What's cooking?

"What do you want to eat for iftar, mama?" was the question I got at the end of my Blackberry (ehem!). Such a simple question and yet it was like music to my ears, especially when it came at the end of a long tiring day fiddling with my new gadget.

I suppressed the urge to say "apa-apalah" because that has been copyrighted and so I said its equivalent of "whatever!"

And I wasn't to regret with that decision because wafting from the kitchen was the most drool inducing aroma that momentarily swayed my iman (a bit of exaggeration here is needed to motivate more activities in the kitchen). It was a creation befitting any Masterchef contestant, if I may say so myself; one that inevitably provoked the father into saying: Hmmmm, the flavour burst in the mouth and the salmon delicately crumbled ...bla, bla, blaaa..."













After more than ten days of fasting and rehashing tired old recipes, I took to looking and drooling at recipes on the internet but I am still at a loss as to what else to cook. I've done the usual, lamb/chicken curry, bubur lambuk and stuff and to tell you the truth I need some other stuff to excite the taste buds. I've even tried cooking mussels! So, when Sayang mama number two whipped up salmon in cream sauce with generous helpings of sliced mushrooms and roast potatoes, I wasn't about to complain.

When I was at her age, I was only entrusted with peeling onions and top and tailing beansprouts. I remember once attempting scones and they turned out rock hard, enough to knock you out and see stars if someone pelted you with one. But arwah Pak ate them all.

With a husband whose "apa-apalah" attitude towards food and cooking, I have not had much incentive to learn. But learn I did and I have improved if I may say so myself. At least no more washing keropoks before frying them .

I am delightfully surprised that Rehana has displayed some talents in an area where I am sadly lacking. She had made beautiful grilled chicken as well. The brother does brilliant couscous, but since the start of Ramadhan he had been busy at work. And dear hubby, if you are reading this, I am still waiting for your chicken kiev.

Last night, I went into foreign and new territory. Feeling quite adventurous and with a lot of time to spare, I surfed the internet for kacang phool recipe. This was of course inspired by Oldstock as well. The recipe I had was Malaysianised, prompting Rehana to remark not once: this is so Malaysian! But she liked it. I had in it chilli powder, curry powder and asam keping, plus minced meat. That went very well with freshly baked French bread. And for the meal after maghrib, it was mee bandung. Aaah, tasted so good too when we had it for sahur.

So, what's cooking in your kitchen?

Selamat berpuasa

Throughout the day yesterday, I kept getting calls and sms asking me when Ramadan is going to start. I wasn't sure, was my reply. Well, not until yesterday evening when I got another sms confirming that it's Saturday.

Just as well because both AG and I had just done our shopping at ASDA. I know the men at Goodies, our local halal butcher, are not going to like it but ASDA now has a wonderful halal meat centre and I can get most things in one shopping trip. So, for now its two lamb shoulders, three chickens; small pieces in three bags, some mince meat and two whole chickens for roasting. And yes, lots of mackerals in three separate bags, plus a lot more to replenish everything that has been used up during our three week trip back to Malaysia.

I know I should have brought back some ikan bilis and ikan kering but I was so worried that they'd be confiscated by the customs. They are very strict these days and I 've heard friends being fined and made to sign agreements not to bring in fish, meat, honey or cheese. But I truly love ikan bilis from Malaysia, so fine and so clean. Sambal tumis ikan bilis with nasi lemak would be so heavenly!

Anyway, yes, I was getting into the mood of Ramadhan yesterday; stocking food and already mentally planning about what to cook for iftar and sahur.

This morning, I blended garlic, ginger and onions and put them in bottles and stacked them in the fridge. Senang nak masak, kan?

I remember Mak used to make telur masin weeks before Ramadhan. That seemed to be a must on the table when we broke our fast. I have never acquired the taste for telur asin. And so I don't really miss it that much. I do love ikan kering - the ones that's moist and when fried with sliced onions and chillies, you can just eat it with rice. You dont need any other dishes.

And Mak used to boil sugar for air sirap. We'd have bottles and bottles of those red syrup lined up on the shelves. They'd look at us tantalisingly as the time ticked very slowly before iftar time.

AG bought a packet of buah kurma. That will last for about two weeks and then we'll get somemore. I love those very succulent ones - but that cost a bomb.

I know that tonight, the main compulsory dish will be bubur lambuk or kanji as we used to call it in Kedah. The children just love bubur lambuk and if that is the only thing that they eat, I am sure they wouldn't mind. I wouldnt mind either, it is quite filling.

Sahur for us will be around 3am. For the past week, we had been waking up at 3 am as were were still jetlagged. Waking up the children is going to be another feat. Most of them will not want to eat and would prefer just a glass of water and then wake up for subuh.

