Peanut Pancakes

When I was just a little girl...

My dad used to bring me along on his weekend shopping expeditions at the Tanglin Halt wet markets. I really enjoyed our little trips. Even back then, I just loved the markets. I'd look at all the fruit and veg and con my dad to buy me anything which caught my eye.

I was always amazed by the traditional Indian spice ladies, who would scoop out curry powder from these giant, vibrant mounds of fresh powders.

And at the end of it all, my dad would bring us to the nearby hawker centre (not in Tanglin Halt but the other one a short walk away... Margaret Drive?) where he'd have a quick tea while he'd chat with the stall holders and I would have my single GIANT sugee cookie which would be about the same size of the plastic saucer it was served in.

Those weekend mornings were magical times for me.

Gingerbread Skulls, Día de Muertos style

I had a massive craving for Gingerbread cookies the other day... ok I kinda lie... I was also dying to use my new Fred & Friends Sweet Spirits Cookie cutters.

Pretty cool huh? I tried making Gingerdead Men but the stamp didn't work as well as  the Sweet Spirits one, probably because the stamp side of the cutter was not as sharp or precise on the Gingerdead Men stamp. Bummer.

Anyhoo, for those of you who were interested, here's the recipe I used.

The Ranty Patriot

I think the fact that yesterday was National Day kinda brought out the patriot in me. No, I wasn’t wearing red and white to the office. I didn’t break my fast with Singaporean food. And I certainly did not try to stream the National Day Parade.

So what did I do instead? I ranted about soya bean milk on my Facebook status update (which got 22 likes, by the way!)

Dear Aussies, please stop calling that disgusting, diluted, grey dishwater crap you put on the supermarket shelves soy milk.
Sincerely,
the Singaporean who grew up drinking freshly made, REAL soy milk.

So I thought I’d rant about more things that these silly angmohs do which get my goat:

We get that you think Singlish is kinda cool. Even though we’ve been told off about it being “bad English” while we were growing up, we get that you’re fascinated with it. But please, STOP forcing lah on to the end of every sentence. It kinda disrespects Singlish if you think you can use it anywhere you choose… thus contradicting your supposed interest and making you look like a condescending twit.
—
Singapore noodles? What the hell is that? I honestly cannot remember ever seeing Singapore noodles in Singapore. I don’t think it even exists in Singapore.
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Similarly… Asian sauce. Really? You do realise that Asia covers lots of countries and thus lots of different culinary traditions, right?
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Not all Singaporean people are Chinese. Singapore is not a monoculture. So please stop telling me that I don’t look Singaporean.
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Satay has been much maligned in this country. Satay is a dish comprising meat on skewers, accompanied with a peanut-based sauce. So please stop bastardising our much loved dish by diluting peanut butter and throwing random crap in it to make it some weird stew/curry.
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Similarly… not every coconut-based curry is a laksa.
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Are we surprised that most of my rants involve food? Well… I AM Singaporean. And fasting. Haha!

Ascending The Ranks in Ramadhan

The last few days of Ramadhan always manage to stir up fond memories. The lead up to Eid was always exciting for me.

My dad and mom, both being among the elder siblings in their families, could almost always expect tons of guests on the first day and first weekend of Syawal. It's tradition for families to visit their elers within the first week of Syawal and the elders usually reciprocate over the remaining three weeks of Syawal. A bit of an inequity, really because the poor elders will have massive floods of people within a week while the youngins get away with trickling guests into their homes... hehehe.

Anyway, I digress. We always had fairly huge crowds at our house. Not only was there my parents' immediate family (in total, 22 siblings between them, each sibling bringing spouse and kids too) but there would be second cousins, colleagues and friends (and their families, where applicable!) to account for as well!

Consequently, there would always be a lot of prep work involved.

Especially where food was involved. Man, considering that Ramadhan is meant to be the month of abstaining from food and water, I sure do have a lot of food and kitchen-related memories!!

I remember Dad would come staggering home with massive plastic bags full of meat, chicken and vegetables. He would also buy canned soft drinks by the palettes. At least two trays (or 48 cans) of soft drinks. And the cannisters of cookies, boxes of kuih lapis and tupperwares of savouries (rendang and ketupat usually, if we were lucky, sometimes ayam masak merah) would come trickling in and and start taking up residence in our fridge.

And the last few days of Ramadhan would be filled with lots of time in the kitchen.

And boy was there barely enough time to get anything done.

Every single free surface was utilised as we multi-tasked all types of prepwork in the lead up to the feast on Hari Raya. We would sit at the dining table, churning out tray upon tray of cookies and cakes as Hari Raya songs played in the background. And as we are all aware, I am far from religious but I love hearing the (omg I can't even think of the proper name now) recitations on the radio as well - that would be the highlight of the eve of Eid as I struggled to stay awake while helping mum and sis in the kitchen.

