Memories of Dapur

What do you expect to see in the kitchen? Some would expect riot; pans clashing, knife chopping vegetables at high speed, cooks shouting to each other - or in a household situation, phone calls and children shouting from another room while you’re getting things done for dinner.

the kitchen at my first kos in Bali - equipped with my all time favorite tool; noodle kettle.

Some would expect tranquility; the sizzling sound of garlic bloomed in low heat with herbs chopped slowly somewhere in the background, where you know, even without being there, that the sun is shining warmly; it’s not hot - it’s just the right kind of warmth. 

For me, I do not have much expectation - a sharp knife, cobek and ulegan, and some spice are the elements for something to be called a kitchen or dapur in Indonesian. These elements that creates heat and sparks flavors are foundations that define a dapur.

In dapur, I do not expect to be relaxed nor to be happy. There are days where I feel like playing around and I’d play some bop (either Dangdut from Iyeth Bustami, 2000s pop from Shanti and Utada Hikaru, Cuban music, or some 70s punk tunes), some days I feel like I’ve had enough of responding to emails and I make no progress while deadline is coming, and sometimes I feel spacy - my fingers are not sure exactly what to cook, and my heart is too packed to feel something - Either way, I grab my knife.

Cooking was not something I could overly romanticize. It is both functional and meditative. The first meal I cooked was Tempe Penyet with Sambal Bawang. I put too much sugar in my Sambal Bawang. Who could blame an 8 year-old though? I did not spend much time with my parents and extended family to cook. 

There were times when we were together, there were times where we were separated, there were times where I could come to my grandparents’ hometown in Madiun, there were times where I would visit my father who lived with his best friends in Jakarta during his midlife crisis, there were times where I had to stay with one aunt to another, and there were times where I spent mostly alone and cooking was the most make-sense thing to do; you get the chance to explore, to play, to experiment, and to fill your hunger. 

kitchen in Madiun

During those different times; love, loneliness, rage come in various meals. When I was a toddler and my father was around, my father cooked a lot of seafood - because we lived by the coast of Banyuwangi. His favorite fish is Barracuda; salted and grilled over a bonfire by the coast in front of our little beach house. My mother would make Sambal Kecap; crushed Cabe Rawit with a pinch of salt, and spoonfuls of Kecap Manis. We would have dinner together with our neighbours; local Osing people, Madura-Banyuwangi, and my Chinese-Indonesians who later flew to Australia to escape the riot in 1998. 

kitchen at my Mbah Buyut’s house in Kartoharjo

Fast forward to a couple years later during my angsty teenager phase, I visited my father who lived in Jakarta at that time. He never liked big city, but all of his best friends were there. When I stayed with him, he cooked many things; from the simplest to the most extravagant one like Kare Kepiting. But the best meal he’s ever cooked, until today, is actually very simple - Telur Dadar with a fine almost runny yolk in the center and crisp yellow surface.

There were times when I stayed with other family members. When I stayed with my aunt from my father's side, we would go for culinary-trip every weekend despite her restaurant-level dapur with a stove that she boasted coming from Germany (of course she’s never used it). 

With her, every weekend is a journey; Bakso in Malang, Bipang and Nasi Ampok in Blitar, Ayam Lodho in Tulungagung, Slow-Roasted Bandeng in Gresik, and many more food. Almost every day, after school, she picked me up and we went to get some fabrics in Pasar Atom (she loves dressing up). In Pasar Atom, we had some jajan pasar and Ote-Ote at a shop called Peneleh, Semanggi, and Otak-Otak Ikan (fishcakes) at the first floor of the old mall.

my spice rack in Surabaya; some of the jars are in Bali now.

Those days were full of all the good flavours of food; spicy, savoury, sweet, bitter, gurih, ngelawuhi, enak. 

But sometimes food is also hambar (tasteless). There was a long period of time when I was a teenager when the spice rack at my parents’ place was almost empty. My mother believes that every home has to have shallots, garlic, salt, and chillies. But when I lived with her, I could only find salt and kecap manis. I had to buy shallots, garlic, or turmeric, because she was too spacy to get or make food after work. If I put a bit of spice; it was either too hot, too spicy, too salty, too bitter to her taste bud. So we had two types of food for each menu at that time. It was almost like temple food. But instead of giving the zen, tender feeling while cooking every dish, it sparked a hopeless and painful feeling. 

Food and dapur changes from time to time; including the space, the available tools, the spice, the people in and around it, the people who eat with me, the people who cook with me, the people who go to the pasar with me, and the expectation. 

or maybe, in a better word; the reality.