Tomorrow, our first day of Ramadhan, we will break our fast at 2014 and from then onwards the day will get shorter by 2 minutes. Quite a long stretch, eh? Insyaallah, we can do it. There was one year when we fasted until 9 pm. That was a very long summer.

So, let me wish my readers "Selamat berpuasa dan semoga mendapat keberkataan di dalam bulan yang mulia ini"

I am also taking this opportunity to tell my readers that my youngest sayang mama has got his A level results and will be starting University next month, reading History. Alhamdulillah!

My other Ramadhan stories:
The Journey
Three Ramadhan Stories
How do I wake you up, let me count the ways
Of Mak and Ramadhan
Memories of Pak this Ramadhan
One Iftar, One Ramadhan
Cerita Ceriti Bulan Puasa

The Journey

Having arrived late, I sat in the last row of a very crowded prayer hall. From the back, I could make out familiar figures of regular members of the congregation just from the designs on their telekungs. The very, very regular ones, usually the early birds, have secured their place in the front row; there were some new faces, students and visitors somewhere in the middle and the last few rows were mothers with their children, praying beside them.

Watching children as young as seven already doing the terawikh, I thought how lucky they are to have the opportunity to start so very young. I started my own journey not too long ago at a very late age. I offered all kinds of reasons for not doing so; no one to look after the children, work etc – all of which to me personally translated into shying away from the unknown and unexplored territory. I was scared that people in the congregation might judge me. I’d attend the usual Friday night prayers but never terawikh. I’d wait in the canteen of Malaysia Hall with the children while hubby did his prayers. But a few friends coaxed me and like last night, I found myself sitting in the back row. No way I was going to sit and pray in the front row and then lead others astray.

Nowadays, I am more confident as more and more I feel I belong, and more and more I feel the need to be nearer to Him.

With this handful of friends, I learnt and from what I learnt, I taught the children who tagged along. These are the handful of friends who have made the journey with me; they had started earlier and they have guided me. Last night looking at some of the children sitting obediently by their mothers’ side, reminded me so much of those times with my girls; coaxing and cajoling them, constantly answering questions of “how many more (rakaats)” after every prayer.

A mother swept her daughter’s hair from the forehead under the telekung – such familiar gestures and I turned to my now grown-up daughter sitting beside me, and I am still doing the same to her. She no longer asked “How many more” and no more the bored look as she is now a regular and part of the congregation.

Our son who as a young boy followed his father to pray with the men, is now our own bilal at home and sometimes leads our prayers.

The members of the congregation have become a part of the extended family for us. The banters, the jokes and the sharing and caring – many have been here as long as I have. We have seen many ustazs come and go, and currently we have a young and talented ustaz with many ideas and programmes to entertain us and feed our souls. But one constant factor, though, is our bilal. Imams/ustazs come and go, but our bilal remains the same and it is a kind of comforting factor listening to his call for prayers as well as his accompanying the imam during prayers.

Two nights ago, we had an azan competition. There were less contestants for the children’s category this year but it is still an encouraging sign. The winner is a boy I had seen since he was a baby. And indeed like all other parents present, his parents never left him behind but encouraged him to join in. Children like him grew up in this familiar surrounding. There’s no one to frown upon parents bringing children, except for one occasion when some self-righteous guy banished my son to the back row in a tone that humiliated him in front of other adults. But it is the kind of encouragement and tolerance amongst the adults that nurture and encourage the young ones to participate.

Every night after prayers, there’s the morey. More than the food, which are always sponsored by members of the congregation, it is also the camaraderie that exists that binds us all together. After morey, a few would stay back for the taddarus and next week we will all be there to witness the khatam Quran.

Last Saturday was my second Qiamulail for this Ramadan and Insyallah next week, we will meet again for the last one. I am grateful to Allah for giving me this realisation before it is too late, before ill health and age take over and make it difficult for me to serve Him.

Ustaz’s zikir munajad never failed to move me. We recite the powerful and melodious zikir together, feeling every word, every message. And personally, when it comes to Laa illaha illallah, al malikul hakkul mubinnn, Muhammadar rasulllah.. without fail, tears would be streaming from my eyes. This is the part of the zikir my husband used to recite to the children as they go to sleep.

God willing, I hope to continue on this journey, for there’s still a long way to go. I will take on this journey knowing that there’s a place for me there, even if I need to squeeze in a chair in the back row, and in ustaz’s words, be elevated in status, although our knees have failed us.

Three Ramadan stories

Story 1

There was a hush in the courtroom as the man in black suit, songkok perched smartly on his head, a Quran in hand, approached the bench.

“My Lord,” he stammered looking straight at the presiding judge, “ tonight is the night when the doors of heaven are open wide. It is the night of the Lailatul Qadr. If you release me, I will pay for your tickets to Malaysia to see my birthplace.”

