The Cocoanut

The pasta layers were thick and dry at the edges, not at all the silky tender sheets I’d expected. The bolognaise sauce was dry and severely lacking in tomato flavor. The béchamel sauce, which I’d hoped would be the star of the dish turned out bland and tasted thoroughly of flour. If flour could be made into a cream-like consistency, it would taste like my hideous béchamel sauce. Even the fresh parsley was overpowering, its herbal airiness aggressively punching through the awkward tag-team combo of Bland Bechamel and the Bolognaise from Hell.

To cleanse my mouth of the aftertaste of what could very well be the most tragically unappetizing lasagna in the southern hemisphere, I rushed to the pantry, a humongous floor-to-ceiling dietary first-aid kit, and got myself a bar of chocolate I saved for emergency situations such as this one. My cooking skills may be questionable, but I can take comfort in the fact that, at least for now, my shopping skills remain intact.

The rapidly burgeoning gourmet food industry is one obvious example of how the trading up phenomenon is gaining ground among consumers. I remember being quite enchanted walking along the aisles admiring the beautifully packaged food and ingredients on display. However, I find that the more I cook, the less interested I am in these gourmet offerings, opting instead for the more-bang-for-my-buck philosophy of home cooking.

What went wrong? Have I become old or am I just poorer? Well, although both of those options are quite accurate, I think the real reason for this disinterest is that these cute gourmet items, kept in small packaging to increase profit margins, are not very practical for the home cook. They may be invaluable for the hobby cook for whom cooking is an indulgent pleasure, but for the home cook whose daily sustenance depends on him cooking, these items are at best, nice to look at, and not much else.

I’ve got nothing against clever marketers. I admire their tenacity in studying our spending habits and emotional levels to create those products we never knew we wanted. Nonetheless, I can’t help but harbour a sense of mistrust towards the marketers, and over the years I’ve developed a hobby of outsmarting the marketers by doing the exact opposite of what they predict I would do.

So instead of buying a bottle of dukkah-infused extra virgin olive oil, which apparently is quite essential to the modern kitchen, I instead walk across the street to Mediterranean Wholesalers on Sydney Road, hardly a bastion of fashionable shopping, and got myself the cheapest bottle of olive oil. Cheap olive oil? Are you sure? Well it looks like extra virgin olive oil, it smells like extra virgin olive oil, and it tastes like extra virgin olive oil, so it must be extra virgin olive oil, right?

I once stumbled upon an article by a prominent foodie who suggested olive oil is a bit like wine, with different tastes and nuances to suit different food, and that we should all stock a few different types of olive oil at home. At the supermarket, there are olive oils that are marketed as best suited for seafood, vegetables, stir fries, meat and pasta. Are we really supposed to get all these different types of olive oil for each dish? I doubt home cooks in the Mediterranean would stock up different kinds of oil in their pantry, and if they do, well good on them for having so much shelf space.

Little did I realise I was quite unprepared for the foolish sense of excitement which overcame me upon seeing the bread inflate and double in size during the proving process. It’s like the bread was alive! (Well, it kind of is, since yeast is a living organism). This foolish thrill would later cost the bread its fully-developed flavour, as I, in my haste, started punching the bread, ridding it of air and preparing it for the second proving process, before the first one was even through.

The finished product had the visual appearance of bread, but in taste it was quite deformed. The crust was thick and chewy, while the crumb was a little too salty and had a lingering aftertaste which I suspect is due to excess yeast, a result of rushing the fermentation process during proving.

Far from being disappointed, it spurred me to do some research on perfecting the art of bread-making. If I’m going to take this first bread as an indication of the year that lies ahead, it’s not that it will be marked by over-salted failures, but rather by exciting discoveries into an art that promises unbounded potential and many happy-tummy memories

Books are perhaps only second to furniture in terms of weight to carry, and I was forced to reflect if it would’ve been sensible - and less painful for the back -to simply stick with 3 or 4 cookbooks.

The truth is, 3 or 4 would be severely inadequate, even if I’ve only really attempted about a quarter of the recipes in my cookbook collection. Blame it on today’s culture of instant gratification and sense of entitlement for the trend of buying so many cookbooks. The I-want-it-NOW! Philosophy completely validates buying that Spanish cookbook just because you feel like trying out a Paella recipe for dinner.

