Vol. IV — Minor Gestures, Big Commotions
Welcome back to Weekly, Maybe, a non-ambitious newsletter by Rara, Christabelle, and Avi. If you read our newsletter last week, you might have noticed a fun little crossword puzzle tucked at the end of it. Now, we know we promised to share with you the answers in this edition, but we’ve decided to extend the puzzle for one more week with the promise of a book giveaway for three lucky subscribers to get all correct answers.
To submit your answers, simply send us an email to theweeklymaybe@gmail.com. Answers can be in a list format or a screenshot image, whatever you find easiest!
Before we start, a huge shoutout to our friends who have recently started or revived their newsletters! In alphabetical order, they are: Andrina’s Still Life and Then Some, Isyana’s Bottle Episodes, Katrin’s Balcony Thoughts from Berlin, Nico’s Dispatch from the Inside, Tada’s Entailing Anecdotes, and Tassa’s fixations. We also want to send our biggest love to the person who started it all, the OG of Substack Newsletter, the badass queen of Southeast Asia reporting, beloved friend Erin Cook and her newsletter Dari Mulut ke Mulut. Hit those subscribe buttons!
Rara: Won’t Leave You on Read
There is a template of directions that I use to help ojek drivers find my elusive kost, a two-story building hidden inside a sweatshop compound on an alley in Setiabudi. From the outside, all you can see is a tall gray gate, so naturally the template starts with that. In case the driver mistakes it with the three other houses on the alley that also have gray exterior, I would always make sure to tell them it’s the one across a warung, right before the T-junction. Once inside the compound, you would have to walk past my landlord’s house, turn right, and the kost building is all the way in the back next to the sweatshop. My room is on the second floor, second door to the right.
As cheesy as it sounds, reaching out can sometimes feel like you’re asking someone to pick you up someplace they’ve never been to and they’re counting on you to give them directions. The possibilities of fucking it up are endless. Unlike Ann Friedman, I’m impatient with small talks, so I tend to rush it, wanting to get to the bottom of things and ending up asking or sharing something too personal way too soon. I don’t know when to give a TLDR version and when to lay out the exact sequence of events in chronological order — honestly, most of the time I also fuck up the sequence.
My attempt at staying connected these days from inside the quarantine involves adding descriptions as much as possible — elaborating the I’m doing well, mostly into Just a lot on my plate right now, which is a good thing, I guess. Sometimes I overdo it, not knowing which details are relevant or which part the other person could hopefully relate to, like I’m exhausted but also terrified of saying no to yet another project because it could very well be the last one before all the gigs are dried up so I have no choice but to say yes. I should be grateful.Earlier I thought I was going to have a breakdown so I took a deep breath bracing for a good, cathartic cry but as I exhaled the urge was gone and rather than feeling better, it actually made it worse. Now I’m constantly on edge. I throw in some light stuff for good measure. Maybe I should take a break and watch something. What’s good on Netflix?
As if that’s not complicated enough, there’s also something about being in isolation that makes you think that you can no longer — for lack of a better word — be chill with your relationships. We are forced to sort our people into two categories: those who are close enough to Zoom and those who aren’t; the VIPs and the acquaintances; The Intense Friendships and the Casual ones, no in between. Once in the beginning of this, I vowed to maintain regular video call sessions with a friend, and when it didn’t work out for me I was worried. What if we weren’t compatible after all? What if this friendship does not survive the pandemic? What if over time it changes from what was initially a tight bond into not knowing how to talk to each other anymore? It sounds silly now, but it really did make me question my relationship with a good friend just because I couldn’t bear to stare awkwardly at her face (or my own) on a screen. Turns out I was just not a Zoom person, and she was more than willing to settle with Instagram Stories.
I think — heck, I know — that there has got to be more than one way to connect, and we should stop feeling insecure when it doesn’t involve an hour-long Zoom call or when all you can offer is to take turns sending heart emojis on your posts and Stories. Maybe, just like having a template to reach an elusive address, one day we’ll find a new language to express our love in this difficult time, one that is guaranteed to reach the other person. Just like how Christabelle and I rarely “talk” talk, and yet she keeps sending me food: from noodles to pasta, dim sum to donuts, every other day. I think that’s her way of reaching out, of staying connected — and that message is well received.
