Love Served on a Plate
It’s pretty common in many families to show love through food. A meal isn’t just about filling your stomach; it’s a way of saying I care about you without needing to say a word. At every family gathering, there’s always that one special dish, made with extra effort. It’s more than just delicious—it’s a quiet, beautiful expression of love.
In my own family, this tradition is still very much alive. Whenever I come home after being away for a while, I’m greeted not just with hugs, but with the smells of my favorite dishes cooking in the kitchen. Sometimes, they even wait until I arrive to start making them—just to be sure everything’s freshly made. For us, food is never just food. It’s about sitting down together, sharing stories, and being fully present with each other. That’s what makes it feel whole.
There’s something really special about gathering at the dining table—laughing, catching up, remembering old times—while enjoying a meal that someone poured their heart into. These dishes might seem simple, but they take time, effort, and a lot of patience. Maybe that’s why they mean so much. They carry a kind of love you can taste.
Now that I live alone in Panyabungan, things are different. My cooking these days is more about getting through the day—quick, easy meals that don’t take too much time. Nothing fancy, just enough to keep me going. Still, there’s a quiet comfort in cooking for myself. I know exactly what’s in my food, and there’s a small sense of peace in that.
That’s why going home always feels extra special. It’s not just about seeing my family—it’s about sitting down to meals that taste like comfort, memory, and care all in one. At home, I can slow down. I’m not eating alone, I’m not rushing. I’m surrounded by warmth, laughter, and that deep sense of belonging that’s hard to find anywhere else.
Mie Rebus
Some dishes are special not just because they taste good, but because they carry a story—and for my family, mie rebus is one of those dishes. It’s not just a favorite; it’s a warm memory served in a bowl, steeped in the rich flavors of Medan’s culinary tradition.
The noodles we use—mie lidi—are long and thin, with a texture that’s a little chewy, a little springy, and completely distinct. But the heart of mie rebus lies in its broth: dark brown, full of flavor, and just the right balance of sweet and savory. That unique taste comes from a blend of palm sugar and shrimps, giving the soup its signature warmth and brightness.
What makes the broth so comforting is the depth of its ingredients—shallots, garlic, candlenuts, ginger, pepper, shrimp, and dried shrimp (ebi) all cooked down into a flavorful base. Then come the spices: galangal, lemongrass, cinnamon, cardamom, star anise, and bay leaves. Together, they create an aroma that wraps around you like a familiar embrace.
When it’s served, the bowl is layered with textures—crisp bean sprouts, soft fried tofu, fresh cucumber slices, and a sprinkle of chopped celery and crispy fried shallots on top. Each bite is a perfect mix of flavors and textures: savory, sweet, fresh, and crunchy all at once. And of course, it wouldn’t be mie rebus Medan without a spoonful of fiery sambal made from bird’s eye chilies. Just a bit of that spicy kick turns the broth from comforting to bold—a little thrill in every bite.
Beef Rendang
If there’s one dish that makes me proud to call myself Indonesian, it’s rendang sapi. This iconic dish isn’t just something we eat—it’s part of who we are. It holds tradition, culture, and family all in one pot. In my family, rendang always takes center stage during special occasions. And making it? That’s never just a chore—it’s a moment. A ritual. One that brings everyone together as the kitchen fills with warmth and the rich, familiar aroma of something truly special.
It all starts with just two key ingredients: good-quality beef and fresh coconut milk. In our family, we stick to a golden rule—one kilo of beef must be paired with the coconut milk from exactly two coconuts. No shortcuts. This is non-negotiable. That perfect ratio is what gives our rendang its signature tenderness and depth of flavor every time.
But the soul of the dish lies in the spice paste. We blend red chilies—both fresh and dried—with shallots, garlic, galangal, candlenuts, and lemongrass to build a fragrant, bold base. Then we add slivers of turmeric leaves and lime leaves for that unmistakable aroma. Star anise and cinnamon deepen the flavor, and just a touch of palm sugar—something we’ve added over the years, even if it’s not in the original Minangkabau recipe—gives the dish a hint of sweetness that feels uniquely ours. That tiny tweak is part of what makes our rendang feel like home.
