This post is part of a series of reflections on the readings from the food learning group headed by Danielle (mysillylittletasks) on Instagram. Find the MIT readings here. Shoot her a DM if you’d like to join - everyone’s welcome :)
If I substitute an ingredient typically used in a traditional dish for another, have I stripped the dish of its ‘traditional’ status? Does it become something else entirely, or will it always be known as a ‘lesser’ version of the traditional dish? When does it become recognised as something in and of itself, rather than adjacent to something else?
Why is there a hierarchy measured by authenticity and traditionalism in food? Who gets to decide this hierarchy?
There is a part of me that yearns for ‘traditional food’. It’s the side of me that bristles when a wonton is confused with a jiaozi. It’s the pause that I take when someone dismiss udon, soba and ramen as ‘the same type of noodles’. It’s the double take I make when someone throws some peas and sesame oil into a bowl, saves some radish across as garnish, and sells it as a salad at a 50% markup.
But then I think of the substitutes that my parents and my grandparents compromised on, to make the foods they loved, the foods they missed, from a hometown over 5,000kms away.
Sure, what comes out of those substitutions isn’t authentic. It doesn’t replicate the steaming bowl of kueh teow that’s served in an all too small bowl, too hot for the sticky heat of a hawker’s centre. It’s never going to replicate that sweetness that comes from freshly pressed sugar cane.
It’s not all of that.
What it is, is an honest reflection of the evolution of a displaced food culture. It’s trying to fit in, to toe the line between adaptation and authenticity. It’s nostalgia mixed with the desire to change. And now, it’s my namesake on here. I have vegemite in my congee. It reminds me of hurried mornings to childcare, mum trying to juggle our schoolbags and the hot thermos of congee in her arms.
(I wrote about this in issue 5 of porridge magazine here).
I guess our proximity to Asia makes things easier, in some ways. There’s a strong community here, strong trade ties, and an aunty or two whose probably coming back from a trip (pre-pandemic).
And yet, my grandma still complains about how the mango is different here, how pandan leaves are never ‘fresh’ enough, how her chillies die in the heat.
I think of the jackfruit chips my mum devoured when we went to KL, how she still loves to grab durian from the Chinese store even though its frozen and probably not as fresh as it would've been on the side of a road with makeshift motorcycles zooming past, their horns punctuating the wet sounds of sticky fingers covered in durian.
I wonder what dishes I’ll pass onto my kids.
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There is strength in displacement. A displaced food culture creates opportunities. As argued in Cracking Open Fortune Cookies: A window into the American Consumer, displaced food cultures '“represent a cultural shift that reflects the dynamic and necessarily fluid meaning of community and culture”.
Again, the fact that I have such ready access to a lot of these dishes, these ingredients, these techniques is a privilege. It speaks of the geographical benefits of Australia, its proximity to Asia, and perhaps the burgeoning phenomenon of free trade.
Which in turn, reminded me of Bec Zhuang’s treatise on the restorative power of grocery stores.
I don't think about this though. The grocery store aisles are too narrow for this kind of introspection.
Half the time I’m trying to figure out what I need to make next, playing a game of spot the difference between what I’m seeing on the shelves and the photo mum sent through on whatsapp.
Later, I return to my apartment and find that my aunt’s dropped off some kuih. She apologises for the off colour green, and bemoans the fact that the glutinous rice can’t stand up to the summer heat.
Nevertheless, it reminds me of home.