Num Ansorm and Num Kom: Cambodia’s Sacred Rice Cakes of Body, Belief, and Tradition
- Coin gourmand
- 2 hours ago
- 3 min read
Consumed by Cambodians for centuries, Num Ansorm and Num Kom are far more than simple rice-based snacks: they are said to carry a particular spiritual and sexual symbolism.
Mom Thy, 47, wakes in the middle of the night to prepare stacks of Num Ansorm—sticky rice treats wrapped in banana leaves—which he sells in the city from his cart filled with glowing charcoal.
“I wake up at 1 a.m. to prepare them and start selling at 5 a.m.,” he explains.
They sell for 1,500 riels each, and Thy has been in this trade for seven years, ever since he left his native province of Prey Veng—where he worked as a rice farmer—to settle in the capital. For Thy, Num Ansorm are simply part of Cambodian life.
“I have no idea about their history, because no one has ever asked me about it; I just know they’ve been called Ansorm since I was born,” he says.
According to renowned Cambodian restaurateur Luu Meng, Ansorm is more than just a snack. It is an iconic dish:
“It’s the true farmers’ food when they have a good harvest,” he explains. “They prepare it to celebrate the harvest… People gather in the villages to cut banana leaves, marinate, and cook a pig.”
But these treats—which can be grilled, fried, or steamed and filled with jackfruit, coconut, bananas, or pork—also carry a special meaning in Khmer mythology.
Alongside their steamed counterparts wrapped in banana leaves, Num Kom—which are filled with sweet beans or fruit and made from a jelly of rice powder—are commonly offered in temples during Khmer New Year or the Pchum Ben festival.
At the northern entrance of O’Russey Market, Num Ansorm and Num Kom are easy to find, yet vendors say they are unaware of the symbolic meaning of their products.
“I know people bring them to pagodas for festivals,” explains Mam Phally, a 36-year-old vendor at O’Russey Market. She has been selling these traditional items for ten years. The largest is the pork-filled Num Ansorm, which sells for 3,000 riels.
“Cambodians are shy when it comes to talking about it,” laughs historian Sambo Manara. The reason, he explains, is that Num Ansorm and Num Kom are physical (and edible) representations of a Lingam and a Yoni—or the phallus of the god Shiva and the female reproductive organ of his wife, Uma.
“This represents the rite of respect for the mother and the father,” Manara explains. According to him, this tradition dates back to the first century, when Cambodia was deeply influenced by Brahmanic belief systems.
“At that time, society as a whole respected women, considering them the center of society,” he says.
Until the 15th century, one of the central elements of temples was Shiva’s lingam placed upon a yoni. This yoni represents not only Uma, Shiva’s wife, but also “mothers, women, and water,” he explains. When Cambodia’s temple-building traditions faded, the architectural manifestations of Shiva’s lingam and yoni disappeared as well.
Nevertheless, the concept of Mea Ba, or respect for the mother and father, endured.
“We stopped building them in stone, so we changed to making them with rice,” he concludes.
“This can be used for our own ceremonies, such as Pchum Ben, weddings, or other rites from after the 15th century up to today. Num Ansorm and Num Kom therefore represent exactly Mea Ba.”
Num Ansorm has also made its way into popular culture. On April 14, 2015, Siem Reap City Hall set a Guinness World Record for cooking the largest Num Ansorm ever made, weighing 4,040 kilograms. That same year, provocative pop star Neay Koeun released a comic song titled Darling! You You Throw My Num Ansorm Away and Go Eat Baguette, in which the food’s phallic attribute is a dominant theme.
As Manara notes, whether used in ancient or contemporary contexts, Num Ansorm and Num Kom will likely always remain an essential part of Cambodian cultural identity.