It was one of those low-energy days—the kind where the bed feels like a warm cloud and adult responsibilities feel like a cruel joke. All I wanted to do was sleep and maybe sleep some more. But no, Fate (and my husband) had other plans.

Today, we had to attend a visit—capital V, because this wasn’t just any visit. It was family lunch with the extended clan from my father-in-law’s side. You know, the kind of event where you barely know what to say and vaguely recognize half the guests, but still smile until your cheeks hurt and politely laugh at jokes you don’t fully understand—but know better than to ignore.

Now, let me tell you something about my in-laws. They come from two magnificent, spicy, and extremely proud cultures: Mandailing and Karo. Both with rich traditions, strong tempers, and opinions that arrive before they do. Imagine two ancient kingdoms with centuries of legacy… forced to share a dining table. No agreement ever comes from that table; even conflict is an understatement.

Their union—my parents-in-law—is basically the diplomatic peace treaty holding these two dynasties together. And me? I’m the pleasantly confused outsider (intentionally bold and italic this phrase), trying to keep track of which customs belong to which side without accidentally offending a great-aunt who still believes it’s 1987.

But back to the lunch.

The food, as always, was glorious. We had Mandailing’s specialty: Gulai Ikan Sale—smoked fish swimming in a spicy coconut milk sauce so good it could start (or end) a war. The smoky flavor hits first, then the heat sneaks up on you like a family elder asking who you are—again—probably for the fifth time this year. Subtle. Persistent. Unavoidable.

I mingled, as one does, hopping from auntie to auntie, deploying my secret weapon: enthusiastic small talk and the ability to mask name-forgetting with a warm “Halo, Bou!” It’s a skill honed over years of family functions and social survival instincts.

And here’s the kicker—somewhere between the laughter, the gossip about clashing families (yes, all families have it—all of them), and the unexpected wedding invitation handed to us that afternoon, the day didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Apparently, someone from the family is getting married. One of my husband’s cousins. Or… is she technically our child? Welcome to the wild world of Bataknese kinship, where everyone is someone’s son, daughter, parent, or sibling—depending not just on blood, but clan, age, and complex social roles. Basically, if you enter a Bataknese family, you might gain five new parents, six children, and a sibling rivalry you never asked for.

By the time the rendang was nearly gone and my cheeks ached from smiling, I realized—I wasn’t drained. I was full. Of food, yes, but also of that weird, chaotic love that only big, cultural families can offer.

So no—it wasn’t a low day after all. Just one wrapped in the warmth of Rendang, Gulai Ikan Sale, Ketupat, steamed in expectation, and served with a side of “Who’s that again?”

But in the end? Pretty damn delicious.

May you have a great day with your family, dearest readers—whatever shape that family takes.

Cheers,
Karin Sabrina