(A heart-warming tale of culinary chaos, familial scandal, and one woman’s accidental rise to kitchen glory)
“Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.“
– Harriet Van Horne (1920-2000); an American journalist and food writer known for her insightful commentary on food and cooking.
LUNA had always been a dreamer – and not in the genteel, “lost in thought while sipping tea” sort of way. No, Luna’s dreams were large and inconvenient, often sneaking up while she was elbow-deep in fish scales or rice husks. Growing up in the 1950s in our remote village deep in the Serian jungles – forty miles from Kuching and roughly another forty from anything resembling excitement – she’d while away the hours imagining she was floating on clouds or exploring lands far beyond the paddy fields.
Alas, dreams neither stirred the pot nor fried the fish. And in Luna’s world, food wasn’t just sustenance – it was a social contract, a test of marriageability, and a weapon for gossip. In the village of constant culinary judgement, a woman who couldn’t cook was about as useful as a mosquito at a picnic.
Now, Luna could cook … technically. Her mother had seen to that. Recipes, techniques – all drummed into her with the same persistence one applies to driving a nail into particularly stubborn wood.
But Luna’s dishes had a certain flair for disaster. Her rice was always wrong (too wet to chew, too dry to swallow), her dishes confused (spicy enough to cause tears, or bland enough to cause existential dread). Her family ate her food with brave smiles and the silent prayer that tomorrow’s meal wouldn’t be experimental.
For Luna, cooking was not art. It was community service. Something she endured so she could rush back to real joy — stitching colourful mats, weaving baskets, poking around the jungle, or daydreaming about life somewhere that didn’t involve ladles and woks.
The Return of the “Cooking King”
One day, word spread that Cousin Ajang was returning to the village after years of mysterious city living. He’d left as a restless young man with nothing but determination and a questionable attitude – the sort that said things like “I’ll make something of myself!” while everyone rolled their eyes and said, “Sure you will, dear.”
Luna remembered little about him. He’d left when she was small – just a child with a chronic sniffle and a love of getting underfoot. Still, she was fascinated. He had left and had lived! She wanted to hear about his adventures, the dazzling city lights, the magic of… running water.
When Ajang finally arrived, there was much fuss – relatives bearing chickens, uncles retelling childhood embarrassments, and small children circling him like curious ants. Luna, avoiding the crowd, decided she’d talk to him later. Privately.
And when she finally did, what she learned floored her. Ajang wasn’t just another returnee with exaggerated city tales. No – he had become … a cook! An actual cook! In a hotel kitchen!
The women whispered about him as though he were some mythical creature – part man, part spice. “He sautéed onions!” gasped one.
The men, meanwhile, didn’t know what to make of it. Cooking, after all, was firmly considered a “women’s domain”, right up there with gossiping and occasionally shouting into the jungle. But they grudgingly admitted, “If the hotel paid him, he must be doing something right.”
To Luna, this news was revolutionary. A man who cooked – voluntarily! – was the rarest of creatures. She had to ask him for help. Perhaps he could unlock the secret of flavour. Or better yet, she thought with a cheeky grin, perhaps he could cook for her.
Lessons in the Flames
When Luna approached Ajang, she braced for disapproval. Instead, he threw his head back and laughed so loudly that a nearby chicken started clucking nervously.
“You hate cooking,” he chuckled, “but you want to cook better? That’s like saying you hate running but want to win a race!”
Luna, mortally embarrassed but ever stubborn, crossed her arms. “I just don’t want to poison anyone anymore. And I’d like to understand how to make food people enjoy. You clearly know how.”
Ajang grinned, clearly entertained. “Alright. I’ll teach you – but you must do exactly as I say. No shortcuts. No ‘maybe if I add extra salt’. The kitchen obeys no rebels.”
And with that, her apprenticeship began.
It was nothing like her mother’s regimented lessons. Ajang approached cooking like a mad scientist crossed with a village storyteller.
He explained why things mattered – why spices must sing before being stirred in, why rice must be rinsed thrice (“not twice, not four – three, like a sacred chant!”); why every dish needed balance – the harmony of sweet, sour, salty, spicy, and, occasionally, “oops!”
Most importantly, he made it fun.
“Cooking,” he declared one day, tossing fish in the air like an eccentric magician, “is just dancing with ingredients. The trick is not to panic. The other trick is not to drop anything on your foot.”
Slowly, Luna began to find her rhythm. Her rice stopped being tragic. Her curries began tasting like food and less like punishment. And somewhere between the laughter, sizzling oil, and mild singeing of eyebrows, she started to enjoy herself – just a bit.
The Great Wedding Feast
Once Luna’s confidence (and singed fringe) had grown back, fate handed her a challenge. Another cousin was getting married, and a grand reception was planned. Luna, in a moment of what everyone assumed was temporary madness, volunteered to cook one of the main dishes.
Some relatives nearly fainted. “Luna? Cooking? Voluntarily?” one aunt gasped.
Even Ajang eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure? I mean, there’s bravery, and then there’s … this.”
But Luna stood tall, beaming. “I am. But you’ll help me, won’t you?”
Together, they plotted a dish so ambitious it bordered on heroic – a chicken curry so rich, fragrant, and balanced it might just redeem her reputation forever.
As the big day arrived, Luna worked like a woman possessed. No mismeasured salt this time, no burnt onions. She stirred with the confidence of someone who finally understood the melody of the kitchen. The smell alone attracted a crowd before the wedding even began.
When the feast was served, there was silence – ominous, spine-tingling silence. Then came the first spoonful. And then … chaos. People gasped. They moaned. They demanded seconds. One elderly man announced dramatically, “If this curry had existed in my youth, I might’ve proposed twice!”
Luna, ordinarily modest, practically glowed. When someone asked who the cook was, she shyly raised her hand – and to her disbelief, the room erupted into applause. For the first time, her food wasn’t tolerated; it was celebrated.
A Curry to Remember
I was there that night – a skinny nine-year-old armed with curiosity and a terrifying appetite. It was, to my everlasting memory, the first time I tasted curry, and I swear I saw flashes of Heaven.
That evening changed Luna’s life. She no longer saw cooking as a chore but as an extension of imagination – the kind of art that nourished more than just the body. She continued to experiment: rice with pandan essence, jungle ferns sautéed with laughter, sambal that could bring tears of joy or regret depending on your spice tolerance.
She still grumbled when the wok splattered or when the chickens refused to cooperate, but something inside her had shifted. Cooking no longer tethered her – it set her free.
And so it was that Luna, the girl who once wanted to escape the kitchen forever, became the woman who made it sing.
Reflections on Fire and Flavour
Luna’s story, when you think about it, is proof that some people adore eating but dread cooking – a universal truth whispered across kitchens everywhere. It isn’t laziness; it’s perception. Eating is a pleasure; cooking is logistics, planning, multitasking, and a dash of smoke inhalation.
But when Luna learned that joy could exist between the chopping and the tasting, she bridged that divide. She found balance between toil and delight, between tradition and innovation. Her kitchen became less a battlefield and more a stage, her wok the drum, her curry the encore.
In the end, Luna didn’t just learn how to cook; she discovered a part of herself she’d misplaced somewhere between obligation and fear. And in doing so, she proved that even in the most traditional corners of the world, you can rewrite your destiny – with a little courage, a lot of curry, and just the right amount of spice.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com.
