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.
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