Watching him from the public gallery of the Old Bailey courtroom, my heart sank. From day one it was obvious that the case was not going his way. His further attempts at mitigation only hastened to persuade the judge that he needed treatment.

“I will be getting lots of money as Salman Rushdie is writing my life story. I can pay for your return ticket to Malaysia,” he said, believing every word that tumbled out of his mouth.

Suffice to say, it was in the dank and pitiful meeting room at HMP Brixton that I saw him again. It wasn’t the place for him, not for what he did. He was surrounded by hardcore criminals, tattoo on their arms, violence etched on their faces. He cried for most of the one hour that I was allowed to see him, begging me to get him a transfer back to serve his time in Malaysia, the country he left some forty years before. He started off on an adventure but it was interrupted by love.

He rambled and and I listened, trying to sieve facts from fantasies, trying to find justification in locking him up with robbers and murderers.

“Datin,” he pleaded, forcing me to bite my lips for fear of laughing. “I want to go back. I don’t like it here.”

Ten minutes later, I was a Puan Sri. Such was his mental state that all I could do was listen to his life story, his love story and stories of his very, very sad childhood; all jumbled up with tales of his friendship with Prince Charles and other world leaders and celebrities.

That was our first meeting in Ramadan several years ago. He asked if I could bring him an alarm clock during my next visit as the guards had taken away his alarm clock. It was disturbing other inmates when it went off when it was time for him to take his sahur. He also wanted a new copy of Surah Yasin. When he thought that the guards were not looking he gave me a letter from under the table. It was to be the first of several letters that I received when he was held at Her Majesty's pleasure.

The next visit saw him a happier person as he was then moved to another place – an open prison where he could tend to the gardens that was his lifelong passion. Nevertheless, his state of mind had not improved. Without friends, he took to talking to worms under the floorboards.

I saw him several time after his release and quite recently too. Ahamdulillah he is well. Salman Rushdie never wrote his book and the judge never got the return ticket to Malaysia. He didn’t even recognise me as the Datin/Puan Sri who visited him during Ramadan.

Story 2

A life wasted...

The crowd leaving the mosque after terawikh prayers made their separate ways home. The man in the beige kurta-like shirt crossed the motorway and turned into a side road. It was a warm summer’s night but not many people were around; most probably watching TV or at the pubs. He hastened his steps, perhaps at the thought of continuing the meal that he had after iftar, or perhaps at the thought of his wife who had not been too well during the first week of Ramadan.

The silence of the night was suddenly interrupted by the screeching of tyres; which initially looked as if joyriders were having fun racing along the deserted road. One car was chasing the other not far ahead, then just at the junction of the road, the one behind rammed the other on the side. Then all the man in the kurta shirt could see were flashes that looked like fireworks, momentarily lighting up the night. He stood transfixed as if watching a cops and robbers drama on TV but when the realisation of what was unfolding before him set in, he ran as fast as his legs could carry, passing the car with a body slumped at the wheel.

He arrived home shaken. It took him quite a long time before he felt comfortable enough to walk to the mosque for terawikh again.

Story 3

Why Kueh Gula Melaka will never be the same again....

Thoughts of kueh gula melaka that his wife made for iftar haunted him throughout his terawikh prayers. He couldn’t concentrate as his mind kept thinking of the burst of sweetness of palm sugar that melted in his mouth a few hours earlier. The imam had decided on long verses that night and as usual it was 21 rakaats, none of the 8 that the neighbourhood surau was doing.

The doa’s after the witir prayers seemed unusually long but soon enough, he scrambled out of the mosque and after locating his slippers, said goodbye to his mates and made his way home, the lights from the houses on each side of the road guiding him on his trusty old bicycle.

He made his way straight to the kitchen only to find scraped coconuts left overs of the delicious gula melaka that had been plaguing his mind the whole evening. His disappointment turned to anger.

“Don’t worry, Sayang, I will make some more for sahur,” cajoled his wife sweetly, leading him out of the kitchen to the bedroom.

Like a dutiful wife, she woke up early, washed her hair and prepared the kueh gula melaka, inserting generous pieces of palm sugar in balls of dough before plunging them in hot boiling water. Then she proceeded to roll them in desiccated coconut. She took the pot of boiling water out to the adjoined kitchen that also served as a toilet at night, as it was more convenient than going out to the bathroom, a distance away from the house. Gently, she woke her husband up, promising him the most delicious gula melaka ever made. He needed no more persuasion and woke up and hurried to the kitchen to relieve himself before sahur.

And then, from the dark unlit kitchen came a scream that pierced that silence of the Holy night.

“Oh, dear, I should have thrown out the hot water,” thought the wife guiltily, downing the kueh gula melaka to drown her sorrows.

A disclaimer:

Stories 1 & 2 are based on real events.

