She used to tell us that whatever had its’ back (i.e. spine) facing the sky is edible.
That and the vile concoctions made from roots and barks bought from the medicinal shops that she labelled as nutritious soups set the tone for the culinary adventure and my lifelong love affair with food.
For our Peranakan staples, there's the grinding, pounding and chopping with large cleavers on wooden blocks in the kitchen. The dins of which is irritating yet soothing, in a way. These are the noise of my childhood.
If it’s the pounding of pestle and mortar coupled with that salty rancid burn of toasting belacan that means sambal belacan is being made. Also means there’s either nasi lemak which is rice cooked in thick coconut milk and tamarind prawns, honeyed anchovies, deep fried turmeric sardines and cool cucumber slices for lunch.
Or Hailam Char Mee, yellow noodles fried in lard oil, with pork belly, mustard greens and prawns. Maybe its birthday Lam Mee, which is soupy and has prawn and pork stock but garnished with pink omelette ribbons, chives, fried shallots, prawns and pork belly again.
The smooth rolling sounds of the batu guling, with that swoosh of sticky rempah means gulai or curries are being prepared. If there’s the smell and popping sounds of mustard seed frying in oil with curry leaves, then its Indian style curry chicken or fish.
Peranakan Gulai has Lemon Grass, Daun Kesom, Bunga Kanta (torch ginger bud), Galangal or Lengkuas, Turmeric and Belacan. Very different in taste and texture, and we kids knew how to differentite the types of curries from a young age.
Simple maths, the more potent the gulai, the more white rice and soy sauce is needed to balance the heat. Young mouth and tongues burn easily but with each meal, we grew strong with fire proof mouths and stainless steel stomachs to match and able to withstand the onslaught of spices and chilli.
Cooking was a massive, labour intensive affair. It often begins with daily marketing very early in the morning for a quick selection of the freshest ingredients available. We didn't have a fridge back then.
So the proverbial “early bird catches the worm” proved fatal for the perky looking hen or duck! It would be better to look half beat than alert at the crack of dawn, so to speak.
As for the Chinese, the must have item is pork. Freshly slaughtered quartered pig, its ribs, spine, split head, tail, pork loin and other organs are tied, bunched up and hung on large hooks across a metal rod secured to the table. Pig’s brains are kept in a bowl with cold water and these must be pre-ordered the day before. "Why only pig's brains, Ma?" we'll ask. "There's only one brain per pig." My mother's explanation with that quick roll of her eyes, silent further questioning. Those hooks remind me of giant fish hooks.
Only the four pork legs and pork belly are placed on the table. The colon is washed and sold by the preserved vegetable man together with coagulated blood cubes. For some strange reason, these two items are kept away from the Butcher, and sold at another part of the market. "Bad smell!", my sister volunteered a reply. "Hygiene," said my mother. That settled it.
The Butcher would use his curved “too bak toh” butcher’s knife in Hokkien to carve an almost exact measurement of the meat you requested for. He weighed this using a hand held scale which is basically a marked wooden rod with a hook on one end and a little counterweight of plumb bob which he adjust for measurement.
There were no plastic bags in those days; no one knew that newspaper ink was toxic either. So the meat was loosely wrapped in it and tied with a little straw string for easy take away. Before the war, the meat was wrapped in fresh lotus leaf. For a small purchase, a straw string was simply looped over the meat and enough to secure your purchase. Just remember to walk quickly and out of the way of hungry stray dogs.
Butchers were a frightening lot to us little kids. They were large burly men who were shirtless with triangular “neen neen” (men boobs), potbellied and wore “tua lan par” (big balls) short black pants. These are loose and airy and they wore it rolled down at the waist and secured with a cloth string or belt. No one knew why the short pants are called this way; perhaps it’s just a colloquial term. Or perhaps it's true.
None of us siblings ever remembered our Butcher's face. It's one of those things, you see a huge man with a knife and the instinct is run for dear life. Not stand around to see if he has a handsome face.
I was a picky eater as a toddler; my teeth were slow to grow. A lot of the food my mother fed me was difficult to swallow, so my diet was soft. I grew up eating rice with mashed up hard boiled eggs and soy sauce or she would make me Lard Rice.
Cooking was done in a fire wood stove built of brick and mortar and plastered a dull red. There were two circular openings for stove; these had three plastered brick stumps each to support a pot or wok. Sometimes when the dishes are not ready and I was hungry, my mother will scoop some hot rice in a bowl, add lashings of lard oil, black soy sauce, white pepper and knock in a raw egg. She’ll mixed it up and sprinkle some spring onion on top for colour.
Nothing in world tastes as luxurious, sweet and comforting as a bowl of Lard rice. To this day, when it rains continuously for over the weekend and my world is covered with grey, I would hanker for just one bowl of Lard Rice, made by my mother in my grandfather’s shop house in Parit Buntar. That is what comfort food does to you. It lifts you up and carries you back to a safe warm place in your childhood.