Christabelle: Dancing on My Own
When I sit to work, write, or explore entertainment options on my break, I sit on the desk in my room facing a window. In 2017, this window opened to a construction site next door and the views of blue skies. Three months after I moved in, a fancy kost had been erected where the construction site once was, effectively blocking my hope for a view, or something resembling one. I resented this at first, despite having been warned by the landlady when I first came to ask around. What’s the point of having a window in the first place if there was nothing to longingly gaze at from the inside?
***
For the past three years, every (or sometime around) Valentine’s Day, Rara, Avi, and I would go out dancing. What started as a one-off fun night out in 2018 became something we looked forward to at the beginning of each year that followed, not so much as a night of letting loose as much as nostalgic look back on that first night out, earlier in this friendship of three.
Last Valentine’s Day, we repeated the ritual and found ourselves in a room so packed there was barely room to dance and the music was… not as fun as we had anticipated. What was supposed to be a cheesy romantic pop galore had become straight up non-ironic corniness, and as the crowd got thicker we became increasingly agitated. To my right, someone had pushed a chair to the middle of the dance floor, and it just stood there taking up space as people did their best to dance around it lest they stumble. A song came on that we Shazam-ed and we let out a collective “ooh” realizing it was the new Dua Lipa, which we decided we liked. Another song came on that may have triggered a collective eye roll, it might have been Pitbull — someone or something too recently bad to be good in hindsight. “This is not even in the zeitgeist!” Rara yelled, and we laughed.
We left the venue for a smaller one in the basement, where the tunes were jazzier, dancier, the crowd much less rowdy. By then, other friends had joined us; we danced, we hugged, we laughed, bodies pressed against each other as we crammed ourselves into picture after picture. We had dim sum after and forgot how bad the music had been earlier in the night, how it made us almost want to go home three hours early.
***
Every day around sunset, my mind would calculate the possibilities of the night had this been the Before Time. This is what I think about when my mind drifts and my gaze settles at the grey windowless concrete in front of me. I am not always out, and I do love my nights-in just as much, but I miss the unpredictable promise of life after light. I miss the collection of moments — minor gestures, big commotions — that stay with you long after the next morning’s headache and lethargy has subsided. The high-fives, the glances, the shouting instead of whispering because no information is too private when you can barely hear each other in a crowd. I miss the in-betweens, the moments of indecision that always precede a good time because it is exactly in those moments that anticipation builds; seeds of fun tucked inside the linings of uncertainty. Are you going? Are we going? Who else will be there? I miss putting on lipstick, double checking on my earrings, locking the door behind me and being on my way, off to whatever awaits. There is a way that my heart expands in the exact moment that I make a beeline for the entrance, trailing behind the soft thumping as it crescendos into a loudness inside that disorients at first, but comforts and carries you the rest of the night. I miss that.
***
I took piano lessons almost all throughout my elementary school years and in each session, Ibu Camelia, a very kind and patient young woman, would always tell me: “Kamu kenapa nggak les tari aja, sih? Gerak melulu!” Always, she would tell me I’d be better suited in a dance class than piano lessons. I could never sit still. Around the time she told me that, I was, in fact, signed up for a dance class at school which sent us for a competition at Taman Mini Indonesia Indah. The “Tari Boneka” we spent weeks learning was not a hit. We lost, and the dancing shoes we had put on were sent back to whatever costume rental place it came from.
I lay out those two facts for the sole purpose of pointing out that despite early believers, I was never good at dancing and I love these nights out exactly because I didn’t have to be good at it to dance and have a good time. The lights will be dimmed and no one ever cares as much as you think they do. You never have to think as much as your brain wants you to.
***
Another week of quarantine has passed and I have not mastered a single Tik Tok dance, despite my embarrassing efforts. This new dance trend of swaying your hips while covering your face is perhaps the closest I will ever get to doing OK at a dance challenge. But I’ve been dancing, alone, in my room. To the new Beyonce remix of Megan Thee Stallion’s “Savage”. To the new Little Simz drop “one life, might live” and the fuller “might bang, might not”. To Jessie Ware’s exciting lineup of singles “Spotlight”, “Save a Kiss”, and “Oh La La” all from her upcoming seemingly disco-heavy album. I’ve been dancing in the shower, dancing as I do the dishes, as I cut up onions, while I wait for my chicken cutlets to brown, the grey wall my quiet audience, reserving his judgment.
