How Malaysian food helped me move out of home

From nasi lemak to (a semi-burnt) hokkien mee, the flavours of Malaysia are reminders of a family home – and symbols of a new one.

From nasi lemak to (a semi-burnt) hokkien mee, the flavours of Malaysia are reminders of a family home – and symbols of a new one. Source: Getty Images

The door clicks open and dad drags a heavy box through the corridor. “Aiyah, nowhere to sit?” says mum, seeing the sparse, unfurnished apartment. She fusses over various switches and knobs in the kitchen while my younger brother Tim leans on the balcony overlooking the pub across the road.

I’m moving out of home with my partner Deaundre, but mum doesn’t love the idea of her firstborn leaving the nest while still at university. She unzips a black cooler bag and food magically appears: frozen dumplings if I’m hungry, hazelnut ice cream they couldn’t finish, and premium oyster sauce “twice as flavourful” as the cheap brands. I’m only moving suburbs, not continents, but that doesn’t change her fussing. “I’m your mum. It’s my job to worry about you,” she chides.

Moving out means being despatched with dumplings. Source: Benito Martin

She gifts me a curry-leaf clipping to take care of, hoping it will grow even taller than the tree which towers stately over my parents’ backyard. Despite being a tropical plant native to the Indian subcontinent, our temperate climate has worked wonders. Its most stunning feature is its warm, heady aroma that becomes intoxicating close up; under its spell, I’d study or call Deaundre, talking about everything we’d cook if we lived together.

The fragrance of curry leaves comes alive once they sputter and pop in hot oil, anchoring dishes like the curry chicken mum hands me now. She’s apportioned it into individual servings for nasi lemak, plus boxes of coconut rice, sambal, fried anchovies and peanuts. “In case you miss Malaysian food,” she says.

My family kisses me goodbye (“don’t forget about us!”) and shuffle out. I’m left with my individually packaged nasi lemak and a strange feeling about the journey ahead.

Nasi lemak is a parting gift from the family. Source: SBS Food

Deaundre and I get Thai takeout for our first meal. Sitting cross-legged on the floorboards, we eat pad kee mao with plastic sporks. The noodles are deliciously chewy and flavoured with punchy basil, but soon the spice burns our tongues, and we cup our hands and drink from the tap, because we don’t have glasses yet.

While we haggle on Facebook Marketplace for third-hand couches that won’t fit through the stairwell, we slowly stock our shelves with fresh produce, colourful spices and instant noodles for emergencies. Getting to craft our own pantry feels joyous. As we accumulate ingredients, we become more confident as cooks, and feel more comfortable in the space.

One week, friends pop over with wine and watermelon cake to farewell a mate leaving for Cambodia. We assemble a cheeseboard with ingredients from the artisan grocer Deaundre works at, and lay down a row of rum-spiked canelés from a recently discovered local patisserie.

Canelés are shared during a farewell for a friend.

“How’s the move going?” they ask, jostling for chunks of cloth-aged cheddar and ribbons of salami. Good, I say. The commute is easier, we love our plants and the high ceilings, and I like having more autonomy.

I don’t tell them that I keep having dreams about my parents.

In these dreams, my family somehow get into harm’s way. Dad faces a crisis at his clinic, or mum’s health gets worse. I can only watch, helplessly, unable to shield them from danger.

I’m only moving suburbs, not continents, but that doesn’t change her fussing. “I’m your mum. It’s my job to worry about you,” she chides.

At breakfast, Deaundre suggests the dreams are happening because I miss my family, because I feel anxious. It’s so obvious that it smacks me in the face. Of course it’s true.

I don’t miss being at the house, but I didn’t realise I would miss them. I miss grabbing bubble tea in Eastwood with Tim, especially when there’s no stores near me. I miss mum when I browse Asian grocers alone, with their myriad Chinese labels that only she can understand, while I struggle to find Shaoxing wine and doubanjiang.

One night, I try to make syrupy, dark, hawker-style Hokkien mee, but I burn the pork lard in the wok and set off the smoke alarm. As Deaundre and I frantically wave towels to clear the smoke, I think about how fluidly mum moves around her kitchen.

Trying to make hokkien mee at home ends up being much more challenging than expected. Source: Adam Liaw

My parents did not react well when I said I was leaving. “Why would you do this when we cook everything for you at home, where we protect you?”

I understand now that it must have felt like I was rejecting them. While I rushed to pack my bags and start my journey, my parents were themselves coming to terms with the space I left behind. Even though I’m trying to cook to feel more independent or connected to my partner, I’m still tethered to memories of Malaysian food with my family, and will always be.

Mum’s curry-leaf clipping shrivels within a week. The leaves, vibrant and green, turn yellow. At home, it thrived effortlessly and easily. But here, displaced from everything it knows, it struggles to survive.

It’s been a month since I moved out. I still go back to my parents’ place every week, at mum’s insistence. They smother me with Malaysian food, like Hainanese chicken rice with bright gingery chilli sauce. The family WhatsApp group buzzes with dad’s pictures of his lunches, and Tim shows us shirts he bought with his own money from his new bartending job.

Home tastes like Hainanese chicken rice.

They still sometimes accidentally set the table for four. Or, in mock despair, they’ll ask what to do with two dozen eggs, now that I’m not home to eat them all. But they’re settling into a new rhythm. As for me, I’m still finding my feet, but Deaundre and I are cooking everything we said we would: strawberry jams, gooey chocolate-chunk biscuits, low-and-slow pork broths.

Our apartment complex has a communal garden on the rooftop. Before I visit my parents, I pick sprigs from the abundant rosemary bush and bring back a container of what I cooked that week. Something has shifted in my relationship with my family; instead of just taking from them, I’m able to provide in a small way as well. Of course, mum will never admit it’s as good as her cooking. But I don’t think it will ever be.

When I leave home again, I take some curry leaves to cook with.

 

This story was longlisted in the SBS and Diversity In Food Media Australia' Journey Through Food' competition. You can find out more about the competition and the winning entrants here.