Story 3 is just something my mother told again and again when we asked for kueh gula melaka. Tak ada kena mengena dengan yang hidup atau yang mati atau yang tercedera!

How Do I Wake You Up, Let Me Count The Ways……

...or The Art of Waking People Up For Sahur.

In my recurring dreams, especially during this time of the year, I sit salivating before the biggest bowl of the most yumilicious bubur lambuk any mosque can offer. There are generous helpings of lamb pieces with prawns and a sprinkling of celery and crisp fried shallots floating on melting ghee. As soon as the sound of the canons fired from the state mosque is heard, and ignoring any etiquette for berbuka puasa, I’d plunge my spoon into the bowl which had been sitting there tantalising me for the past half an hour. As soon as the rich, creamy taste of the gastronomic delight hit my tastebuds, the dream turns into a nightmare. It leaves a salty, very salty taste in the mouth. At other times, it is a taste not unlike that of raw badly produced belacan, that goes drip, drip, drip right to the back of my throat. And that is when I wake up.

Any Freudian pyschoanalists who happened to chance upon this piece of navel gazing, might be forgiven for concluding that the nightmare has its roots in my childhood. And he/she couldn’t be far wrong.

Growing up in a household with siblings who refuse to grow old, we are forever at the mercy of those more creative and innovative in ways that manage to make others look foolish. Take the month of Ramadan for instance. In other normal households, there are etiquettes as to how one should wake another for the sahur. You wake a person up gently, call out his or her name repeatedly until that person wakes up. But no, not in my household; that tactic is deemed too civilised.

Nursing a stomach full of delicacies Mak had prepared for berbuka, we go to sleep hoping to dream of nice things because we are told that devils and ghosts are locked away for the whole of the holy month. But of course, there are other people that should be locked up as well – people like Abang.

While Mak prepares the sahur downstairs, Pak would wake us up. Gently he would repeat our names in a sing song manner that served to lull us more into deep slumber.

Having failed his mission, Abang is then deployed to use any merciless tactic and device that he could think of in his waking hours. One way is to do a concoction of belacan juice, which he then carefully drips into our gaping mouth. The experience is not unlike eating otak udang, neat. On other days, it would be salt water and that leaves you with a very dry throat that you do have to wake up for a drink. Having succeeded with the mission, he’d go back to the dining table and we’d all be given applauses as we descend down the stairs, hair in disarray, eyes still half closed.

On days when the buka puasa feast proved to be more fatal and caused us deep, deep sleep, Abang would come up with another plan. Armed with a charcoal pencil, he would proceed to work on our faces. Many a times, I have woken up with a Groucho Marx like moustache or a Fu Man Chu one, which ever took his fancy.

I have yet to try these tactics in my own household now. My husband, like my father, would start with a gentle call of the name. He had tried sprinkling water, but the most effective is still to pull off the duvet. Responses range from, “in a minute,” “I know, I will wake up” to “I am not hungry”.

During my more svelte and lighter form, which must be some twenty years ago, hubby used to carry me downstairs, prop me against the sink before proceeding to wash my face with very cold water. Now, a feat like that will break his back.

Selamat berpuasa and bersahur everyone!

More Ramadan Ramblings:

Of Mak and Ramadan
Memories of Pak This Ramadan
Fussing over Fasting
Cerita Ceriti Bulan Puasa
What's For Sahur?

Of Mak and Ramadhan

For the third time yesterday I was stirring bubur lambuk on the stove. The aromatic smell of lemon grass and santan coming from the pot was unbearable and we still had two hours to go. The handphone rang and the voice at the other end asked,”What are you cooking, mama?”

“Bubur lambuk”, I answered to be greeted by a triumphant “YES!” and what must have been a punch in the air too.

I successfully negotiated Krispy Kreme Doughnuts from Harrods. My sugar level is dangerously low, I pleaded. It was an easy deal – bubur lambuk and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts!

Mak never failed to deliver what we, her children, craved for during Ramadhan. Or come to think of it – even outside the month of Ramadhan. On days she couldn’t cook bubur lambuk, or what we in Kedah called Kanji, she’d ask us to bring some food over to the mosque and queue up for the kanji prepared by the tok bilal there. And as far as I can remember there’d always be kanji on the table.

There’d be crab sambal for me, sambal belacan and ulam for Lilah and kari kepala ikan for the others. We all had our own cravings and favourites. One thing about Mak, when one child was away, that favourite food would also be missing from the table. She couldn’t bear to cook them and eat them without thinking that her child had been deprived of that food.

As I prepared the crab sambal that my youngest requested, my thoughts turned to Mak. This year, she might not even realise that Ramadhan is here again. She might have been told, she might have attempted to fast, but at the end of the day, she would have forgotten that she was fasting. During the last Ramadhan, she even offered to make drinks for everyone. Her memory is fast going but I am pleased to hear that she has not forgotten people around her. She repeatedly asks the same questions but she doesn’t forget names and people. And I hope and pray that when I return, I will be greeted with the same “Anak Mak dah balik!”.