But cooking rendang is where the real magic happens. Everything—coconut milk, beef, and all the spices—goes into a big wok from the very start. It’s all cooked slowly, with lots of care, over medium heat. Stirring is constant—not just to stop the coconut milk from curdling, but to help all the flavors come together just right. And then we wait. And wait. The dish isn’t done until the coconut milk has completely reduced, leaving behind tender chunks of beef coated in a thick, deeply flavorful sauce. It takes hours, but that’s part of the process. Part of the love.
.jpg)
Rendang Jengkol
In Medan, there’s a fun little twist on tradition that might surprise some people: we turn jengkol into rendang. Yep, that jengkol—the one known for its strong, unmistakable smell. But here’s the thing: once it’s cooked rendang-style, it goes through a total transformation. The bold, spicy seasoning soaks into its chewy texture, turning it into something surprisingly delicious—rich, fragrant, and oddly addictive. Even I was caught off guard the first time I tried it. I never thought rendang jengkol would win me over, but it really did.
Still, every time I think about this dish, I can’t help but laugh a little.
In Panyabungan, I avoided jengkol altogether—not because I didn’t like the taste (honestly, I did!), but because I was way too cautious about the... let’s say, after-effects. If you know, you know. The smell of jengkol has a tendency to stick around—and I wasn’t quite ready to let it follow me through the rest of my day. It felt like too much of a commitment for a regular meal.
But rendang jengkol? That’s a different story. It takes something humble and turns it into something worth savoring—proof that with the right spices (and a bit of patience), even the most unlikely ingredients can shine.
.jpg)
Beef Soup
Of all the homemade dishes I’ve ever had, nothing wraps me in love quite like my eldest sister’s beef soup. It’s more than just a meal—it’s a homecoming ritual. Every time I return, she makes it for me, like clockwork. And every spoonful feels like a hug I didn’t know I needed. It’s simple, yes—but the kind of simple that feels deep and lasting. The kind that stays with you.
What makes it even more special is knowing how much work goes into it. Beef isn’t cheap, and our kitchen is still pretty modest. We don’t have fancy tools or high-powered appliances. So my sister does everything by hand—simmering the beef or ribs for hours, patiently waiting until they’re tender enough to fall apart, and the broth has turned rich and full of flavor.
She often starts long before I arrive, quietly preparing each step with care. By the time I walk through the door, the smell of the soup is already in the air, welcoming me home before anyone says a word. And when I finally sit down to eat, I can feel the love she’s poured into every part of it.
This soup isn’t just food—it’s her way of saying, I’m glad you’re home. It’s a small, quiet gesture that speaks volumes. With every warm sip of broth and every bite of tender meat, I’m reminded that the simplest things—a bowl of soup, a familiar flavor, a sister’s care—can hold the most meaning..jpg)
Lontong Sayur
When I think of a breakfast that truly feels like home, lontong sayur is the very first thing that comes to mind. While many people prefer something light to start the day, mornings in my family begin with something bold, comforting, and full of flavor. Lontong sayur isn’t just breakfast—it’s tradition, comfort, and love all served on one plate.
It all begins with the lontong—soft rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves, gently infused with that earthy aroma. They make the perfect base: simple, tender, and just waiting to soak up the flavors. Layered on top are some of my favorite things: tauco ebi (that punchy fermented soy with dried shrimp), cubes of tofu, and thin, crispy sheets of fried tofu skin. Each ingredient adds something special—something different—but somehow, they all come together so effortlessly.
And then there’s the broth. Thick, creamy coconut milk seasoned with warm spices and filled with chunks of tender labu siam (chayote). It’s the kind of broth that wraps around everything, tying it all together into one deeply satisfying, flavorful dish. Every spoonful feels both exciting and familiar—a little taste of memory in every bite.
For me, food has always meant more than just filling an empty stomach. At home, every dish tells a story. It carries a piece of love, a bit of memory, and a quiet tenderness that can’t be replaced. There’s always something more behind each meal—an intention to bring comfort, to show care, to say something words sometimes can’t.
Maybe that’s why coming home always feels so special. The food waiting on the table isn’t just about tradition or taste—it’s a welcome. A way of saying, “You’re home now. You’re safe. You’re loved—just as you are.”
I know how much love goes into every step—every slice, every stir, every hour of patience. And when I take that first bite, I feel it. It’s not just flavor I’m tasting. It’s connection. It’s warmth. It’s the kind of nourishment that goes deeper than the body—it reaches the heart and soul.