My progress to solid food like meat took a while as I waited for my teeth to grow out. My mother and her sisters would offer meat in all the forms they could think of. Boiled and sliced, not interested. Minced and steamed, didn’t like the grainy texture. Made into balls or flatten into coin sized Bak Steak, served with gravy, I’ll push around and around on the plate. Rolled in bean curd, fried and sliced. Dye it red, roast and slice. Cook it in curry, cook it in tau chow, braised in black soy sauce, mix it with egg and fry like omelette. I shook my head and cried.
Finally I took a piece, it was dark, its edges slightly caramelised. It wasn't Char Siew (Honey Roast Pork Loin) that much I knew. Neither was it that horrible Sio Bak (Roast Pork) with that hard skin that cut my gums. I hated that layer of white fat that rolled on my tongue.
This one, I loved it for its the shape. It was triangular. One side longer than the other two and definitely not liver. I chewed it slowly; it had a little bite but was not stringy or grainy. I could swallow. The whole household watched, cheered and rejoiced. Everyone took turns to pick a piece up for me, I felt honoured. Proud even, what an achievement for a four year old.
Every other day of the week, I would inadvertently "manja" my mother to indulge me with my "triangular meat". With the addition of meat in my diet, I started growing and welcomed new teeth weekly in my small mouth. I could chew and eat properly and began to enjoy all the food that was too difficult initially. These proved to be as tasty as my mother and aunts had promised. I began to look forward to mealtimes.
A year later when I was five, I decided to follow my mother to the market. I wanted to see what else is good for cooking and eating. My mother could only manage one child at a time and my other older siblings took turns to help carry her basket.
That morning, I went in my pyjamas and she in her "sam foo" with a large rattan basket carried over her arm. I was allowed to hold onto just two fingers on her free hand. Chinese families are like that, we are never really tactile with each other. Even small children learn to walk by themselves, clutching to their mother's blouse or even trouser legs, depending on how tall one was, I supposed. We slipped on our wooden clogs, she in her large worn red ones, me in my little clogs with painted yellow butterflies. My eldest brother Chye had painted them to amuse me when I fretted with my food.
Our short journey to the market was exciting. She opened the back door and we walked along the sandy back lane. I would call out the names of the aunties and uncles and all my friends who live in the adjoining houses. It was hard to tell from the back lane, the front of the house looked very different. My mother enjoyed this game and would gently correct me. I gamely corrected myself and call out the correct names.
We came to the end of the twin row of shophouses facing each other on the main street and took a left going on the dirt with lallang. Further on there was a pig farm. Pig have a funny smell, I thought. It must be all that black mud that they lie in. Actually the strong odour comes from the dirty stall more than the pig themselves.
I was excited and pulled at my mother's fingers to get a closer look at the pigs. There was a large sow with her pink piglets nursing. I counted up to eight, my mother continue, there were eleven of them in that litter, just shy of a dozen.
I told my mother that pigs look pretty because they wore high heel shoes. The trotters make them look like they were walking in shoes.
Passed that and some kampong (village) houses, we crossed a shallow stream. This was the scary part. As the earth was wet and moist, there were many earth worms that poked their head up to look around. I squirmed and clung to my mother and we moved quickly by the river bank.
It was years later that as an adult, that I found out that my mother had a fear of earthworm. She would bundle up the entire packet of green vegetable if she found even a thread like earthworm nestled there. That night we would have onion omelettes. Come to think of it, we had onion omelettes a lot in our household.
We stopped along the way for her to choose and make her purchases. She had picked some aubergines, long beans, tau pok, pineapple, prawns, cockles, freshly squeezed santan and rempah. I grinned, we would be having "Kiam Hoo Koot Gulai" or Salted Fish Curry. I've seen that thick slab of "Tan Dau" bones and head that my father brought, preciously wrapped in several layers of newspaper and kept hung on a rope and hook in the kitchen.
We children learn recipes from watching and helping in the kitchen. Even the youngest will know the possibilities to certain dishes from the fresh market purchases. We all knew how to choose and pick the plumpest fruit, the perfect shapes, the deep dark hues of vegetables, know when to touch and when to fold itchy fingers behind one's back.
My elder brothers episode with digging up a wild yam plant was a permanent reminder that wielded more authority than any thin cane.
She smiled at me indulgently, "Of course I remember, small one," she said and then took me to meat section, passing the clucking hens and hissing ducks to visit her Butcher.
I eyed him suspiciously. This man had black hair on his white bare chest and the hairs were all straight, pointing south, like pig’s hair I thought. He looked like one of the monsters that my brothers would draw to frighten us girls.
My mother chatted and made her purchases. I had never seen a dead slaughtered pig up close. The pig’s trotter was pointing to my face. All that white skin and pink flesh. Surely this is not that mama pig we saw with her young just now. I felt faint.
My mother rapped my head, “You haven’t asked for your triangular meat for a long time girl, you want some?” she asked gently. I looked at her, “Urmph…” she smiled and pointed to the hanging ribbon of meat and there it was, coated with soy sauce, roasted dry with caramelised edges. My eyes widen at the profile. It was long and had a rounded oval edge to one end. My small stomach twisted, I felt something rise in my throat. I couldn't speak.
I could hear the Butcher laugh that potbellied deep rumble. My mother purchased a double portion as a reward. “My youngest daughter’s favourite,” she told the Butcher, “is roasted pig’s tongue.”
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