The secret ingredient is Nothing. To make something special you just have to believe it’s special.
– Kung Fu Panda
There are days when a columnist feels the need to step away from the noise of politics, the weight of policy debates, and the endless churn of public discourse. Not because those issues are unimportant, but because I feel sometimes the most telling stories about society lie quietly in our kitchens, simmering in pots and whispered in family gatherings.
Today, I choose to write about one such story. And so, I turn to something deeply personal, my culinary passion, and more importantly, to a curious and somewhat troubling human trait.
It is the unwillingness of some people to part with their recipes, not even with loved ones, for fear that others might replicate or even improve upon them. These individuals would rather let their so-called “secret” recipes die with them than allow others the chance to learn and carry them forward.
One cannot help but be reminded of the old traditions of martial arts masters who would deliberately withhold their finest techniques, passing on only fragments to their disciples while taking the rest to their graves. The thinking, then as now, appears to be rooted in control, pride, and the desire to remain unmatched. Even in death.
In today’s world, this mindset has found an unlikely refuge in our homes. It lives on in what I would call “family chefs”, individuals who have spent years perfecting certain dishes that become their personal trademarks. Their biryani, their rendang, their curry; it is theirs, and it must remain so.
Before embarking on this piece, I took the precaution of checking with my book editor Thaashaa Diveena to ensure I was not repeating myself. True enough, she reminded me that I had once written about my brief culinary adventure in a column last year, allowing me to focus this time on the deeper issue at hand, the fate of recipes themselves.
Nevertheless, I cannot entirely remove myself from this narrative. During my brief stint running an eatery, I experimented relentlessly, creating and refining dishes in the hope of finding something that would truly connect with customers. Some attempts failed, others showed promise, but one recipe rose above the rest, the biryani ketam or crab biryani.
It was not an overnight success. It took months of careful adjustment, balancing spices, texture, and aroma, until I finally achieved what I believed was the perfect version. When it was introduced, the response was immediate and overwhelming, with customers flocking in and the dish selling out within 30 to 45 minutes.
That experience left a lasting impression on me. Here was something born out of persistence and passion, something that brought people together and created joy, however briefly. Yet, like many things in life, it faded into the background as I returned to journalism.
For years, I kept that recipe to myself, not out of selfishness but simply because life moved on. It remained tucked away, untouched and unshared, much like the very recipes I now question. But time has a way of forcing reflection.
And so, I arrived at a simple but powerful conclusion. What is the point of holding on to something that was meant to be shared? A recipe is not a trophy to be guarded, but a living creation meant to be passed on, adapted, and kept alive.
That is why I have made a conscious decision. I am now prepared to part with my crab biryani recipe and teach it to others who are willing to learn, along with the tomato pickle that completes the dish. I want it to live on, not just as a memory, but as something that continues to be cooked and enjoyed for generations.
This decision, however, stands in stark contrast to the attitudes I have encountered, even within my own family.
I admire cookbook authors who are ever willing to part with their precious recipes. I have even asked my sisters, who are excellent cooks and have mastered several unique recipes, especially Indian and Malay cuisines, to teach others or even come out with cookery books for the public to learn to cook Indian food, but their favourite excuse is, “The recipes are trade secrets and not for public consumption.”
Their reasoning, while frustrating, is not entirely without basis. For many, recipes are tied to family history, cultural identity, and deeply personal memories, making them far more than just a list of ingredients. To share them can feel like giving away a piece of oneself.
There is also the undeniable reality of effort. Some recipes are the result of years of trial and error, carefully refined until they reach perfection. When someone has invested that much time and energy, it is understandable that they may wish to protect their creation.
Then comes the element of ego, which we must acknowledge honestly. Being known for a particular dish brings a certain pride and recognition, and sharing it may feel like surrendering that uniqueness. The fear that someone else might improve upon it is, for some, simply too much to bear.
There are also practical concerns that cannot be dismissed. A poorly executed version of a shared recipe could reflect badly on its origin, especially if the person preparing it fails to understand its complexities. In such cases, hesitation to share may stem more from caution than selfishness.
Some reasons, however, stretch credibility. I recall a cousin who claimed she could not share her recipe because it existed only in her instincts and could not be written down. While that may be true, it only reflects the urgency of passing it on before that knowledge disappears entirely.
Of course, there are legitimate exceptions. For those whose livelihood depends on their recipes, secrecy is often necessary to protect their business. In such cases, withholding a recipe is not selfishness but a matter of survival.
Yet, beyond these exceptions, one cannot ignore the broader consequence. When recipes are guarded too tightly, they do not remain preserved, they simply vanish over time. What could have been a lasting contribution becomes a forgotten memory.
Food, at its heart, is meant to be shared. It connects people, carries stories, and reflects culture in its most tangible form. When we refuse to pass on our recipes, we risk breaking that chain of continuity.
What, then, is the legacy of a cook who leaves nothing behind? A fleeting memory of taste, perhaps, or a dish that no one can quite recreate. In the end, it becomes a story without a future.
We live in an age where knowledge flows freely across borders and cultures. Yet within our own homes, we sometimes cling to secrecy as though we are protecting something irreplaceable. It is a contradiction that deserves reflection.
For me, the answer is clear. If someone takes my biryani ketam recipe and improves upon it, I would welcome it. That would mean the recipe has lived, evolved, and found new meaning beyond its origin.
Because the true measure of a creation is not how tightly it is held, but how far it travels. A recipe that is shared gains life, while one that is hidden slowly fades into obscurity. That is the reality we must confront.
And perhaps that is the lesson worth taking away. Recipes, like traditions and stories, are meant to be passed on, not buried. They are part of a living heritage that grows richer with every sharing.
As for me, I am not done with the culinary world just yet. There are plans to start a humble roti canai stall with a close friend, though we are still searching for the right roti canai maker.
When that day comes, I hope we will do things differently. We will share what we know, teach what we can, and build something that lasts beyond ourselves.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at rajlira@gmail.com
