Bak Zhang: My Memory Of My Grandma

It was that time of the year and in keeping with the tradition of old, I have set aside time to make bak zhang, a glutinous rice dumpling packed into bamboo leaves a fortnight ago. I have contemplated long and hard wondering if I should continue making it as the amount of time taken is tenuously long and perhaps, it could be better spent doing something else.

I made about 120+ bak zhang this year, shy of my previous year's record of about 220 pieces. I didn't do it alone of course, I was assisted by my mother-in-law simply because there are many things to prepare prior to the actual wrapping (such as soaking the rice, beans, mushrooms and chestnuts). Few appreciate the processes involved and many wondered if it is at all necessary (like the part of frying the rice with flavouring and beans where the required flavour will be evenly spread and "locked in").

Some like, myrrkat complained about a certain bean I used (since she doesn't like it as it gave her headaches) but I doubt I will change my ingredients. It is not pride mind you, but rather, it is a practice I have been taught and I intend to preserve it.

About a hundred years ago, there was no oyster sauce. I doubt the makers of bak zhang then would have included that flavouring. Instead, they would have used real oysters. But today, I can tell you that many use that sauce in place of real oysters.

But the back breaking process makes me wonder, is it worth the effort? I know after frying all the necessary ingredients, I could hardly stand to wrap and tie the dumplings. My back hurt a lot. It took me a few days to recover. I blame it on lack of exercise and age but then, I have not forgotten why I started this.


I missed the bak zhang my grandma made. I remember when I am in my preteens, I rush downstairs one fine morning wondering what is the commotion is and realised my grandparents and my mom are busy wrapping the banana leaves bak zhangs. It was a massive operation where each are assigned with a specific task, my grandpa manned the cooking part while my grandma and mom wrapped the bak zhangs. Theirs were simpler, no frying of rice to "lock in" the flavour and putting the other ingredients in raw. The drawback is, which I realised only when I started making my own, it takes at least another hour longer to cook it if we don't fry the ingredients (and less tasty as well).

I always loved waiting for the first batch of bak zhangs being drawn out from the boiling pot where one will be opened and served to taste if it was cooked. Back then, one can't get to eat bak zhang all the time. It is only around the 5th day 5th lunar month celebration that one will have bak zhang (much like eating mooncakes around the mid-autumn festival). Seriously, the rest of the week was all about eating bak zhang. You can bring bak zhang to school (and those days, people weren't too particular about eating non-halal food in school) or eat for breakfast and lunch and dinner. In fact, you can even have one for tea break.

Alas, those days have long gone. She died about a decade ago though she has ceased making bak zhangs for a much longer time that that. In fact, my interest in cooking stem from the fact that I moved out from my uncle's house almost 2 decades ago. You see, it was not just physical distance separated us but I grew up in those critical teenhood years without her. During those period, I grew apart and she seemed like a stranger by the time she moved in to stay with us. Not too long later, she died, a sad lady with dementia who clinged on to life and her sanity while waiting for me to return to Malaysia in between semester breaks.

About a month or so before I return to Malaysia, my grandma slipped and fell on the pavement while waiting for a bus and she went into a dementia like state. With little what modern medicine can help as well as her advanced age, my parents took her to an acupuncturist. She responded too well and recovered her memory quite quickly and the acupuncturist warned this is not a good sign and her days are numbered.

On seeing me return at last, she was very glad. My parents told me what happened and I managed to spend some time with her. Sadly, in the following weeks, her mental state began to degenerate. The night before she died, she kept screaming my name to let her out from her locked room. She wanted to go to her favourite place at wee hours in the morning which we knew was an impossibility. We tried calming her down but to no avail. She later gave up out of tiredness and laid down on her bed. We were relieved and called it a night.

The next morning, I woke up with a feeling something was amiss. I went to my grandma's room. It was too quiet. I called out her name but there was no response. I knocked and opened the door. She was lying there on the bed. I tried to wake her up by lightly nudging her shoulders but there was no response. Her hands were cold and there was no longer any heartbeat. She has left us for good. All I could do is walk out and inform my parents. I was very heartbroken as I was not by her side at those moments before her final departure.

Before we moved out from my uncle place in my preteen years, I took my grandma's cooking for granted where everyday without fail there would be lunch and dinner on the table. When my family finally moved into our own house and my mom had to work till 10 pm everyday, I have to occasionally replace my mom to cook dinner for my family other than the frequent eat outs. My grandparents stayed on for a few years with my uncle's family before finally moving out to stay with us. By then, we have a maid to do the cooking for all of us.

I realised that putting food on the table is not just about satisfying our bodily needs. It is when my family and I eat together on the dining table, we build our bonds as a basic unit in the society. We can't chose our grandparents, parents, brothers and/or sisters, but we can certainly forge our ties closer. Now that my grandma is no longer here, there is only one dish I look forward to making in memory of her loving efforts all those years i.e. bak zhang.

I often wonder whether homemade zhangs will fade away only to be found in restaurants and roadside stalls someday. I certainly hope not as homemade bak zhang symbolise to me more than a customary annual event dish. It is a reminiscent of happy memories of a home and extended family I grew up in and belong to; of my grandma who loved me unconditionally.

It may be rare for men to make bak zhang, but what is a little backache to compare to those memories? Or the smiles on the faces of those who enjoyed it, even if it is only a fleeting moment?