rubber bands,
and Indian style unpasturized cows milk, served steaming with a foamy
lip, and a hot pinch of sugar. We ate three kinds of curry some days,
a hot-hot one for Papa, a medium hot one for mum and my brother, and
the baby one for me. All were the same curry, only with humane doses
of coconut milk to soothe the baby's roaring stomach.
My mother was and still is the cleverest
person in the whole world. She was an esteemed cook, not because she
made the complicated dishes beloved by gourmets, but because she cooked
slyly and seduced eaters with simple things that had a twist worthy
of Alfred Hitchcock at the end. A little curl of spring onion, ringed
in a red chilly round, Chinese dumplings made with glutinous floor for
a more silky finish to the crunchy turnip stuffing, and simple sago
pudding that elevated her to such a height of fame that my 10 year old
eyes misted over with wonder. How could my mother, who worked professionally,
spanked me and my brother when necessary, cajoled my father, mollycoddled
her bonsai plants and ate bananas in the kitchen while moving about
at a whirlwind speed cleaning, find the time to be so amazing?
One of the most clever things my
mother achieved through her cooking was love. It was tough growing up
in our family, with a large extended clan remaining wary of my mother's
inclusion in the beginning. But my mother's heart is the warmest and
kindest of anybody I know, and it just seeped into her cooking. Simple
things, oyster sauce chicken cooked with carrots for sweetness and potatoes
for richness became legendary. Steamed freshwater fish with garlic and
ginger that slid down your throat into your belly and warmed you up
like a pot belly stove. Chinese New Years when we weren't at grandmas
would be extra special, because she would make love letters over a small
charcoal stove in our porch. With metal plates attached to steel rods
heated over the coals, she'd make these sweet coconut pancakes. Golden
brown and paper thin, they were folded quickly into little fans while
still hot so that once cooled they turned crisp and delicious. Manning
four at a time, my mother would turn them out as quick as anything,
and my brother and I would fold the "letters," eating half
as we went along and eliciting a smack or two along the way.
My mother would then deliver the
love letters, securely stacked in tins to suspicious relatives as a
Chinese New Year token, along with some lucky mandarin oranges and perhaps
a red packet or two for the kids. She did this not to win them over,
but because it was something she wanted to do. A delicious way of being
kind maybe. She also made love letters, and home made pineapple jam
tarts as a way of making Chinese New Year fun for her two children whom
she loved fiercely and protectively, stirring all this emotion into
her barley drink, seasoned with pandan leaf from our garden, or "Black"
soup, my nickname for a potent Chinese herbal brew she made up now and
then to keep us strong. When times got tough, she would make peanut
and squid soup for us with big chunks of pork bones for taste, feeding
us health and vigor while saving enough money to send us to ballet,
judo and camp. We hardly ever got sick, and never ate junk food in our
home. It seemed like a silly thing to do when we had all the lovely
things mum made around us.
But what about Papa? Papa was a
big, strong man, loving and effusive but fussy about food. Was he fussy!
Being a fine cook didn't help things, as he would battle mum for kitchen
time. Dinners sometimes were Chinese, sometimes Indian and sometimes
an amalgamation of both. He loved puttus, an Indian steamed brown or
white rice floor crumbly cake, topped with grated coconut, and dosai,
a savory crisp pancake made with batter of fermented dhal beans for
breakfast, rice with many different accompaniments (traditionally it
should be 9 dishes!) for lunch, and of course curries of all kinds for
dinner. And vegetables, my father would eat any kind and lots of it.
So long as they went well with his Indian curries that is. So mum would
learn how to make these complicated delicacies for Papa, grinding up
the urad dhal and rice to make dosai batter, filling metal tubes with
puttu and steaming them fluffy and light and making the best fish curry
I have ever known in my life, tender and succulent with just the right
amount of spices, smooth chunks of ladies finger and brinjals (okra
and eggplant) then a surprising bite of pineapple. A Hitchcock twist.
She could never make him curries though, they were not quite right somehow
so he would assign us with preparation. Slicing up the onions and garlic,
washing the curry leaf, pounding the lemongrass root. And then Papa
would go to work, though it was more of a dance. The steel black bottomed
wok would clang as he thumped the ladle down enthusiastically, flicking
curry onto the wall of our outside kitchen. A bug flying past would
have the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time and
would be impaled by a red glob of hot curry sauce to the wall. Our neighbor
would always joke about our curry making exploits, as the sounds of
the wok singing blew across her back garden to her home.
But mum's chicken curry was special
-she would slip in some kaffir lime leaves along with ground up prawn
powder, tumeric, chili paste, and the taste was something you secretly
inquired after, when papa was not listening. When can we have it again
mum? She would smile and ask if you liked it, and the next time papa
was away it would inevitably be served again. Mum's magic was in how
simple and magical she made cooking. Slicing things up with a whir of
her big cleaver, pairing east and west in tastes that would linger in
your thoughts for days after, and fast, was she ever so fast! She did
so many things, I don't know how it all fit into the 24 years I've had
to watch her.
Recently, I moved away to a totally
different taste landscape - Finland. With a wok in my luggage and a
rice cooker in my hand, I felt brazen in the knowledge that I had 3
kilogram's of dried chilies in a box being shipped over to me. I was
to be a married woman! I was going to cook like my mother cooks, silent
and deadly efficient. A weapon in mass culinary destruction, if you
will. But I couldn't, in a frozen landscape so different from my own,
the memories of mum's cooking just didn't match what I made. So I decided
I would become something new -my mother's daughter. Not the same as
her, but beloved by her as she was by me.
Now as I make new and interesting
dishes for my husband, I remember mum's dishes. Simple but always with
a twist, that keeps you coming back for more. I've made her sago pudding
from time to time, but nothing beats the original. You see, mum made
it as a delicious way of being kind, to warm cold hearts with warm coconut
milk, sweet palm sugar and tapioca pearls. In that way, my cooking will
never be like hers, neither will anyone else's. But one day, when I
have babies of my own, I will have the chance to do it. To have someone
realize that food is not about taste and feeling, but about creating
a whole amazing life to aspire towards. Just like mum's.
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