THE unmistakable smell of curry leaves frying in the hot oil last night provoked a lot of memories; mainly those of Mak quietly working in the kitchen preparing snacks and food for Hari Raya. In the big kitchen that Pak built for her, she looked tiny. But she would busy herself from after Subuh prayers, summoning our help only when she was desperate. Else, she would always manage by herself.
I ventured into the kitchen last night confident of replicating Mak’s kueh gunting, a savoury snack we would relish and savour while watching repeats of P. Ramlee movies on TV.
Pictures of kueh gunting were making their debuts on my friends’ timelines on social media; all dredged up from memories of how their mothers used to do it. There has been a surge of kitchen activities gearing up towards Hari Raya, something not quite happening in mine, not just yet.
But, this year, I am determined to make the effort, seeing that any attempt, no matter how small, would help instil a Raya memory in my young grandson. He would one day write in the social media of his time, how his Tuk Mama used to do it! Let us hope this happens.
As I rolled in the minced curry leaves and other ingredients into the dough and cut them in tiny pieces, every piece of those cut dough seemed to provoke memories of Mak in the kitchen during the days before Raya.
Not knowing how to read or write, she’d just have some scribbles in some old books — but never a complete recipe book. Most recipes were kept in the deep recesses of her memory, dutifully dredged out for relevant occasions, be it Hari Raya or that special dish for the bride and groom on their big day.
She’d conjure a perfect itik or ayam golek every Raya morning for us to feast on just before going to the mosque. Itik golek was a mandatory dish that Pak would help make as it was his favourite. But what went into the making of this family dish? I would have to WhatsApp my siblings, again, and tolerate their tongue lashings before they part with the recipe. I would also ask for Mak’s Ayam Portuguese recipe, a dish that we would wipe clean off our plates with bread or rice.
Perhaps it’s a little bit too late to lament my lack of interest in anything culinary. Who else didn’t know that I took the frying of keropok to a whole new level when I washed them first? So, there — it’s gone public!
Mak was always meticulous in her preparations of her food, painfully so. That was perhaps the main contributing factor to my mental departure in food preparation. My Domestic Science teacher swore that no man would ever marry me after I butchered a fish meant for fish curry. It was beyond recognition when I was done with it.
For Mak, the onions had to be thinly sliced, the fire had to be very slow and nothing to be added to the simmering paste in the pot until bubbles of oil gently surfaced to show that it was ready. Or else, the gravy when served, if ever fit to be served at all, would be termed terkejut api — the gravy that lacked that veneer of oil on the surface, in my late mother’s culinary vocabulary, was said to have suffered from fire trauma! The meat had to be cut a certain way to make it tender and only the best ingredients would go into her pot. Nothing less.
The chicken or duck had to be plucked and feather-free after treating it on open fire or else it would not be deemed fit to be served on the table. There are no short cuts in Mak’s book of cooking.
Making kueh baulu was a ritual in our household. One that we would look forward to with great anticipation as we were all enlisted to look out for those golden eggs from our geese. It wasn’t the easiest task as you risked being pecked on the bum or legs by the possessive goose as you tried to get her eggs. When successfully retrieved and sufficient enough, these eggs would be the main ingredients for Mak’s baulu.
During my last visit to the famous Pekan Rabu in Alor Star, I saw youngsters producing them on a conveyor belt!
In those days, without today’s gadgets, we took turns to beat the mixture of eggs and sugar with a big broom-like thing that would cause aches in the arms for days on end. But it was fun and it helped us through the Ramadan days. But the smell of the baulu in Mak’s conventional oven was a torture. Mak baked her baulu in the dry kitchen; there’s open fire below and on top were burning charcoals — a kind of traditional oven that would ensure even heat for the baulu.
These, when cooled down, would be kept in big jars or in those big Jacobs’ Cream Cracker tins that would be airtight, with a piece of oiled paper to keep the ants out.
Today’s Raya raves such as jam tarts weren’t a big favourite in our household. Mak preferred Peanut Butter Cookies that she learnt from her Women’s Institute Cookery class. And there were a few other cookies that she made, such as the telur labah — small white delicacies that would melt in the mouth. I seemed to remember rows and rows of white dots on baking trays but somehow the amount baked never quite made it into those tins as most were eaten the short distance between tray and tin.
This year, kueh gunting will surely make an appearance on the table together with the jam tarts, muruku and other cookies that I brought back from a recent trip back.
I believe the ayam golek or ayam Portuguese will make a comeback.
Today, I am overjoyed with the knowledge that my youngest is back there in Mak’s kitchen to enjoy Hari Raya with his uncles, aunts and cousins. I know the spirit of Mak will be present in that kitchen and how I long to hear the laughter, the bickering and just feel the joy of being there in the kitchen that Pak built for Mak.