A lot of the time, I think that all that time in the kitchen is what probably contributed to my appreciation of the cooking process and really, my appreciation of food. My culinary self was raised in the Ramadhan Kitchen.

Indeed, I saw the pre-Eid rush as a yearly assessment of my culinary skills.

With all the food prep to do, no one was spared from the cooking process. We needed all the help we could get. On every open house day, I would be running ragged between topping up drinks, making sure there were enough cookies and clearing tables and washing dishes so that the next lot of waiting guests could move on from tidbits in the living room to a proper meal in the dining area (which normally accomodates 6 but in times of need, we usually squeeze in another 2-4 chairs where we can). And this would go on all day. So you can imagine just how much food was needed to feed the masses.

Being the youngest in the family, I was always tasked with the simple "unfuckup-able" jobs. Especially when I first started helping out as a kid. My initial tasks included:

• playing fridge tetris aka trying to stuff as many cans of soft drink into the fridge
• ice cube inventory and constantly making trays of ice
• getting bowls from the cupboard
• pounding ingredients in the mortar and pestle
• putting cherries on top of the cookies

And I would watch, almost enviously, as mum and sis got to do real jobs. Like slicing shallots (because I was deemed incapable of slicing them finely enough), cutting up the delicate tofu and frying the various bits and pieces. Even brushing egg yolk on the cookies was considered a more intermediate task because kiddie fingers tend to squish cookies and slop too egg yolk much on - and I suspect one of my mum's bugbears was having overly eggy brown cookies.

But as the years went by, I got "promoted" to doing the more technical tasks. Mum was still commander in chief of the kitchen (and she still is) but as the years went by, I was trusted to do more things.

Such as the tricky task of filling the mini cupcake liners with walnut cake batter. Which sounds simple enough. But then you can't overfill or you'll have exploded mini muffins. And you have to keep the sides of the liner as clean as possible so that the smudge of batter (which would cook to a crisp before the rest of the cake) wouldn't form a barrier for the cake to rise.

And in the later years, I was even allowed to help shape my mum's famous cashew nut cookies. Famous not just because of their taste. But because of the unique shape my mum makes them in.

Now usually when you think cashew nut cookies, you imagine them as being round cookies adorned with cashew nuts on top.

But of course, mum being mum... she has to be different.

She doesn't make star shaped cookies. She doesn't use cookie cutters. She doesn't go crazy decorating the entire cookie with cashew nuts.

Nope. My mum hand-shapes her cookies so that they look like the cashew fruit. So imagine a stylised, curvy pear shape, with a half cashew sticking out at the bottom and a single clove at the top for the stem.

No wait. Have some visuals.

Yes, it was and still is an absolute bitch to make. Namely because so many things can go wrong.

You have to work fast because otherwise (I find anyway) the mixture gets crumbly - probably because the butter from the cookies gets absorbed by your skin. Probably.

And having a time limit is BAD because as you can imagine, this unique shape is not exactly easy to replicate. Not only is it a matter of getting it looking "sexy", as mum calls it, but that bottom bit has to be made sturdy enough so that you can stick that half cashew piece in there without tearing that bottom bit of cookie or exposing the cashew nut. Because if you do, not only do you have to start over but you'll also have to deal with previously mentioned crumbly batter.

So being able to make or at least be allowed to have a go at making the cashew nut cookies was what I always considered to be the absolute pinnacle of culinary finesse during Ramadhan. Which is why I was always so happy to give it a go whenever I was asked to shape the cookies because even if I didn't get it anywhere near right, it made me feel like I was finally part of a sorority of chefs. So to speak.

What with us living in Perth right now, we don't really celebrate Hari Raya anymore. Well I lie, my mum still goes visiting with her friends but we don't have the traditional open house any more. So unless I specifically request for certain foods, our kitchen is not as harried as it usually would be in the lead up to Eid.

Which is kind of sad because not only do you miss out on the fun (albeit exhausting!) bit of Hari Raya but there's no bonding over trays of cookie dough while the scent of vanilla of cloves wafts in the air around you. Crazily enough, I miss it even though I would almost always end up half asleep, pinch of quaker oat cookie dough in hand. Good times.

Yes, it was a lot of work and mum would always be telling me how to do things in the background but there was always a sense of accomplishment when the finished product came out beautifully. And when you saw your guests enjoy every mouthful of their meals.

(Cue impressed elder types going, "wah, Nadia dah boleh kahwin nih!" aka "Wow, Nadia can get married now!". Yep. Apparently the only criteria for marriage suitability is the fact that you can cook.)