It’s pretty common in many families to show love through food. A meal isn’t just about filling your stomach; it’s a way of saying I care about you without needing to say a word. At every family gathering, there’s always that one special dish, made with extra effort. It’s more than just delicious—it’s a quiet, beautiful expression of love.
In my own family, this tradition is still very much alive. Whenever I come home after being away for a while, I’m greeted not just with hugs, but with the smells of my favorite dishes cooking in the kitchen. Sometimes, they even wait until I arrive to start making them—just to be sure everything’s freshly made. For us, food is never just food. It’s about sitting down together, sharing stories, and being fully present with each other. That’s what makes it feel whole.
There’s something really special about gathering at the dining table—laughing, catching up, remembering old times—while enjoying a meal that someone poured their heart into. These dishes might seem simple, but they take time, effort, and a lot of patience. Maybe that’s why they mean so much. They carry a kind of love you can taste.
Now that I live alone in Panyabungan, things are different. My cooking these days is more about getting through the day—quick, easy meals that don’t take too much time. Nothing fancy, just enough to keep me going. Still, there’s a quiet comfort in cooking for myself. I know exactly what’s in my food, and there’s a small sense of peace in that.
That’s why going home always feels extra special. It’s not just about seeing my family—it’s about sitting down to meals that taste like comfort, memory, and care all in one. At home, I can slow down. I’m not eating alone, I’m not rushing. I’m surrounded by warmth, laughter, and that deep sense of belonging that’s hard to find anywhere else.
Mie Rebus
Some dishes are special not just because they taste good, but because they carry a story—and for my family, mie rebus is one of those dishes. It’s not just a favorite; it’s a warm memory served in a bowl, steeped in the rich flavors of Medan’s culinary tradition.
The noodles we use—mie lidi—are long and thin, with a texture that’s a little chewy, a little springy, and completely distinct. But the heart of mie rebus lies in its broth: dark brown, full of flavor, and just the right balance of sweet and savory. That unique taste comes from a blend of palm sugar and shrimps, giving the soup its signature warmth and brightness.
What makes the broth so comforting is the depth of its ingredients—shallots, garlic, candlenuts, ginger, pepper, shrimp, and dried shrimp (ebi) all cooked down into a flavorful base. Then come the spices: galangal, lemongrass, cinnamon, cardamom, star anise, and bay leaves. Together, they create an aroma that wraps around you like a familiar embrace.
When it’s served, the bowl is layered with textures—crisp bean sprouts, soft fried tofu, fresh cucumber slices, and a sprinkle of chopped celery and crispy fried shallots on top. Each bite is a perfect mix of flavors and textures: savory, sweet, fresh, and crunchy all at once. And of course, it wouldn’t be mie rebus Medan without a spoonful of fiery sambal made from bird’s eye chilies. Just a bit of that spicy kick turns the broth from comforting to bold—a little thrill in every bite.
Beef Rendang If there’s one dish that makes me proud to call myself Indonesian, it’s rendang sapi. This iconic dish isn’t just something we eat—it’s part of who we are. It holds tradition, culture, and family all in one pot. In my family, rendang always takes center stage during special occasions. And making it? That’s never just a chore—it’s a moment. A ritual. One that brings everyone together as the kitchen fills with warmth and the rich, familiar aroma of something truly special.
It all starts with just two key ingredients: good-quality beef and fresh coconut milk. In our family, we stick to a golden rule—one kilo of beef must be paired with the coconut milk from exactly two coconuts. No shortcuts. This is non-negotiable. That perfect ratio is what gives our rendang its signature tenderness and depth of flavor every time.
But the soul of the dish lies in the spice paste. We blend red chilies—both fresh and dried—with shallots, garlic, galangal, candlenuts, and lemongrass to build a fragrant, bold base. Then we add slivers of turmeric leaves and lime leaves for that unmistakable aroma. Star anise and cinnamon deepen the flavor, and just a touch of palm sugar—something we’ve added over the years, even if it’s not in the original Minangkabau recipe—gives the dish a hint of sweetness that feels uniquely ours. That tiny tweak is part of what makes our rendang feel like home.