Avi: When Life Gives You Honje
Long before kecombrang became the new “it” ingredient, that extra oomph that made sambal matah the widely craved condiment that it is today, it was known to our little family, introduced by my Cirebonese mother, by the name honje. Every time she’s back from the market with honje, my mother would thinly slice those pinkish buds and put them in just about anything: as an aromatic in her ayam suwir, along with kemangi and kaffir lime leaves; in vanilla ice cream, which works less like cardamom and maybe more like lemon zest; as a substitute for lemongrass in her afternoon tea.
To be fair, if you’re not used to it, it can taste a little like what you imagine chewing on a soap would be — they’re not similar in texture, but it is so fragrant that it’s possible your brain confuses the two. But once you get over the idea, this herb actually lives up to its hype and elevates even the most banal, overlooked dish. Take sayur godog, for example. A handful of thinly sliced honje, or ¼ bud to be precise, is enough to turn an otherwise machtig stew, all that decadent coconut milk, into a deceivingly bright pot of joy. Perfect for Eid where the situation compels you to not settle for just one bowl.
As much as I’d like to brag how we knew honje before it was cool, cooking sayur godog with honje in a time where its tart and floral notes have yet to become acceptable (palatable?) can be a little disheartening. Especially for my mother, who would put together this dish every year for Eid and enthusiastically share it with everyone gathering at her mother in-law’s open house, only to have some “concerned relative” complain to her that her sayur has gone bad — “sour” was the word they used to diss this perfectly fine stew. Every single time it broke my mother’s heart a little, until two, three years ago she finally decided she would bring just a small pot of her sayur to the open house, to be shared among me, my sister, my father, and herself — the four people who truly appreciate her and her knack for cooking.
This year’s Eid will be different. The obvious reason is, due to a global pandemic, we won’t be able to gather with beloved distant relatives and family friends. The less obvious reason and kind of sad news is, last year my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at 73 and has since lived with my parents. It means my parents will have to host an Eid gathering, albeit a small one, for around 10 people (including my father’s two sisters and their family who, in case you’re wondering, have been in quarantine since over two months ago and have not once shown any symptoms). It also means that, for the first time in probably forever, my mother will be able to cook whatever the fuck she wants and everybody will have to show her some Gratitude™. The time has finally come for my mother’s sayur godog honje to shine, and I’m so here for it.
In the spirit of Eid, I’d like to share with you this little recipe that could. If you can’t go home to be with your loved ones for the holiday, or even if you can but are feeling a little bit curious, a little bit adventurous, maybe cooking this dish can be a part of what makes this year’s Eid feel like how it’s supposed to be, a triumphant end to Ramadan. To me, this dish is about standing your ground — trusting your guts, quite literally — even when people are questioning your judgement with their patronizing Is this expected?, and seeing the same people jump into the kecombrang bandwagon once it’s made its way into their favorite foodies’ Instagram feed. It’s about a mother’s exuberance, independence, and forgiveness.
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Ingredients
½ cm galingale, smashed
1 bay leaf, smashed
1 lemongrass, smashed
1 kaffir lime leaf, smashed
¼ bud of honje a.k.a torch ginger, thinly sliced
A mash of 2 shallots, 1 garlic clove, 1-2 big red peppers, and ½ tsp terasi a.k.a shrimp paste (my mother is from Cirebon, after all)
1 carton of coconut milk (65ml)
1-2 ounce of tetelan (sorry, my English-speaking friends, you’re on your own with this one)
1 chayote, cut into matchsticks
2 strings of long beans, cut into matchsticks
Salt, pepper, sugar to taste
Steps
Cook tetelan in a pot of boiling water to make a stock.
Toss all spices in a different pot over medium heat, drizzle some oil, and sauté until fragrant.
Toss in the chayotes, stir until wilted.
Mix tetelan and the stock into the pot, cook until it boils, then mix in the coconut milk (as much or little as needed to get the consistency that you like). Season to taste. Give it a stir. Cook until it boils again.
Add in honje and long beans, cook until it boils (yes, again). Be sure to give it a stir once in a while to prevent the coconut milk from separating.