Penyaram is the shape you remember: a fried disc with a lacy edge, palm sugar in the batter, sold while it still crackles. Kelupis is the leaf bundle you unwrap at a house, glutinous rice that tastes of the nyirik more than of a factory. Wajid is denser, sweeter, the piece you wrap in plastic for tomorrow.
Night markets add satay and grilled pulut. Ambuyat stays on the dining table, a sago ritual with dipping sauces, mentioned here because visitors confuse it with a snack when it is really a sit-down starch. Pack wajid and tin bahulu. Fried penyaram fades by morning. Do not describe this as generic Malaysian kuih without naming kelupis and penyaram.