My father was the most wonderful man.
When I was born, he was already a successful architect in Malaysia, living in a big house with four servants. My mother was ten years younger, and she took care of my sister and I while Dad worked long hours as the managing partner of a large architectural firm.
It was an idyllic, relaxed lifestyle, surrounded by friends, family and comfort. But racial tensions in Malaysia in the late 1960s had Dad worried.
One morning he woke Mum up and announced that he didn’t want to raise his daughters in a country where he felt they wouldn’t have opportunities for schooling, so they were moving to Australia. At the time, I was almost four years old, and Cynthia was still a toddler.
And that was that.
Within a few short months, Mum and Dad had packed up their lives and, with no job and nowhere to live, boarded a plane to Sydney with two small children in tow. They went from a big house with maids to a small rental on a busy main road with an outhouse toilet. Mum spoke very little English. Dad, who’d bought a new car to bring me home from the hospital when I was born, caught trains and buses to job interviews. My mother didn’t know how to cook (remember the four servants) so for the first few months, we lived on rice porridge.
Every important thing about life that I needed to know was taught to me by my parents through this single, monumental act of love. I learnt that family is massively more important than wealth and comfort. I learnt that you support your partner no matter how difficult the journey. I learnt how to be brave even when it’s hard. My parents taught me, in a way that words never could, what love and sacrifice and commitment and family really means.
It was brutally hard on my mum. She was only young – in her late twenties – and whilst Dad quickly found a job, she was stuck at home with two small children. It was terribly lonely without the support of her family and friends, at a time before email or Skype or free international phone calls. Mum and Dad would only ring home a couple of times a year – through an operator – at a cost of $12 for three minutes (which was a fortune in the 60s and 70s).
We went back to Malaysia for holidays a few times in the early years. Certainly not often, as it was very expensive, but my memories of those visits are still vividly clear. They were always happy times, especially for Mum, who would visibly relax as soon as we got off the plane. It was years before she felt the same degree of comfort here.
. . . . .
As an adult, I have a great passion for Malaysian food.
I could never figure out where it came from. We always ate Chinese dishes at home, so it wasn’t a cuisine I grew up eating, nor do I cook a lot of it now. But when it’s my turn to choose a dinner venue, I’ll almost always suggest Malaysian.
Earlier this week, I dragged Pete and Big Boy into Broadway for lunch at Spice Alley…
This little inner-city laneway mimics the hawker stalls of Asia, but in a very upmarket way – the cutlery is made of disposable wood, the stalls are cashless, and the vibe is funky. We bought lunch from the Alex Lee Kitchen, paying with a tap of my debit card…
Then I wandered over to Kopi Tiam (“Coffee Shop”) and came back with one of my favourite desserts of all time, an ice kachang. It’s made by adding jelly and flavourings and condensed milk to a mountain of shaved ice (and usually creamed corn as well, although I always ask for it to be left out).
A friend of mine saw the picture below and said…”maybe it doesn’t photograph well..” That surprised me, as I thought it was the most beautiful dish I’d seen in weeks…
For me, it was a joyous dining experience.
My ever insightful husband figured it out – eating at hawker stalls was a huge treat for our family when we went to Malaysia for visits in those early years. It was a time when my parents (Mum in particular) were relaxed and happy. I’ve been seeking to recreate those childhood memories – the smells and the tastes and the shared laughter with extended family – for my entire life.
And indeed, Spice Alley has a lovely, familiar feel to it…
It’s cosy without being claustrophobic, although it’s probably packed on the weekends…
. . . . .
It was a wonderful meal for so many reasons – spending time with Pete and Big Boy, eating food which evoked such powerful childhood remembrances, but most of all, because it made me think really hard about what my parents went through nearly fifty years ago. As a teenager, I was often resentful of the academic demands they placed on me. But as an adult I can look back and understand completely – they had walked away from a life of comfort and ease to give us greater opportunities. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask that we make the most of them?
In the last few years of his life, Dad and I spoke every single day.
“Darling”, he would say, “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing a wonderful job raising my two beautiful grandsons.”
I can’t tell you how much I miss hearing that.
It didn’t matter to him that I hadn’t gone on to be a corporate lawyer or a doctor or an academic. All he cared about, because he truly loved me, was that I was happy. He made me believe that the way I had chosen to live my life was not only good enough, it was the best of choices. He super-boosted my self-esteem every single day and I’ll cherish those conversations forever.
I’d like to think that Dad would look back on his life…on all the hardships and sacrifices he and Mum made in those early years…and think it was worthwhile.
I try to live the best life I can to make it so.
Fig Jam and Lime Cordial 