So while I am currently complaining of all the running around and elbow grease that was yesterday... I really did enjoy it. It triggered the surge of memories which made for a lovely distraction as I went about my work.

I had a pile of shallots to slice yesterday and even though the sulphur fumes stung my eyes something cruel, I couldn't help but smile to myself. Not a word was said about the thickness of my slices. :)

Yea, I've come a long way.

Even if I STILL can't get them cashew nut cookies right.

(Mine is the skinny one in the middle and the one to the left of that)

Although that said, I did manage to nearly nail them in the end. Mum was kind enough to say that I had "graduated" in cashew nut cookie making.

Which means a lot coming from a typically anal, food-oriented Malay makcik like her.

It means a lot as well because mum and I don't have the best of relationships. As such, receiving such genuine encouragement and praise from her was really the highlight of my sleep-deprived night. I think we bonded last night and I think it's a step to a better mother-daughter relationship.

Ahh... another Ramadhan memory for the history books, I think. :)

Barely a Foodie

I still find it hard to call myself a foodie.

My palate is not as refined as it should be. I’m still lacking in my food knowledge. I am an average cook. I can’t even dice as prettily as other people – my chopping style is rustic, for want of a nicer term.

But if there’s any reason why I would call myself a foodie… it’s this. Food is not simply about nourishment to me.

It’s not even just about taste or texture; food to me is a sensory experience which involves every part of my being. I love hearing the popping of coriander seeds being toasted in the wok. I love the smells of the kitchen. And most of all, I love the memories and emotions that food and its preparation evokes.

I love the smell of freshly beaten butter and sugar. It always reminds me of the days leading up to Hari Raya when mom would prepare her famous quaker oat cookies and cashew nut cookies. Those were good times, particularly when I was younger and hadn’t started fasting – lots of cookies for me to munch on because I was the only one who could! hehehe.

The mixture of tumeric, salt and chilli powder when used in the deep fryer reminds me of my grandmother. Every time there was a family gathering, there would be her deep fried chicken.  I remember how all us cousins used to race to the plate only to get our fingers burnt by the freshly fried fowl.

I love walking past Indian restaurants because the heady mix of spices reminds me so much of my dad’s cousins. They’re the traditional “cook-everything-from scratch” Indian women who still use those massive metal basin like pots to cook insanely, indecent amounts of food every Hari Raya. I don’t know them very well but the fragrant spices always made me feel safe and comforted in their presence.

Teacups and saucers hold a special place in my heart. I used to accompany my parents to their friends’ places a lot and often, I’d be served tea (with milk) in pretty tea sets. I always felt like such a grown up because I got to use such gorgeous china. The only problem is that the tea was always too hot for me. So my parents would always lift the teacup and pour the tea into the saucer for me. And I would drink tea straight from the saucer. I swear, even though it’s the most uncouth way of drinking tea… it’s also the BEST. Hahaha.

Speaking of tea. I love discovering new favourites – my current obsession is teh limau (tea with calamansi limes) which I first came across in Sabah about two years ago. It shouldn’t be surprising that I’d love teh limau seeing how I love iced lemon tea. But the calamansi lime, which its balance of sweet and sour, makes this drink even more delectable to me. I managed to buy some calamansi limes from the Asian shop today and even though the cup I made is nowhere near as yummy as the ones that I had in Sabah (both in the coffeeshops and restaurants)… I feel all warm and fuzzy drinking it still, remembering my adventures in Borneo.

Similarly, papaya salad will always remind me of Krabi. As will mango and sticky rice. I can still taste the juicy sweetness of the Thai mangos, a perfect counteractive flavour for the rich, sticky glutinous rice. What a perfect way to end a meal comprising the spicy, sour papaya salad. Oh and papaya salad will of course remind me of my dear bellydancing Nikki… I can’t remember the last person who raved so much about something I cooked!! Hahaha!

Well okay, maybe I can – Sharny and Palu raving about my Horlicks ice cream. Man, food is probably what binds our friendship. So many of our memories are linked to food. Cheesy toast reminds me of Sharny because that was my comfort food on Day 1 of post-breakup. I chuckle remembering us eating McDonalds in our fancy black dresses post-Sugar Blue show. I can’t eat Nutella without thinking of Sharny and Mira – like mother like daughter! God knows how many time we’ve corrupted each other with our different food finds – like Ritter Cornflakes.