Last night Nona, who is spending time in Malaysia, said her Tok was coughing in the middle of the night. She thought of bringing her a glass of water but didn’t want to wake her up. If she did, she’d be greeted with the umpteenth, “Bila balik?”

Nona would have been spoilt rotten had Mak been well and steady on her feet. Even with the language barrier, she would have communicated her love to her grandchild through her cooking. She came to London when Nona was born and looked after her for six months. For six months, my kitchen was spotless, my front room was in order and my tattered cushions were mended. My garden was in full bloom. One day, I came home to what looked like a new sofa. She had taken some old curtains and hand sewn them and fitted the sofa nicely and made them more presentable.

My friends moaned when she left for Malaysia for during her stay, the house was always full as she loved to cook for my friends. I cried when I came into the kitchen. She had rearranged everything in the cabinet and I couldnt find a thing!

I admit I had conspired with Kak Cik not to let her know that Ramadhan is here. She has her medications and vitamins to take but she’d be worried sick about missing her fast. She’d worry about when she’d be able to pay back the fast. But the positive take about her forgetfulness is that, yes, she forgets what she was worried about.

I missed Mak’s cooking. And somehow this Ramadhan, I missed her waking me up for sahur.

Memories of Pak this Ramadan

Everyone is talking about it. In fact some blogs, they have links to it. I have seen it, minus the sound because there is something wrong with my speaker. But even without the sound and the conversation, the message came loud and clear through the actions - and I had to stop watching it as my vision was getting a bit blurred for the tears that came trickling fast. Yes, living with an ageing person is not the easiest thing to do. The one person who used to be strong and dependable, is suddenly a child that you need to look after with tantrums and behaviour that test your patience and iman. This is certainly not a new topic here nor in other blogs.

[Iklan raya by Petronas]

The thought provoking conscience pricking video clip certainly brought back memories of life with my own father the last few years before he left us. Pak was an easy going person who gave in to the demands of his children. We were thoroughly spoilt. He would do the chores that Mak assigned us while he signalled that we leave the kitchen and go back to our books. He checked our grammar and tenses in our letters to him when we were away and saw to it that our favourite food remained on the table during our home coming. But to our young minds – that was never enough because Pak never took us to the cinema nor to the parks. But he waited up for us when we went to late night parties, and waited with us when we watched horror movies at night. He came into our rooms regularly to check that our blankets didn’t slip away onto to the burning mosquito coil. He told and retold to us stories of what he did during the Japanese occupation. All that he did.

Pak’s geniality slowly began to ebb. I was away during my adult years but coming home during the breaks, I noticed his impatience, his quiet anger that was unexplained. Sitting around the table during the meals was never easy. We never touched the food until he did. That was the rule. We didn’t talk unnecessarily. He never scattered his food like the father in the video clip, but he made unnecessary noise that was a bit irritating. For someone who reminded us time and time again never to talk with our mouth full and to eat quietly, this was a bit unnerving. Mak would sit quietly pushing her food on her plate.

Sometimes, he would sit in his favourite chair near the pillar facing the roadside. Pak never left the house because of the injuries he had during an accident. So that chair facing the door was his window to the outside world. He’d beckon the mamak mee goreng, the budak kueh from there. Even the peminta sedekah who came a knocking would come in and share his food.

He’d sit there and entertain his own thoughts. What he thought about appeared in a conversation, which to us, was with no one in particular. We knew Pak was losing it. But we didn’t admit it.

He took to sleeping in the single bedroom upstairs, where he stored everything – fruits that had gone rotten, rambutans that had gone black. In his pockets were our birth certificates that went into pieces at a touch, and many other bits and pieces that must have been there for years. In his books near his bedside, to our delight, were some crisp notes. It was while he was in this room entertaining his thoughts that we saw the great change in him. If we were washing up and if there was any noise at all, he’d appear at the top of the stairs and bellow at us. He thought we were angry with him. Any exaggerated actions, noise were translated as anger directed towards him. We never replied back, we never showed our anger but we were sad because sometimes we didn’t recognise this father who used to be so loving. We didn’t understand that old age for him was taking a different course.

But if anything, I am thankful that it was only those little things that made him different and we still remember him fondly as the one who told jokes about the Japanese, the one who made up children’s stories and songs and the one who let us off the hook when Mak showed her claws.

For we were fortunate he didn’t go wandering around the neighbourhood without a stitch on his body, like an old uncle of ours. Unlike another uncle who didn’t recognise his children, Pak on his death bed was still discussing the course I was taking at college.

