In spring, the weather is mild and cool, with gentle rain that helps the rice plants take root and turn green in the fields, and allows the vegetables in the garden to grow lush and vibrant. The initially weak plants, just a month later, burst into bloom with purple flowers, evoking fond memories. A patch of sunlight bathes Mother's garden in the purple blossoms. My sister comes home from school, skipping in her purple dress. Mother works near and far, tending to snails and crabs. Father sits on the porch, sharpening bamboo strips, contemplating the comings and goings of the year.
Eggplant from Nghe An province. Photo: Thanh Tam |
Then the flower stalks fall, and young eggplants sprout. These gentle, easy-going eggplants, like children from a poor family, grow plump and healthy each day in anticipation. And after more than a month, there's a garden full of green and purple eggplants. We wait about another month until the eggplants are ripe, then we harvest them and pickle them. Each time we pickle several baskets of eggplants. After picking the eggplants, we remove the stems, dry them in the sun until the skin wrinkles like an old woman's, then wash them clean and put them in earthenware jars, pouring in 90-degree salt water until the eggplants are completely submerged. Then we place a bamboo sieve on top and weigh it down with a stone. I don't know how long the stone weighing down the eggplants in my house has been there, but over the years, it has worn down from the inside out, becoming a perfectly round stone ring. The longer the eggplants are pickled, the saltier they become, and the saltier they get, the crispier they become. After a full year, almost all of them are gone, leaving a pile of pickles to be used for a new jar.
Eggplants can be over a year old, but they taste best when they're just starting to spoil. At this time, the eggplants have only been salted for about half a month, not yet so salty that it's like saying, "Quick, lead me to the well/ Or I'll die of thirst from your jar of eggplants!" That's why they're called "stale eggplants" (eggplants that aren't ripe yet). But some people say eggplants are "stale" because when you bite into one, you hear a satisfying crunch, and you can't help but exclaim "Oh!" (even if you're a shy new daughter-in-law) because it's so delicious! Not only will you not be criticized for being an ill-mannered daughter-in-law, but you might even win your mother-in-law's favor by indirectly praising her for her eggplant-pickling skills.
And that's also when "April brings harmonious rice planting everywhere / May brings the harvest / The rain pours down, water floods the fields." The harvest in May was just finished, the granary was still full of rice, and my mother generously added half a can of fresh rice to each meal. Button tomatoes blazed red in the corner of the garden, shrimp scurried about in the basket my sister had set aside after the rain, and fresh lằng leaves my brother conveniently gathered from the woodcutters in Đồng Bản. That rice, the lằng leaf soup with shrimp, that button tomato, accompanied by a bowl of pickled tomatoes—oh my, it was so delicious I wanted to "wow" a dozen of them!
The pickled eggplant gradually becomes salty and slightly dry, and the jar of pickled eggplant slowly empties because a bowl of pickled eggplant is rarely absent from a meal in Nghe An province. That's generally the case with pickled eggplant in Nghe An, but in the Dong Yen area of the two districts (formerly Dien Chau and Yen Thanh), there's a unique dish: stir-fried eggplant with molasses and lard. In winter, when fish and shrimp are scarce in the fields, the mother feels sorry for her children eating pickled eggplant all the time, so she suggests making stir-fried eggplant with molasses and lard. It's not complicated at all. A bowl of pickled eggplant, halved and marinated with onions, chili peppers, and MSG, mixed with molasses and rendered lard, along with a few crispy pork cracklings, is inviting. "A flickering fire in the early morning mist / A warm, comforting fire" in the chilly winter morning, suddenly bursts with a startling sizzling sound, then bursts with joy, a harmonious blend of salty, sweet, fragrant, and spicy flavors. A pot of fragrant rice with a plate of stir-fried eggplant with molasses and lard represents the immense love and care of a poor mother raising her children during difficult times!
The late poet Võ Văn Trực, a native of Đông Yên district, once told my uncle, the poet Phan Xuân Hạt, a story I overheard: Once, he was invited to dinner by a poetry-loving friend from Hanoi . Alongside dishes typical of old Hanoi families like spring rolls, meatballs, sausages, and ham, he was surprised to see a plate of stir-fried pickled eggplant with honey and lard. Without any formalities, he started eating, scooping up the eggplant, eating the rice, and relishing the meal as if he were back in his hometown of Hậu Luật village. After finishing, he patted his full stomach and asked, "Why is there this eggplant dish?" His friend pointed to his mother and chuckled, "My mother read your essay and found the stir-fried pickled eggplant from Nghệ An so appealing that she tried to make it herself!" He mused, "My mother used to make this dish for the whole family, especially during the cold season. I never imagined it would be on the dinner table of a Hanoi family. Thank you for letting me eat my mother's dish again!"
As for me, missing my mother, that morning I asked my wife to make stir-fried eggplant with honey and lard, a dish from Nghe An province. Watching my wife from Nghe An prepare the dish, I hummed along: "Oh, the eggplant from Nghe An! The saltier it is, the crispier it gets! Eggplant stir-fried with honey and lard, the tastier it is when my wife stir-fries it!" It felt like the two provinces were one!
Phan Xuan Luat
Source: https://baodaklak.vn/xa-hoi/202507/ai-oi-ca-xu-nghe-05812e2/
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