In 1971, an American woman sought out traditional Indonesian recipes while living in New York City. She printed out the instructions with photos included, packed them into boxes with corresponding ingredients, and mailed the packages to intrepid American households willing to recreate them.
“Impossible!” I thought.
Who was this woman?
Paula Wolfert.
Continue reading “Special Feature and Recipe | Paula Wolfert on Indonesian Cuisine”
There were too many men.
I had become accustomed to spending quiet, intimate moments with grandmothers, mothers, wives, aunts and daughters in village kitchens across Indonesia in the preceding months. It was a natural connection — woman to woman — and put me at ease, especially because I was a lone, female traveler. I felt comfortable putting my guard down only in the company of other females.
Continue reading “Recipe | Sambal Suna ft. Kalimantan Tengah”
I have a plea.
Taste new things when you travel.
I am not asking you to channel television host Andrew Zimmern in his shock-factor hungry show, “Bizarre Foods,” and chow down on bull testicles or fermented whale meat.
But is there anything off-putting about corn, beans and pumpkin stewed in coconut milk with ginger and lemongrass, and eating a bowl of it to warm you up while in the chilly highlands of Pulau Flores?
If that sounds unappealing to you, then you are missing out.
Continue reading “Recipe | Uta Tabha ft. Nusa Tenggara Timur (Bajawa)”
I had my list ready.
Manu pata’u ni, Nga’a watary patau kabbe, Ka’pu pantunnu, Manggulu, Kadapet watara, Bokosawu nyale, Bokosawu karagge.
These were just a few regional dishes I had researched before flying to Sumba and was eager to find.
But then I found myself in a situation where this was not possible. It was, however, how I discovered the real Sumba.
Continue reading “Recipe | Rujak ft. Nusa Tenggara Timur (Sumba)”
I hate rice.
Ever since I was a child, I had no desire to eat this blank page of a starch that I was forced to ingest at every meal. My appetite was more eager for the side dishes my mother cooked than this bland, white mound that was meant to make me feel satiated.
My family became so accustomed to my disdain of rice that every time they reached into the steaming rice cooker to scoop a portion into our individual bowls, they would show me and ask, “Enough?”
I noted with satisfaction that it was always much less than everyone else’s serving.
“Enough.”
ASLI FOOD PROJECT 