Bistik Ayam by Andrea Lius

Photo by Sergio Camalich on Unsplash

My mom cooks bistik ayam with chicken wings because I like chicken skin and wings really maximize skin to flesh ratio, and with extra broth because I eat my bistik ayam like soup instead of with rice like normal people.

She learned the original recipe from her mom and her mom from hers and her mom’s mom from hers. But that’ll be the end of the line because I don’t plan on ever having children, but also mainly because I refuse to have my mom teach me.

When she asks me why, I often just shrug and tell her it’s okay. Or that I’m lazy. Or that I only like it when she makes it. Or that I only like it when we eat it together. 

I never share that I’m scared that my bistik ayam won’t be as good as hers and that it’ll make me sad because I have to eat my bistik ayam instead of hers because she lives ten thousand miles away. And that I’m even more scared that my bistik ayam will be just as good as hers and that it’ll make me even sadder because it’ll be further proof that I no longer need her. 

Or that to me, bistik ayam has come to embody the amount of time that we have left together. I eat bistik ayam twice a year, once when she visits in the summer and once when I visit in the winter, so the number of times that she has left to make me bistik ayam is equal to the number of times that I still get to hug her hello and tell her that it’s nice to see her. Which is also equal to the number of times that I still get to hug her goodbye and tell her that I’ll see her soon and actually do get to see her soon.

Or that after she’s gone, I never want to find out if bistik ayam will taste just as sweet and rich as it’s supposed to or salty like my tears or bitter like her ashes. Because then bistik ayam will just be chicken wings in sweet brown soup without the sight of her smiling proudly for having done something I like. And without the smell of sweet soy sauce and white pepper and butter and shallots and nutmeg permeating her skin and clothes. And without the sound of her laughing at how I’m eating my bistik ayam all wrong and wondering why I so stubbornly choose not to learn how to make bistik ayam. 

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Andrea Lius grew up in Jakarta, Indonesia and now splits her time between Washington and California. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in The New York Times, The Mersey Review, and Door Is A Jar. She's currently trying to teach her mischievous grey tabby how to read. Connect with her on Twitter/X @liuswrites.