Childhood In The Thirties 5
We heard busy sounds of eggs beaten up, of chopping meat, the tinkle, clatter of plates, pans, spoons and an animated women chatter in the wide open kitchen, preparation for Chinese New Year. There were always women who were latah, that is involuntarily imitating when frightened and talk, utter foolish, funny, nonsense. When you suddenly shout to them: “a snake!”, frightened, they also say: “eh, snake, a snake, snake in your underpants,” seriously, something like that in the Sunda language to great hilarity of the others.
There certainly was a lot of cookies in stopper glass jars and delicious dishes. But the Chinese are very poor bakers. They didn’t bake cakes with whipped cream or fruit cakes, or puffs, pastries. They have no chocolate pudding or ice cream. More over, little children as we are who were most eager on ice cream if ever they make ice cream, real, true vanilla ice cream out of vanilla sticks, there’s no second. It was stirred and frozen on salted ice blocks in a wooden bucket. We got least and last while the grown ups who didn’t appreciate it as much as we did got first and most.
They only bake the delicious spekkoek, a many layered cake, Tong Tjoe Pia or the Moon Cake. Kue Chang of sticky rice is not baked but steamed and we drank swallow’s nest syrup, very costly. Imagine it is dried swallow spittle. But you shouldn’t confide it to others.
On the evenings before New Year we got fire works to chase evil spirits away. He had a cupboard full of them. Once he got a big chest with “bombs” as big as my fist fastened in a row together perhaps as long as 4 meters. We all went outside to see, hear, experience the spectacular New Year bombing event hanging on a tree.
But the grandest event was the festive dish, the poor little pig that was killed, slaughtered. But when it was over, the pig cleaned and with an iron spit on coal fire was roasted in a pit, slowly turned and turned, wetted with coconut water and buttered with pure butter cream, - fortunately margarine wasn’t yet invented - and slowly became crispy brown, we forgot the miseries, suffering, screams of the poor little creature.
And it was served whole upon whole, long banana leaves on the floor and again we came together around the festive event but this time not only to view but also to taste and eat it. We got no plates or spoons and forks and chairs or tables. A man in charge of the pig was cutting and every one got a piece, a slice of it. Especially the crispy skin was its specialty. I got the tail, the nicest part so they say to trick me into believing it, but perhaps it was as is the most delicious chicken hind.
I remember someone saying: “it’s only a pity that we should build our joy, delight, health, happiness at the expense of other creatures. I would gladly forgo feasting eating the goat, the lamb or cow that would be sacrificed or pay its price if I’ve got the money, the courage, if it could save him. I never have seen, known, realized it before, except it was just a piece of meat, beef, chicken slaughtered in a professional slaughter house. However that’s not that I would show off myself as a paragon of virtue.”
We heard busy sounds of eggs beaten up, of chopping meat, the tinkle, clatter of plates, pans, spoons and an animated women chatter in the wide open kitchen, preparation for Chinese New Year. There were always women who were latah, that is involuntarily imitating when frightened and talk, utter foolish, funny, nonsense. When you suddenly shout to them: “a snake!”, frightened, they also say: “eh, snake, a snake, snake in your underpants,” seriously, something like that in the Sunda language to great hilarity of the others.
There certainly was a lot of cookies in stopper glass jars and delicious dishes. But the Chinese are very poor bakers. They didn’t bake cakes with whipped cream or fruit cakes, or puffs, pastries. They have no chocolate pudding or ice cream. More over, little children as we are who were most eager on ice cream if ever they make ice cream, real, true vanilla ice cream out of vanilla sticks, there’s no second. It was stirred and frozen on salted ice blocks in a wooden bucket. We got least and last while the grown ups who didn’t appreciate it as much as we did got first and most.
They only bake the delicious spekkoek, a many layered cake, Tong Tjoe Pia or the Moon Cake. Kue Chang of sticky rice is not baked but steamed and we drank swallow’s nest syrup, very costly. Imagine it is dried swallow spittle. But you shouldn’t confide it to others.
On the evenings before New Year we got fire works to chase evil spirits away. He had a cupboard full of them. Once he got a big chest with “bombs” as big as my fist fastened in a row together perhaps as long as 4 meters. We all went outside to see, hear, experience the spectacular New Year bombing event hanging on a tree.
But the grandest event was the festive dish, the poor little pig that was killed, slaughtered. But when it was over, the pig cleaned and with an iron spit on coal fire was roasted in a pit, slowly turned and turned, wetted with coconut water and buttered with pure butter cream, - fortunately margarine wasn’t yet invented - and slowly became crispy brown, we forgot the miseries, suffering, screams of the poor little creature.
And it was served whole upon whole, long banana leaves on the floor and again we came together around the festive event but this time not only to view but also to taste and eat it. We got no plates or spoons and forks and chairs or tables. A man in charge of the pig was cutting and every one got a piece, a slice of it. Especially the crispy skin was its specialty. I got the tail, the nicest part so they say to trick me into believing it, but perhaps it was as is the most delicious chicken hind.
I remember someone saying: “it’s only a pity that we should build our joy, delight, health, happiness at the expense of other creatures. I would gladly forgo feasting eating the goat, the lamb or cow that would be sacrificed or pay its price if I’ve got the money, the courage, if it could save him. I never have seen, known, realized it before, except it was just a piece of meat, beef, chicken slaughtered in a professional slaughter house. However that’s not that I would show off myself as a paragon of virtue.”
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