Story 1109 – *What Can You Cook?

"What can you cook?"

That was the very first question my manager asked when I arrived at my first palm oil mill.

It was March 2004.

Before reaching the mill, I had endured a three-hour journey along the dusty gravel roads of Jeroco. The 90-kilometre drive took me deep into endless oil palm plantations, with rows of palms stretching as far as the eye could see on both sides. The red dust, the bumpy road, and the long journey from Kuala Lumpur to Kota Kinabalu, then to Lahad Datu, and finally into the estate, had exhausted me. I must have fallen asleep several times along the way.

When I finally woke, the first thing that greeted me was the distinctive aroma of freshly processed palm oil—a scent that remains vivid in my memory even today.

In the middle of thousands of hectares of plantations, far away from towns and villages, stood a magnificent palm oil mill on top of a hill. It looked impressive, with two towering blue boiler chimneys reaching into the sky. Four massive crude palm oil (CPO) storage tanks, each capable of holding 2,000 metric tonnes, completed the picture. To a fresh engineering graduate, it was an awe-inspiring sight.

After waiting a few minutes in the office lobby, I was invited into the manager's office.

He was a middle-aged Indian gentleman—tall, well-built, with the posture of a soldier. His thick moustache added to his commanding presence.

The room was quiet.

Then he broke the silence.

*"What can you cook?"*

I looked at him, puzzled.

Of all the questions I expected on my first day as a Cadet Engineer, that certainly wasn't one of them.

Seeing my confused expression, his stern face slowly turned into a smile, and the conversation shifted naturally to my journey, my hometown, and my background.

A few moments later, the telephone rang.

It was his superior, Mr. AK Lee.

From their conversation, I could tell they were talking about me—the new Cadet Engineer who had just arrived.

Then my manager said something I have never forgotten.

*"Let's see how long he can survive here."*

I have always wondered if he said it intentionally, just loud enough for me to hear.

That was my first day at my very first palm oil mill.

The real adventure began the following morning.

Life in a remote estate was nothing like life in the city.

There was only one place to eat—the staff canteen.

The canteen was run by two teenage girls who prepared breakfast, lunch, and occasionally dinner. The menu was simple, and sometimes it felt like instant noodles with eggs appeared almost every day.

If you wanted a proper home-cooked meal, you had to cook it yourself.

After a few months, I found myself longing for my mother's cooking.

One day, I called her and asked for the recipe for *gulai lemak ikan*, followed by *ikan singgang*, then *sayur air*. One recipe led to another.

Whenever I returned home, I would spend time in the kitchen asking her how to cook this dish and that dish. Every recipe was more than just instructions—it was a way of bringing home back with me.

Those meals became my comfort, easing the homesickness that came with living so far away.

More than two decades have passed since then.

I still enjoy cooking.

Whenever I crave a particular dish, I simply learn how to make it myself.

Now, while working in Sumatra, I've even started learning Indonesian specialties. Recently, I learned to make *Sambal Geprek*, and this weekend I plan to try making *Sambal Ikan Bilis Nyek*, inspired by Khairul Aming as he prepares to launch his fourth product.

Looking back, perhaps my manager's first question wasn't so strange after all.

In a remote palm oil estate, knowing how to cook wasn't just a life skill.

It was a survival skill.

And today, every meal I prepare reminds me of one person—my mother, who unknowingly taught me that food is more than nourishment.

It is love, memory, and home.

That's my story for today.