This Ramadan, like other Ramadans, I remember Pak. When I watch the way my husband wake the children up for Sahur, I see my Pak in him. How he would repeatedly and patiently wake them up, just like Pak woke us up. And yes, the last Ramadan with Pak, he could still organise the Itik golek, the way he liked it. Our rayas are never without the itik golek the way he liked it.

Let us look after our parents for, among other things, we never know how we would be when we get to that age.

PS I watched this iklan raya clip again with the sound on at work and I just couldn't stop my tears. "Aku ingin Pulang", says the song in the background. And I remember my Mak as she flew home yesterday to her own home in Alor Star.

One Iftar, one Ramadan

I never forget a face.

The young girl who came out of the surau and gave me a cheerful salam looked so familiar that for a while I was somewhat distracted from performing my asar prayers. She had that sweet and engaging smile. But something was missing from that smile, something that could be the clue that I needed to pinpoint her identity.

I forgot about her briefly as I rushed to the refectory for iftar but as I was queuing for my date, I was greeted by the same familiar smile. And from that moment and before the call for maghrib, I wrecked my brain trying to put the face to a name. Usually I am very good with names. I have a knack for recognising voices, faces and mannerisms. This one mysterious smile defied me and I needed to find a way to ask her without being so obvious.

I remember the time when I was queuing up for my registration at the university, and was drawing imaginary motifs with my foot when I noticed a pair of fine slender legs firmly planted in a pair of shoes most students can’t afford to buy. I followed those legs right up to her face and almost immediately, I was able to place the famous face, which usually graced the gossip columns of tabloids and Hello magazine on account of being the estranged wife of a certain party leader and then gf of a certain dashing film star. But I had to be sure. The only way to do it was to start a conversation.

Feigning ignorance, I asked her whether we were in the right queue. She had a very posh accent and that nearly confirmed my suspicion. She said, “Yes, if you are a returning student, we are in the right queue.” I proceeded to introduce myself and she said, “I’m Jem*m*” and I continued looking as blur as sotong, as some would say, discussing the courses we were taking, in spite of the fact that the people at the registration desk were nudging each other, passing notes and eyeing her from top to bottom.

I could try that trick again with this mysterious girl but I had to act fast and direct. So I said, “You look familiar,” to which she replied with a question,”Are you from Malaysia, because my mother is from Malaysia.” Now, that offer of information was all I needed. But I continued and said “I am so and so” to which she replied, I am F”.

It could have been the effect of fasting, and it could have been the date, but I looked straight into her eyes and said, “No, you are not F, you are S,” The sweet smile still lingered at the corner of her mouth as she insisted that she was F. I stood my grounds and insisted that she was S. My children would have strangled me with their bare hands if they were around to witness such display of audacity. Finally her face fell and she said, “Alright, I am S”.

And with that we performed our maghrib, during which I thanked God that I had at last found her. I had known this sweet young girl since she was 12. We had both changed. I was of course very much older. She had grown to be a very beautiful young lady. We had both donned the hijab since we last saw each other.

She wouldn't have guessed I'd be back at university. She only knew me as a hack hounding for news of her whereabouts. And I would never have guessed that she'd come to my uni to do another degree. She didnt need it, or so I thought.

S was catapulted to fame because she was a gifted child who was accepted by Oxford Uni at an age when most children were still giggly and silly. She didn’t invite publicity but the press, including me, were at her doorsteps all the time. I spent a day with the unusually gifted family and came home and appreciated my children even more because at 12 they still had their childhood. S on the other hand didn’t have any friends except for children older than her that she tutored in Maths or those she played tennis with. She didn’t know any pop stars or pop groups and didnt play with pokemon. Even at uni, she couldn’t really adjust with life at campus, she couldn’t go to students gig or do’s like the rest of the students who were older than her. She was chaperoned everywhere.

Anyway, during her uni years, we left her alone at the request of the university but as if meticulously planned, after her final papers she disappeared and hit the headlines again. We were back on her doorsteps searching for answers for her disappearance. I even wrote her several emails to no avail. She only replied to the Daily Mail exposing a family drama no one suspected before. She explained her reasons for leaving in a manner so uncharacteristic of an obedient and faithful child. But the year she stayed away, she rediscovered her childhood, she discovered friends and she found love.

I remember my meeting with S that fateful day in Ramadan two years ago, as I broke my fast at the uni again today. It was a very matured and confident S who I met on the way to the surau that day. One who had chosen to go back and reclaim her childhood. It was that confident smile that threw me off my tracks.

You see, I never forget a face.

Fussing over fasting

“It’s only a few more hours. Be patient,” I said, hearing Mak’s exact voice and words cajoling me to carry on fasting. Our third had been whining about her sore throat and Daddy has given up with sweet talk and handed over the job of dealing with the half alive creature on the sofa, for me to handle.