In the interest of frugality, we could make do with just a couple of books and rein in on conspicuous consumption by assuming the role of the anti-capitalist crusader, but then would we really want to rebel against something as delicious as paella?

A cookbook is not merely a repository of recipes, a manual on nourishment. If it was that utilitarian, I and many others would not be so haplessly addicted that we can’t seem to stop ourselves from buying another one.

No, like their illegal pharmaceutical counterparts, cookbooks are pleasurable. They act as kitchen tomes that preserve and celebrate the hundreds of years of experiments and experience in the mixing and mingling of ingredients and flavours.

The primal sensations of chopping and slicing and cutting, of stirring and banging and kneading and squashing, and the ultimate reward of eating, sucking, licking, tasting, all begin their embryonic development with a flick of a page through a favourite cookbook.

There has been this snobbery over dried herbs where they’re treated like some outcast creation of the industrial age. Dried herbs have actually been around for ages, to either give a different dimension to the dish, or as a substitute ingredient for the lazy cook such as myself. I’m quite happy to substitute dried parsley for its fresh variant, on those days when I have neither the time nor the inclination to visit the supermarket solely for the pursuit of fresh parsley.

In any case, my favourite herb is the lemongrass. This beautiful herb usually works behind the scenes, adding gently its subtle floral essence in braised dishes or dry curries. Southeast Asian dishes tend to include a whole multitude of ingredients, and at times I often wonder if some of the herbs or spices are redundant. But lemongrass is one of those herbs whose presence can seem to be missing amidst all the different flavours, but whose absence is definitely felt when it’s removed from the recipe.

There are many ways to enjoy lemongrass. It can be blended with onions and other aromatics into a paste, or sliced thinly and scattered over meat. I extract the greatest pleasure by bruising the stalks and throwing it into the pot, letting it simmer and slowly release its beautiful notes of citrus in the background.

The tom yam fish prepared in the photo involves steaming a whole fish (I think it was barramundi that day, but any fresh white fish will suffice). While steam is happily puffing away gently cooking the fish and turning its flesh from its translucent shine into soft tender white, I make the sauce by frying sliced onions, too much garlic, oyster sauce, tom yam paste and the bruised lemongrass stalks.

When all the meat has been consumed, some people enjoy sucking the bones of the fish. I much prefer to suck on my bruised lemongrass, extracting the essence for all its worth.

During one of our discussions about this, with a bowl of MnMs to pass around, a friend claimed that we use up more calories when we’re studying than during exercise, which accounts for the sense of starvation. We later found out this wasn’t true, and even if it was, I would much prefer to work out, because even exercise is easier than engineering.

The thing about hunger pangs caused by study sessions is that they are very particular about the types of food that satisfies them. Surprisingly enough, they discriminate against healthy, wholesome food. The starvation cannot simply be countered with a piece of apple, or grapefruit that’s rich in antioxidants. No, I have yet to see a student take a breather from their cramming session with a bowl of salad.

When I’ve exhausted my brain cells, I don’t even want good food. No satisfying bowl of noodle, not even a fresh piece of fish properly pan fried in frothy butter and oil.

I want only the saltiest crispest potato chips, the ones that cause mouth ulcers if you eat too much of them too quickly. Not for me a good velvety piece of dark chocolate. Where’s a sugar-coated, cheap caramelly milk chocolate bar when you need one?

It’s dodgy industrial food like these, the ones that make you feel dirty and ashamed of yourself afterwards, that provide precious fuel to lubricate the exhausted university undergraduate’s brain.

We often assign gender to food as well; the petite cupcake- beautiful and dainty - is ascribed feminine virtues, while the massive, oily burger, perhaps reminiscent of a greasy, hairy man, is somehow appointed the male species rep.

The classification of gender to things which are otherwise asexual can, and do cause dilemma to the innocent bystander. Many times I have felt self-conscious when ordering salad, at the risk of being given dirty looks by female friends, as if there’s something unmanly about eating a bowl of raw vegetables. Do all men have to go through life chomping down on lasagna or a quarter pounder just to prove our masculinity?

The qualities we assign to food are not restricted to gender. Deep fried junk food, such as cheese sticks, Mars bars, and more recently deep-fried coke, are seen as trashy, while plain, simple dishes such as chicken soup are ascribed virtues of wholesomeness and purity.

