Kenduri
Early in the morning last December 24th we were, like many around the
world, anticipating a feast. But this was to be no dinner or turkey or
roast beef or roast lamb or ham. We'd been invited to village about an
hour from Kuala Lumpur to watch the preparations for a kenduri (Malaysian for 'ceremony' or 'celebration').
This particular kenduri was to mark the engagement of my Malaysian
teacher's sister. All kenduri involve protocol - there are must-do's and
must-don'ts; dress should be appropriate, and ritual respected. But
this is Malaysia, a country where food is never an afterthought. So, as
the betrothed-to-be prepared herself for the afternoon's events,
assorted relatives and neighbors cooked up an amazing meal for the
guests.
We arrived early to find M's grandmother sweeping the courtyard and
his father on a ladder plucking rambutan from one of the many fruit
trees that shade the house. Cats lazed about here and there in the early
morning sun. Preparations had already begun at the bangsal, an
outdoor raised and covered platform that's usually used for lounging
but that can be called into kitchen use when the weather is fine and
extra space is needed.
M's family expected 100 or so guests for lunch, so caterers were
called in - a few village ladies, reknowned for their culinary skills,
who have experiece cooking for crowds. They arrived with huge pots of
half-cooked curry sauces that would be finished off in the one-room hut
opposite the house that serves as a second kitchen.
These ladies may have been asked in to do a job, but when it came to
cooking, everyone - M's sisters and mother included - deferred to Aunty,
a sturdy and smiling 69-year-old relative who'd been driven in from
Kelantan state for the occasion. After chopping carrots and longbeans at
the bangsal she moved to the power position in the cooking hut - a low
stool within easy reach of ingredients and a couple of portable gas
burners - and, with the village caterers, set to finishing the meal.
Mul bari is a sort of curry made, on this day, with chicken.
Aunty started by heating the brick-red sauce, made with loads of dried
chilies, onions, shallots, and ginger, and then added chicken pieces
that had been marinated in serbok kuzi - a mixture of garlic,
ginger, and condensed milk - and then deep-fried. The pan holding the
curry sauce was large, but the amount of chicken to be cooked larger, so
Aunty added the bird in batches, leaving each to simmer in the sauce
for a half an hour or so before removing it to make room for more.
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