“Okay, let’s go shopping, and you can get anything you want”, said I trying the retail therapy approach that I heard so much about. I saw a flicker of interest and some signs of life. An hour later we were making our way to China Town following our hearts’ desire to buy everything and anything edible in China Town, from Coconut juice to fresh yellow noodles and belacan and all kinds of Oriental products. With whatever energy left in us, we dragged the over loaded shopping trolley to Soho in search of fresh fruits and vegetables as they are known to go quite cheap at that time of the day. Soho, during the day is quite respectable. The fruit and vegetable market cammouflages the more seedy business that comes to life as darkness falls. The surau that sits snugly between shops of dubious nature advertising anything from Oriental massage to promises of full fledge whipping, was full of activities as people went in for asar prayers. Its a strange little place, this Soho.

I got my fruits for the day and was about to make our way to Selfridges for fish, when I saw a fish stall selling mackerals at a quarter of what Selfridges would have charged us. The reason I had always bought fish from Selfridges was because of the guaranteed freshness. I am not a great fish eater but a fussy one. But while there I planned to buy some krispy krim doughnuts and child number three can also do her retail therapy there. But as it happens, we were too tired to carry on. So it was five whole mackerals from the cute little stall at the top of Berwick Street and Nona had to make do with two novels, one by Maya Angelou and the other by Zadie Smith. That should keep her quiet for a few more days.

I had plans for those unsuspecting mackerals. Since the start of Ramadan it had been lamb curry, lamb kicap, chicken sambal but no fish. So I had plans for those mackerals and disturbing visions of Ubi setela's creation for her berbuka loomed large before my eyes. Yes, it has got to be Ikan belah belakang sumbat sambal – and I am sure it has a more glamorous name than that. Sambal belacan features prominently of course as I have at last stock up on belacan. And the sotong will do just fine, swimming merrily in the sambal tumis amongst bits and pieces of petai that used to be contraband goods in our household. Now, we are told it has medicinal qualities, so stinking breath not withstanding, the sotong sambal will be with petai.

Among the crowded shelves in one of the shops in China Town, I found a gem of an item and even as I slipped it into my shopping basket, I drooled shamelessly into my sleeves. It was one of those soft (smelly) ikan kering and properly fried with slices of onions and chillies, it can certainly stand on its own with steaming hot rice. That should complete the menu and all I needed now is the look of approval around the table.

Actually, cooking for my lot is not difficult. Take hubby for instance. Nak makan apa? Apa-apalah ( as in nak pi mana? mana-manalah!). And even if you slaved over the stove for two hours or two minutes, the reaction would be the same. Hmmm sedap! Anyway, all the above didn’t materialise until last night because I was too tired after lugging all those foodstuff halfway across London. So we made do with mee hailam (hmmm sedap!) and Nona tried her culinary skills at toasted bagels with soft cream cheese and smoked salmon. What a weird combination. But there you are. I never promised that we are a normal family.

Tonight will be my first berbuka night out as I dine with fellow bloggers Pu1pu3 and ewok at Holiday Villa. The buffet menu is just fantastic and at £16.00 per person – it should be. But I will just have to nibble because at 8.30 there’s a proper dinner invitation at the same venue. Kak Teh will have to try her level best and behave as the guest of honour is a former Agong. Watch this space!

UPDATE: Well, I was such a glutton tahap maksima. For berbuka I had two helpings of crab sambal and was well into the next course of nasi ayam when I was reminded thatI had another dinner at 8.30.
At the proper dinner - true enough I couldnt let anything in anymore - not the scallops, not the satay nor the nasi goreng kampung. BUT I couldnt resist the lobsters. Sorry tak boleh ambik gambar - sebab nanti nampak tak senonoh sangat, kan?

Cerita ceriti bulan puasa

Jam pada handphone menunjukkan pukul lapan apabila Kak Teh terima sms daripada anak bongsu ‘Ramadan starts 2moro”. Alahai, Kak Teh masih dalam studio dan akan sampai rumah paling awal jam sepuluh malam. Manalah sempat nak beli itu ini nak isikan freezer. Nasib baik bawang, cili kering semuanya Kak Teh dah blend simpan siap dalam peti sejuk sebab senang kalau nak masak nanti.

Sampai rumah, anak-anak semua dah berjemaah di belakang bapa mereka, berbilalkan yang bongsu, bersolat Terawih. Kak Teh terus buatkan bubur lambuk atau kanji, yang sememangnya wajib untuk keluarga ini dalam bulan puasa. Bubur tu jugalah yang kami makan untuk sahur. Alhamdulillah tak ada yang cerewet.

