When I was a little kid, my mom would always make sure we had food on the table. Not just food. Good food.
She could cook anything, and the flavours and smells would waft across our HDB apartment by the time all of her children would come home from school. Sambal goreng pengantin, sambal godok, asam pedas, sambal tumis, otak², ayam goreng berempah, sotong masak hitam, chicken rice, nasi lemak, nasi goreng, roti jala, sayur lodeh, kuah rawon, ayam masak keluak, sayur asam…..the list goes on and on. Malay, Javanese, Chinese, Indian, western cuisines, you name it, she’ll be game to prepare it.
She would always be in the kitchen, preparing something. Sometimes, she would make more than she needs to, so she can share the food with our neighbours. They would always swoon at the food she presented for them. The neighbours’ kids would always clamour to “Aunty Rose” for a bite of something after school. She, for her love of children of any background, creed and race, would always oblige.
Every Ramadan now, for 23 years since her passing, I would remember my late mother and will remember how much she shared her love through her cooking. And how she affected the lives of so many who have been to our humble home by offering a little something on the dinner table.
I try my best to emulate her, though I know I could never measure to her naturally awesome culinary skills. Still, whenever I have the chance, I share food I cook with those who can barely put food on the table.
And then I begin to understand why my mom does it all those years ago when I was younger. For it is in the giving when you learn about humility and unconditional love. The satisfaction you gain, just from seeing the gratitude of those who would appreciate the food.
I miss my mom. I have never really truly celebrated Hari Raya since she passed.
But this year, I’ll try cooking something during Raya for this group of Bangladeshi workers I’ve come to form a friendship with, Insya’Allah (God willing).
I know my mom would have done the same, no questions asked.
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