Food from Home

I've lived in Jakarta for three years, but my stomach still lives in Padang. When I'm tired or sad, I don't want pizza or noodles. I want my mother's rendang, the real one, cooked for four hours until the beef falls apart and the sauce is almost black.

There are many Padang restaurants in Jakarta. Some are good. But it's never quite the same. The spice is different, or the beef is too soft, or it's too sweet. I eat it and feel a little closer to home, but only a little.

Last month my mother came to visit. She brought a plastic container of rendang in her bag, on a two-hour flight. It was still warm. I ate it standing in my kitchen and almost cried. She watched me and said, "See? You need to come home more." She's right.