Every Chinese New Year, my parents brought me to my aunt’s home.
She cooked Peranakan food. Always. Without being asked.
The centrepiece was always the ayam buah keluak. The smell hit you before you even sat down — a deep, earthy aroma that didn’t quite make sense until the first bite. The chicken was tender in that way only a long cook achieves. The spice blend clung to everything.
I didn’t know what buah keluak was then. I just knew it tasted like something that took effort.
My aunt wasn’t a restaurateur. She had a life, the same as anyone. But she chose to do this dish, year after year. The kind that demands time in the morning before the guests arrive.
That’s what stayed with me.
Not just the food. The decision to make it.
Some things don’t need to be said out loud to be felt at the table.