meet the mom

I felt calm as we sped along to meet the bf’s birth-mom. Not the first time, but usually in crowded ocassions where in-depth conversations can be restricted by the various diversions one can always fabricate at social settings. This time it was a surprise visit, no ocassion, no crowd. Nonetheless, I felt confident that nothing could go wrong as the mom is a very sweet lady.

She immediately fussed and opened cupboards and tinkled glasses and bid the bf to make me some ice syrup, I overheard from the living room. Said the bf, “She doesn’t like syrup”.
Said the mom, “She doesn’t like syrup?”

Well, I don’t like syrup, nor sugar for that matter, except when it is dissolved in ice cream or chocolate. But apparently this is not a mainstream trait.

I then set about showing the mom the cookies I brought for her. You know, the traditional cookies that are bountiful during Ramadhan. She beamed at them and said, “Ah thank you… did you make these?”

I gave a shy sort of giggle and said haha… uh… No.

Apparently she is a skillful cook, which of course I knew, but did not really register fully until she brought out her own handmade batch of cookies which looked like the ones in magazine pictures. As we sat chatting and munching her fabulous cookies, she asked, “So what is your family cooking for Idul Fitri?”

My mind immediately flicked through the various honest answers I might give:
a) Nothing. We usually buy.
b) Well, we like to make salad and toast in the morning.
c) Lasagna.
d) Um, cookies?

My mind refused to graduate any of the above possible answers because, much as I adore mom’s homemade lasagna during Idul Fitri, what respectable Indonesian family would have lasagna and salad with croutons for Idul Fitri?

As I opened my mouth to give it my best shot, bf came to the rescue. Said the bf, “You know mom, her brother is an excellent cook.”
“Really?”, said the mom, beaming, “what does he cook?”
“He can cook anything.” said the bf vaguely, to which I nodded vigourously.

At that point the sister mentioned they were about to cook ketupat the next day. I cottoned on with enthusiasm. Armed with a vague memory of what my cousin once told me, I started to say things like, “ah yes, you trickle the rice grains through the gaps in the leaf pockets…”












Well, I didn’t get to finish my sentence because the mother suddenly showed me her unmade ketupat. But she did not bring out those empty leaf-pockets you buy at the market to fill with rice. She brought out long sheaths of leaves. She was going to friggin’ plait them into pockets herself. I don’t know anybody who still does that.

I felt new respect for her, as well as a slight panic for my own behalf. Luckily, bf soon made excuses for us to get going. In the car the bf said, “So, what are you cooking tonight?”

The smile left his lips as I fixed him with a murderous glare.