Dua tiga bulan dulu, sedang lepak-lepak depan TV tak ada kerja, Kak Teh mula bercerita kosonglah dengan budak-budak. Teringat masa kecik-kecik dulu berpuasa. Orang tua-tua puasa kita pun nak puasa. Sahur, kita yang dulu-dulu bangun menyibuk di dapur. Makan sampai dua tiga kali tambah – Masyaallah! Tapi tak sempat tengah hari perut dah buat hal, tekak dah kering. Sekejap-sekejap pergi kumur mulut nak basahkan tekak. Kononnya kumur mulut, tapi dua tiga tegak minum air. Balik ke dapur buat muka letih lagi!

“Mama! How could you!”

“That’s terrible!”

Itulah yang dilemparkan pada Kak Teh semasa anak-anak dengar cerita Kak Teh masa kecik-kecik dulu. Ya lah, kita kecik kan. Kata seorang anak Kak Teh, “We never did that Mama, even when we were small! You’re terrible!” Kena lagi!

Lepas tu pulak, orang tua-tua nak solat terawih, kita pun nak ikut sama. Bukannya untuk apa tapi sebab ada janji bubur lambuk atau kanji yang memang menjadi kesukaan Kak Teh dari kecik lagi. Masa kecik tu, masa ikut solat orang tua-tua dari belakang, kita cuma mampu kumat kumit mulut. Yang lebih kecik dari kita, cuba tiru kita jugak..kumat kumit mulut. Yang budak-budak lelaki lagi teruk. Depa cerita, kalau depa tau ada orang dok ikut depa solat –sengaja pula depa buat sudden movement . Nakal betul!

Tapi anak-anak sekarang memang mula belajar awal, ada minat lebih awal. Baguslah.

Semasa Kak teh berpindah ke rumah sekarang ini ada juga sebuah keluarga Melayu yang tinggal tak berapa jauh dari sini. Kami mula berkenalan dan anak gadisnya lebih tua sikit daripada anak-anak Kak Teh. Datang bulan Ramadan, lebih kerap dia di rumah Kak Teh. Rupa-rupanya nak kongsi puasa bulan puasa sebab tak ada siapapun di rumahnya yang puasa. Dia terpaksalah bangun sahur dan siap makanan sendiri sebab tak ada yang mau melayan. Entah ke mana dia sekarang ni, Kak Teh pun tak tau dan harap-harap, dia masih berpuasa. Kesian juga teringatkan anak gadis yang berpuasa dan berbuka sendiri.

Di satu tempat kerja kak teh pulak, ada seorang kawan dari Syria. Dia mula-mula kagum kerana kita boleh bertahan puasa di sini. Katanya banyak cabaran – kena datang kerja, kena jawab telefon, melayan orang. Aiikkkk? Orang di negara kita pergi ke ladang, sawah, ke laut tangkap ikan – tapi bulan puasa, kita puasa jugak, kan? Tapi tak apalah, lama-kelamaan, dalam masa dua tiga tahun Kak Teh kenal dia, dia dah mula puasa. Alhamdulillah.

Dua tiga hari ni fikiran melayang pulak kepada Mak di Malaysia. Masa bulan puasalah dia melayan sungguh kerenah anak-anak. Nak makan apa semuanya dia buat. Sekarang ni Mak cuma dok merajuk di rumah adik, sebab tak ada orang yang nak bawa dia balik ke rumah dia sendiri. Bulan puasa dia nak puasa di rumah sendiri. Tapi dia tak boleh dok sendiri lagi. Jatuh tengah malam sapa nak tau? Jadi adik, kakak yang dengar rungutan dia nak balik tu buat diam saja. Tunggu raya – semua akan balik ke rumah Mak yang Pak buat untuk dia dulu tu. Yang dia kata Pak tak bagi dia tinggal kosong saja.

Alahai Mak, kalau Kak Teh tak perlu kerja dah banyak duit dalam bank, dah tak payah terkejar sana sini, Kak Teh balik jaga Mak di rumah Pak buat untuk Mak tu. Tahun ni pulak T nak periksa penting. Jadi hati tu terbelah bagi.

Cakap pasal Taufiq, dia balik dari sekolah bawa berita gembira. Dua orang kawan dia yang ikut dia ke mesjid untuk solat zuhur selepas sekolah, mengucap syahadah dengan dia sebagai saksi. Mereka sudah lama tertarik dengan agama kita dan mereka mau menyambut Ramadan sebagai saudara baru. Alhamdulillah.

Pada hari pertama bulan yang mulia ini, Kak Teh teringat pula seorang lelaki tua yang baru ditinggalkan isterinya. Tahun ini dia bersahurdan berbuka sendiri..tiada isterinya yang selalu melayan apa yang dia nak makan. Kesian.

Kak Teh nak ke dapur untuk masak. Lagi dua jam, kami akan berbuka..entah berapa ramai yang sempat pulang berbuka bersama..

Selamat menyambut Ramadan kepada semua yang sudi datang bekunjung ke blog Kak Teh!