In these times of disorder and chaos, it is useful to seek out the food that fuels rebellion. One worthy contender is the humble nasi goreng (fried rice), which was born, like many a rebel, out of accident rather than a carefully planned conception. This dish started out as an economical and ingenious way of making good use of leftover rice and its side dishes of meat and vegetables.

The other day we were left with a huge pile of rice, rendang (Malay dry chicken curry) and leftover stir-fried veggies. The situation presented a timely opportunity to indulge in a simple, yet festive feast of fried rice for the whole family. And so into a hot wok wafting with the irresistible aroma of sautéed shallots, ginger and garlic, we dump in the pile of rice, throw in the veggies and chicken, with the curry paste forming the base seasoning of the fried rice.

This no-rules, free-form and unstructured way of cooking appeals most to people who otherwise despise cooking, and those needing a break from the measure-or-perish school of cookery that is essential to cake-making and haute cuisine.

Like the equally unruly and chaotic omelette, it is quite difficult to screw up fried rice. Follow no rules, break with convention, and your efforts will reward you. Anarchy never tasted so delicious.

The genderisation of food has added another dimension to the already complex relationship we forge with what we eat. Is it acceptable for a man to hold, yet alone eat, a dainty piece of cupcake? Should not those sweaty, hairy palms, roughened by labour and hardened by toil, be fit only to handle less beautiful things like donuts, hot dogs or a mean, meaty kebab?

The sight of a man grabbing a cupcake by the hands is almost grounds for sexual harassment. But I cannot deny the attractive impulse of cupcakes; the way they look, the way they smell, the way they make themselves even more irresistible when you say their name. Cupcakes. It just oozes with sexual charm.

How else would you finish off a beautiful cupcake other than eating it from the palm of your hands?

Despite my enthusiasm in attending these joyous occasions, we as a family have never actually held an open house ourselves. This could be partly attributed to our clan’s long-held tradition of keeping Hari Raya a strictly family-only affair. Of course, Hari Raya has always been a time for families to get together, but ours seem to take it a notch further, to the point where it almost appears that we are excluding others from participating in the festivities.

It could either be a lack of creativity or simply a strong sense of maintaining tradition, but our clan’s Raya schedule has, for the most part, remained constant over the years. On Raya eve family after family would converge at the headquarters of the clan aka my grandmother’s house in Seremban, where we would all break fast for the last time. At night the children will be decked out in our traditional Malay clothes, baju melayu cekak musang for the boys (or the teluk belanga version for the more casual among us), and either the feminine baju kurung or the elegant baju kebaya for the girls, depending on which of the two is in fashion at the time.

We would then perform the customary minta maaf zahir dan batin (ask for forgiveness) from our parents and grandmother before being handed what I felt was the climax of Raya, our equivalent of a Christmas gift, a green envelope packet containing cash. The whole night would then be spent with us children playing with sparklers and fire crackers, amid laughter, food and counting money in between.

On Raya Pertama, the first day of Raya, we would start the day with the obligatory ketupat, rice filled into a woven palm leaf pouch and boiled so that the rice compresses and takes on the form and texture associated with dumplings. The ketupat is eaten with a choice of beef or chicken rendang and satay sauce. Admittedly, this is quite a hefty breakfast, but then again we did just complete a month of fasting.

Lunch would be what we had for breakfast, complemented by lemang, glutinous rice filled into bamboo sticks and cooked in open fire, fish sambal, our grandmother’s beautiful nasi minyak (ghee rice), and jar upon jar of traditional and modern Malay cookies. A jar of semperit (a type of shortbread), bahulu (a kind of dry and crunchy sponge cake) and biskut Marie (another type of cookie) can make or break our Raya celebration. There is nothing worse than eating a dry, tasteless semperit, prepared by someone who obviously thinks butter is too good for us.

For something decidedly less rich, it’s hard to beat a cube of lengkung (or lengkong, depending on how broad you pronounce your ‘o’). This is a kind of red jelly that’s been flavoured with rose syrup (I think) and is not too sweet or rich. It is undemanding of the tastebuds but the cooling sensation is pure treat in a climate as hot and humid as Malaysia’s.

*The photographs were adapted from my cousin’s collection of the recent Raya family gathering, which I, being in Melbourne, unfortunately missed out on.