Which food, when you eat it, instantly transports you to childhood?

The humble rice ball (in Indonesia called ‘Nasi Kepal’), sprinkled with a pinch of salt and a smear of shrimp paste, held a significant place in my heart and my memory.

Each one was a compact testament to the creativity and resourcefulness of my father, a man who worked with what he had, pouring love and determination into every meal he prepared.

In every grain of rice, every grain of salt, and every dash of shrimp paste, he created something magical, something that transcended the simplicity of the ingredients.

The earthy, comforting aroma that emanated from the steaming rice balls was the first thing I would wake up to each morning, an olfactory reminder of the culinary delights that awaited at our modest breakfast table.

My father, in his stained apricot apron, would stand at the kitchen counter, his fingers deftly shaping the steamed rice into perfect spheres.

His hands moved with a certainty born out of years of practice, kneading and shaping each rice ball with a quiet reverence, as though each one was a work of art.

The sun would creep into our humble kitchen, bathing the space in a soft, gentle light, casting elongated shadows that danced across the worn-out wooden table.

My father’s silhouette against the morning light, lost in the artistry of his cooking, remains one of my most cherished images of him.

The experience of eating these rice balls was just as sentimental as watching my father make them. Each bite brought a burst of contrasting flavors – the salt’s sharp sting, the shrimp paste’s savory punch, all mellowed by the soothing backdrop of the rice.

Though we were not affluent, our breakfasts were rich in the depth of flavor and the warmth of familial bond.

Over these shared meals, my father and I developed a language of our own – a language of silent nods, shared smiles, and the appreciative sounds of our simple culinary enjoyment.

These humble rice balls were far more than a simple foodstuff to me. They symbolized my childhood, filled with the trials and triumphs of a life lived humbly yet abundantly.

They were the embodiment of my father’s love, his ability to make the most out of the little we had, and his determination to provide for his family.

They spoke of resilience, of love, and of the enduring value of simplicity.

As I grew older, these rice balls became a potent symbol of my past and a beacon guiding my future – a reminder that no matter how little you have, with a sprinkle of creativity and a dollop of love, you can create something beautiful and meaningful.

I miss that so much!