I like watching Palu in the kitchen because it makes me feel like a kid watching my mom cook again. Oh god and speaking of cooking, Sharn and my many cooking disasters – how is it that we’re perfectly capable cooks in the kitchen EXCEPT when we’re in the same kitchen?? Hahahaha.
Oh and one of my favourite parts of my day while I was in Sabah? Sitting on the kitchen counter while Lan prepared our food. It reminded me of when I was younger and more carefree, watching mom cook – and how she was always trying to chase me off the counter so that she’d have more space to prepare our meals. There’s something really calming about sitting on the kitchen counter, legs dangling, while watching someone prep ingredients.

It’s also the best place to sit and wait for taste testing. And girls, sitting on the counter also usually makes you the perfect height to face your boyfriend. Whether they actually pick up on this or not, is another matter and completely controllable by you. Hahahaha.

When I can’t watch people cook from my perch, I like being in the kitchen. I love using my hands in the kitchen. There’s something therapeutic about mixing mince or dough with your hands. I love feeling the mix going through my fingers, I love kneading the dough so that it forms a nice, neat ball.
I’m a constant taster and sniffer in the kitchen. Especially when I’m cooking off the cuff. I cook with my heart and my gut. I rely on my tastebuds and my nose to tell me what’s lacking. Which is why I absolutely suck at telling people how to cook whatever it is I’ve prepared. I have to make a conscious effort to write everything I do down throughout the entire cooking process because sometimes I find myself adding extra bits and pieces here and there.

I swear, it’s an Asian woman thing – we grow up having our moms and aunts tell us to estimate, to add to taste, to add how much you like, that this nasty habit creeps into our being and into our cooking styles. It’s not really their fault because of years of experience – regardless of how many people they cook for, they can always get the taste spot on. Which is not so great for us fledgling makciks because we need the exact figures or at least rough proportions so that we can learn how to cook the dish in the first place!

Yet, somehow my memories of the food I want to recreate is enough to help me sometimes. For example, when I made sambal goreng pengantin, despite not having my mother in the kitchen to guide me (because honestly, she can be a real pain to cook with because of her constant meddling – another makcik trait!) I managed to make sambal goreng pengantin the way I remembered it. Although, my mom and I have different memories of how it should taste like and my sambal goreng pengantin doesn’t meet up to her standards.

It was kind of a sad process, doing it on my own because mum, Natt and I used to congregate in the kitchen preparing the different elements together. I was always assigned the “unfuckable” tasks – aka the tasks I simply couldn’t screw up… or the tasks where it didn’t really matter if I messed up. Like peeling garlic and prawns. I was so happy when one year, I was FINALLY allowed to cut up the delicate tofu.

I could go on and on with the food memories. But I think my point’s been made. I may not be the textbook example of a foodie… but I think I have the makings to be one.

Foodie in Disguise

This post has been brewing in my head for awhile now. But I guess with so many things going on around me, I haven’t really had the chance to actually verbalise (or blogalise?) it.

Anyhoo, a few weeks ago, the yummy kebaby mummy made a comment – she called me a foodie.
Which quite frankly, is flattering but left me a bit… EHHHHH?!

You see, I’ve always thought that a foodie is someone who:

• knows the latest and greatest trends in the food world – ingredients and restaurants
• is a fantastic cook who starts from scratch
• would be able to discern the different flavours in their food.
• has a well stocked pantry with lots of basic but gourmet ingredients.
• can tell you the difference between blade and chuck and which is best used for what.

Yes I cook. But I would NEVER consider myself to be a good cook. I follow instructions well but I rely heavily on cookbooks unless it’s something really simple like fried rice.  Or a salad.

Yes, I recognise the taste of some spices but my “vocabulary” is still fairly basic. Heck, I just figured out that the taste I liked so much was HOI SIN sauce. How UNFOODIELIKE is that??

And don’t even get me started on the cuts of meat. I couldn’t tell you where each cut is from in the first place! Well, aside from ribs. And thighs. And breast. But those are pretty damn self-explanatory.

Basically, I kind of feel that the title of Foodie has been prematurely bestowed upon my still expanding database.

Plus, I’ve always felt that foodie has a kind of snotty connotation. And while I like the idea of being wined and dined, I LOVE eating at the hawker centre and at roadside stalls. Not exactly gourmet type behaviour, is it?

So I told Bruce about this, chuckling at how I’ve managed to get away with this false identity… only to have him tell me that I AM a foodie (pfft. traitor!).
His reasoning:

• I cook well (of course I do, relative to him. hahaha)
• I grow my own veggies (not all of them!)
• I go to the farmer’s markets
• I make my own lunches
• I reap more pleasure from eating (particularly at nice places) than he does.

Still, I refused to accept the Foodie label. Until I read the Wikipedia definition of foodie .

And I seem to identify with most of the things there.

So I guess I shall humbly accept my title and try not to be a food snob. hehehe.

(Cue Ija and Poo cutting in and yelling ARTICHOKE hahahahaha)