“Oh, Pochok! Oh, Mak China masuk longkang,” the grand Peranakan lady melata.
The Peranakan word meant that she sent forth a string of meaningless utterances as she navigated the potholes and pats of cow dung. Some of these ladies, who had a propensity to melata at the slightest provocation, became sources of entertainment and amusement. Their children or grandchildren would steal a prod or tickle to start them off, instigating them to spew forth a rush of graphic words, sometimes funny, at other times expletives which could make the air turn blue.
“Habis lah, gua punya kasut! My shoes are done for! I hope Baba will appreciate the lengths I go to, to produce delicious meals for him!”
“Bibik, Baba always said your meals are the best in Singapore because of your fresh ingredients what,” the amah said. “Think about Nyonya Kim Guek’s nasi ulam and bunga rampay…”
“Oh, yes. Baba truly loves the nasi ulam. I think it’s because the daun kesum and bunga kantan she puts in it are so fresh; they flavour the rice beautifully. There’s always a magic when the herbs and vegetables are from one’s own garden, direct from plant to wok. And I’m sure she has some secret ingredients that I don’t know about, which makes the ulam so appetising and fragrant. I myself have a yen for the kajang botol. Hmm! It would be so crunchy and delicious dipped in sambal belachan. I’m already salivating. Hurry! We must get there before others do. Nyonya Kim Guek always runs out so quickly. Especially on this occasion. All the best Peranakan families are holding parties for the coronation. You know, we are such anglophiles. We Peranakans are not called the ‘King’s Chinese’ for nothing, you know…”
Plodding behind this Peranakan lady was another matriarch, also known for her sumptuous parties. They were from the kind of families who were featured in society magazines, their children educated in English boarding schools. Even on a trip to the market, they would wear their gold pendant earrings, bracelets and gold kerosang, never ever letting their guard down. Two amahs were scuttling along beside her with large baskets.
“Chepat! Chepat! Faster! Faster!” she ordered. “Look at Nyonya Betty there! Always trying to outdo me. We must get to Nyonya Kim Guek before Nyonya Betty buys up all the bunga rampay and nasi ulam.”
Kim Guek’s garden and the vegetable patch in front of their house exuded a gentle fragrance that emanated from flowers, and from herbs like serai or lemon grass, torch ginger, pandan, daun kesum and many others. Pansy went round, picking ingredients for the bunga rampay. She was greeted by several colourful butterflies—Lime Butterfly, Commas and Common Yellow, flitting hither and thither, attracted by the limau perut plants and other flowers. She was awed by the tendril of connection among all life forms, how the butterflies and bees pollinated the flowers, how every living being was in some way connected to the others. Perhaps it was this that Wordsworth had recognised and communicated through his poetry, allowing descriptions of simple things to acquire such depth. She tried not to disturb the butterflies, but she was in a hurry, and mumbled Wordsworth’s words to beseech them:
Stay near me—do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
She selected the various flowers for her potpourri, endeavouring to balance the colour and variety: white bunga melor, pink roses, creamy chempaka, red ixoras, golden marigolds. With the larger flowers, she carefully plucked out the petals rather than put them in whole. Any petal that was bruised or damaged was discarded. The whole ensemble had to look fresh and vibrant.
She washed the long sheaves of pandan leaves, which formed the main bulk of the potpourri. When wiped dry, she placed them on a wooden cutting board and deftly sliced them as thinly as she could with a sharp knife, so that they became delicate curlicues of green. The fragrance of the pandan wafted into the air as she worked, filling their hut with a delicious aroma, which was exactly why people liked to buy the bunga rampay for their homes.
Kim Guek always had a bowl of it on the ancestral altar where Hock Chye’s sinchi or spirit-tablet sat, together with the dishes of cooked food. Buddhists like them believed that the spirits of the dead imbibed the flavour of foods, and the scent of flowers and incense helped them proceed to the next level of their spiritual journey. The Peranakans called this practice simpan abu or saving the ashes, literally, the ashes from the burnt incense or joss-sticks, but metaphorically, the ashes of the deceased. Even though Pansy was educated at the convent and had to become a Christian in name to attend school, at home she reverted to her traditional religion. She was one of those that people nicknamed ‘Rice Bowl Christians’, converting to Christianity not from any religious epiphany but because they needed food, clothing or an education.
She tossed the flowers into the verdant green of the pandan, mixing them lightly so as not to damage the flowers, and sprinkled a dash of rose water to combine them into a heady fragrance.
“Chantek! Chantek! Beautiful! Beautiful!” her mother said approvingly as Pansy selected a pretty Peranakan pottery dish, with a design of phoenix and peonies, and filled it with the bunga rampay.
“Chuba, chuba. Try, try. Taste the nasi ulam,” Kim Guek invited, spooning a mouthful to Pansy. “Boleh tak? Can or not?”
“Hmm, banyak sedap, Mak! Very de-li-cious, Mother!” Pansy said, which made Kim Guek smile broadly, her cheeks crinkling.
Kim Guek
