Pickles and Tea Blog

As soon as my mom ascends the stairs and disappears into the guest room, I arrange the mise en place for rolling spring rolls (or lumpia as they’re called in Indonesian) on the kitchen table: a stack of wrappers, a bowl of ground pork and bamboo shoots fried together for the filling, and “glue” made with tapioca starch and hot water.

My parents are visiting for a couple of weeks and as is usual, Ma and I are spending some time in the kitchen cooking together. I’ve cooked side-by-side with her for a good many years and I still feel like I’m only a shadow of the excellent cook she is.

My fried noodles are always a tad too soggy and lack that bit of oomph Ma injects into hers. Her fried chicken is spiced just right and fried to a golden brown crisp I can never seem to replicate.

And then there are her spring rolls.

Ma is a perfectionist when it comes to rolling spring rolls. Her spring rolls are log-straight, symmetrical and super snug—perfect specimens. And although I’ve been rolling spring rolls since I was yea high, mine tend to be lopsided and not nearly as pretty. You can definitely tell whose are whose.

So while Ma naps, I scramble to finish the job without her help and her eagle-eye.

Thirty minutes later, a stack of spring rolls is ready for frying.

I heat up the oil to temp, or so I thought, and slide several spring rolls into the hot oil.

Sizzle… sizzle… Bubbles are a good sign.

Then, one spring roll begins to unravel. Another bursts, releasing vegetable shards into the oil.

In my rush, I forgot to drain the liquid from the filling before I started rolling! This causes the wrappers to soak through and fall apart.

Sigh.

I gingerly fish the spring rolls out of the oil, thinking they are bound for the trash.

Ma walks into the kitchen. My eyes implore her for help.

She takes one look at the wok. “The oil isn’t hot enough.”

She holds out a plate for the offending spring rolls. They are an easy fix. Ma unfolds my mishaps without judgment and scrapes out the filling. She piles the salvaged contents into another wrapper, and then another, effortlessly refolding them.

I turn the heat up on the stove and Ma soon indicates the oil is hot enough. The spring rolls are sizzling with joy. This time, they turn out intact, golden brown and crispy, just the way they’re meant to be.

Resigned, I remarked to a friend later, “I’ll never be as good a cook as my mum is.”

“She probably doesn’t think she’s as good a cook as her mother was,” my friend replied matter-of-factly.

Aah.

Perhaps one day my son will aspire to cook as well as his mom.

Do you have a dish that you aspire to make just like mom?