Mak took us to the section where undergarments were sold, and I marvelled at the range and style of panties. I fingered the fabric and nearly swooned at its nylon softness. But each panty cost from $1.50 to $5! Considering that I only received $50 for the whole month after surrendering to Mak my whole pay packet, $1.50 was an extravagance. Lunch would cost about $1.50. I must not spend too much as I hoped to buy Mak the oven for the next Chinese New Year.
“Go on,” Mak said, guessing what I was thinking. “Treat yourself. You deserve it. I can always make lunch for you to take to work if you are short. Look, there’s a set of three here for five dollars.”
And so I splurged on my first store-bought panties for Chinese New Year of the Metal Dog! I would never forget that auspicious year. I don’t think it is necessary for me to describe in graphic detail how I felt when I first slipped into my new store-bought panties. Suffice it to say, I would always cherish that new experience.
Anyone who had lived through that period wouldn’t forget that particular Chinese New Year. No one could foresee what was to come.
The Chinese New Year wasn’t just another date on the calendar for my siblings and me. It was a season for rejoicing, as we would get to eat what we could not afford to eat all year. There were special dishes like itek tim, a soup made with salted vegetables and fresh duck. Or ayam buah keluak, chicken in a spicy sauce made from a special nut. Meat was a rarity in our household. At the most, the whole family might feast on a tin of luncheon meat or a can of Irish stew. It is interesting how one’s childhood foods later became one’s comfort foods. In later years, even when I could afford to buy fresh meat, my mind craved for canned luncheon meat or Irish stew. So, part of the joy of the Chinese New Year was the anticipatory promise of being able to satisfy our palate with special New Year food. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for wealthy people who could eat what they wanted all year round. How would their New Year be special?
Our house was soon filled with the fragrance of baking. We sat on the cement floor whilst Mak stoked the burning charcoals. She was in her element. I had never seen her so happy as when she was cooking and making kueh. The heat filled our kitchen but in a pleasant, flavourful way, the delicious smells wafting in the air. When the grated pineapple was being stirred with the pandan and gula melaka over the hot stove for her kueh tart, the fragrance was exquisite. After this tasty mixture had thickened and cooled, we spooned it into small pastry cases. Then I helped Mak to crimp its edges to make the tarts look pretty. I helped pinch leaf patterns onto the rich coconut milk biscuits or kueh bangkit too.
Despite our poverty, my mother did not cut corners when she made her kueh. She would make all of us prepare the paper tubes she needed for her sesagun. In the old days, she would sell each tube of sesagun for five cents. My elder brothers had to peddle her wares for her. The tube was a slimmer version of the paper cones that the kachang putih men used to fill their roasted nuts. To create the tube, we used a chopstick and old newspaper, leaving an opening which we would seal, once it was filled with the sesagun. Then we decorated each paper tube with thin strips of coloured crepe paper and twirled it up the tube like the lights on a barber’s pole. Peranakans had developed the art of cutting paper patterns out of crepe paper, called kertair merah, or red paper. This was done by folding a piece of red paper again and again so that when you cut it with scissors, the underfolds all picked up the pattern. It had to be done artfully, so as not to sever the folds. It was this kertair merah strip that was pasted onto the paper tubes, transforming old newspaper into a festive decoration. Children and adults loved to eat the sesagun by tossing their heads back and tipping the sesagun into their mouths. More often than not, the fine mix caught in one’s throat and made one cough. But that was part of the thrill.
Not many people could make sesagun well. Very few people know the technique these days. Mak would grate fresh coconut kernel manually till it was very fine. Then she would dry-fry it in a kwali with rice flour and sugar, to create a crisp, granulated mix. It had to be stirred continuously. A proper, cast-iron kwali was needed to make this perfect, as it roasted the coconut and rice flour and crystallised the sugar without burning the ingredients.
Her kueh baolu was just as legendary. We would take turns to hand-whisk the egg and flour batter, to introduce as much air as possible before it was poured into the greased, round mould that had several depressed shapes like a fish, flower or shell. Then the lid was closed till the batter was cooked. Oh, the fragrance when the baking was taking place! I could die for that delicious smell. And the taste! The baolu would simply melt in your mouth!
We had to be doubly dexterous when making the kueh belanda, a crispy crepe that was named after our Dutch ancestors. The word “belanda” meant Dutch. But instead of leaving the crepe flat, once it was cooked and removed from its flat mould, we would have to quickly roll the crepe in our palm while it was still hot. Once the crepe cooled, it would retain the cigar shape. Folklore had it that in the days when it was impossible to
