Cooking Smells - the smells of the week and 'Surprise Saturday' by Kay Yendole

My Mother was an extraordinary cook. When I say extraordinary, it does not mean wonderful, more unusual.

Her life was orderly and neat and whether it was due to post war rationing and availability or to her sense of order you could always tell the day of the week by the smells emanating from the kitchen.

Traditional roast on Sunday, cottage pie on Monday, liver and onions on Tuesday, Irish Stew on Wednesday, sausages on Thursday, fish on Friday and a surprise on Saturday.  Surprise Saturday was when Mother would cook something, different, something more exotic like a Bolognese or Goulash, it wasn’t always a success though. Her daily cooking comprised overcooked vegetables and very little seasoning other than salt pepper and a bay leaf.  The natural flavours of homegrown vegetables and good quality meats were her saving grace, not her culinary skills. But surprise Saturday brought out a completely different woman who would present to the table an exciting concoction of flavours and an irresistible smell of something foreign that lingered round the house for several days afterwards.

Nasi Goreng was a particularly remembered dish. The everlasting string of garlic was only used on Saturday and an array of bottles and tubs of spices would come out from the back of the pantry. Sambal Orek was one ingredient never forgotten, my curiosity curbed once after I sneeked a taste from the jar and fire hit my palette. Mother just laughed at the look on my face as this Indonesian spice imprinted its memory on me forever. It is a spice that needs to be cooked out for a few hours to really appreciate its true deep rich flavour but it is not finger licking good in its raw state.

The Saturday surprise seemed to take all day to cook, once early morning market shopping was out of the way a continuous stream of chopping and frying with each component of the dish was carefully done. Occasionally usually a birthday it would be twenty one different dishes, a Ristofel of which Nasi Goreng was only one dish. The smells and taste of each one was distinctly different and I was fascinated as a child to sit and watch this magical preparation of food take place. Gado was one of my favourite components where for once the life of the vegetable was not boiled out of its skin but simmered gently in a rich spicy peanut sauce.  We were also delighted  to have a choice for once as Mother never dished this meal up on a plate but presented each dish separately on its own little platter and you could help yourself  to what you liked but only one spoon of each.  To have more than one protein in a meal was in itself a treat, to have egg, meat and fish as well as an array of vegetables, pickles and rice were true smell and taste sensations, activated strongly, by the exotic different spices.

It wasn’t just our house the smells invaded but half way down the street I could swear I could smell it still. Even dessert was a surprise on Saturdays. Away from the bland bread and butter pudding and blancmanges we would have pineapple upside down cake or banana fritters with ice cream.  Also apart from rice pudding it was the only time we ate rice, sometimes white or yellow or even orange coloured and differently flavoured.

The only names I remember apart from Nasi Goreng, and Gado are Soto, Rendang the hottest one, Satay a peanut chicken dish. Such an explosion of smells and flavours; hot, warm, cold, crispy, crunchy and smooth textures; salty, sweet, tangy, sour, bitter and of different strengths. The array of spices carefully measured was astounding, all those colourful yellows, oranges, red powders and different fresh green herbs were such a contrast to the salt, pepper and a bay leaf regime Mother usually employed.  It was an assault on the senses, the colours, the smells, the tastes and how beautiful it all looked spread out on the table. Mother would even say she could hear the Roti Gambang bread when it was ready to take out the oven.

It was a lot of work but Mother would spend all day in the kitchen in its preparation and I loved to help. Marion and John kept well out the way and I felt privileged to be allowed to handle these precious spices and endlessly chop herbs. I was not allowed to chop the chillies though and again my curiosity taught me why when my eyes streamed after touching the seeds.

Later early in the sixties I remember the first local Chinese take away restaurant opening, my Mother was keen to try it but my Father said ‘I’m not eating foreign muck, making bullets for the yellow army”. But surprise Saturday never bothered him.