But cooking rendang is where the real magic happens. Everything—coconut milk, beef, and all the spices—goes into a big wok from the very start. It’s all cooked slowly, with lots of care, over medium heat. Stirring is constant—not just to stop the coconut milk from curdling, but to help all the flavors come together just right. And then we wait. And wait. The dish isn’t done until the coconut milk has completely reduced, leaving behind tender chunks of beef coated in a thick, deeply flavorful sauce. It takes hours, but that’s part of the process. Part of the love.
.jpg)
Rendang Jengkol
In Medan, there’s a fun little twist on tradition that might surprise some people: we turn jengkol into rendang. Yep, that jengkol—the one known for its strong, unmistakable smell. But here’s the thing: once it’s cooked rendang-style, it goes through a total transformation. The bold, spicy seasoning soaks into its chewy texture, turning it into something surprisingly delicious—rich, fragrant, and oddly addictive. Even I was caught off guard the first time I tried it. I never thought rendang jengkol would win me over, but it really did.
Still, every time I think about this dish, I can’t help but laugh a little.
In Panyabungan, I avoided jengkol altogether—not because I didn’t like the taste (honestly, I did!), but because I was way too cautious about the... let’s say, after-effects. If you know, you know. The smell of jengkol has a tendency to stick around—and I wasn’t quite ready to let it follow me through the rest of my day. It felt like too much of a commitment for a regular meal.
But rendang jengkol? That’s a different story. It takes something humble and turns it into something worth savoring—proof that with the right spices (and a bit of patience), even the most unlikely ingredients can shine.
.jpg)
Beef Soup
Of all the homemade dishes I’ve ever had, nothing wraps me in love quite like my eldest sister’s beef soup. It’s more than just a meal—it’s a homecoming ritual. Every time I return, she makes it for me, like clockwork. And every spoonful feels like a hug I didn’t know I needed. It’s simple, yes—but the kind of simple that feels deep and lasting. The kind that stays with you.
What makes it even more special is knowing how much work goes into it. Beef isn’t cheap, and our kitchen is still pretty modest. We don’t have fancy tools or high-powered appliances. So my sister does everything by hand—simmering the beef or ribs for hours, patiently waiting until they’re tender enough to fall apart, and the broth has turned rich and full of flavor.
She often starts long before I arrive, quietly preparing each step with care. By the time I walk through the door, the smell of the soup is already in the air, welcoming me home before anyone says a word. And when I finally sit down to eat, I can feel the love she’s poured into every part of it.
This soup isn’t just food—it’s her way of saying, I’m glad you’re home. It’s a small, quiet gesture that speaks volumes. With every warm sip of broth and every bite of tender meat, I’m reminded that the simplest things—a bowl of soup, a familiar flavor, a sister’s care—can hold the most meaning.
.jpg)
Lontong Sayur
When I think of a breakfast that truly feels like home, lontong sayur is the very first thing that comes to mind. While many people prefer something light to start the day, mornings in my family begin with something bold, comforting, and full of flavor. Lontong sayur isn’t just breakfast—it’s tradition, comfort, and love all served on one plate.
It all begins with the lontong—soft rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves, gently infused with that earthy aroma. They make the perfect base: simple, tender, and just waiting to soak up the flavors. Layered on top are some of my favorite things: tauco ebi (that punchy fermented soy with dried shrimp), cubes of tofu, and thin, crispy sheets of fried tofu skin. Each ingredient adds something special—something different—but somehow, they all come together so effortlessly.
And then there’s the broth. Thick, creamy coconut milk seasoned with warm spices and filled with chunks of tender labu siam (chayote). It’s the kind of broth that wraps around everything, tying it all together into one deeply satisfying, flavorful dish. Every spoonful feels both exciting and familiar—a little taste of memory in every bite.
For me, food has always meant more than just filling an empty stomach. At home, every dish tells a story. It carries a piece of love, a bit of memory, and a quiet tenderness that can’t be replaced. There’s always something more behind each meal—an intention to bring comfort, to show care, to say something words sometimes can’t.
Maybe that’s why coming home always feels so special. The food waiting on the table isn’t just about tradition or taste—it’s a welcome. A way of saying, “You’re home now. You’re safe. You’re loved—just as you are.”
I know how much love goes into every step—every slice, every stir, every hour of patience. And when I take that first bite, I feel it. It’s not just flavor I’m tasting. It’s connection. It’s warmth. It’s the kind of nourishment that goes deeper than the body—it reaches the heart and soul.
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