Flower mat for displaying food

Having experienced many prosperous Tet holidays, with lavish feasts overflowing with delicacies, I still can't forget that New Year's Eve lunch from thirty years ago – the meal my mother cooked more than thirty-five years ago, on a floral mat spread on the breezy floor of our rural home in Thanh Hoa province.

My hometown, Nga Tan commune - the poorest sedge-growing area among the 26 communes of the former Nga Son district, Thanh Hoa province...

The people there spend their lives toiling in the fields, their livelihoods depending on the sedge crop. Poverty clings to them like frost at the end of winter. People once mispronounced the name Nga Tan as "Nga Beu" - a half-joking, half-serious remark that was heartbreaking to hear.

Nga Tan commune (now Tan Tien commune) was one of the six places in Nga Son district at that time where sedge was grown. The sedge grew on coastal alluvial plains, thriving amidst the salty winds of Lach Sung and the dry, saline soil.

To weave a durable floral mat, the villagers must split the reeds, dry them in the sun, dye them, then spin the jute fibers, sitting at the loom weaving each horizontal and vertical stitch. Those delicate yet resilient reed fibers are soaked with sweat and the hardships of stormy seasons. The floral mat is not only a useful household item but also embodies the spirit of the Nga Son village's traditional craft, passed down through generations.

The ceremonial feast: The New Year's Eve dinner cooked by my mother 35 years ago remains a beautiful memory every time Tet (Lunar New Year) comes around.

During the subsidy period, it was not unusual for meat to be absent from Tet celebrations.

Entering the early period of reform, life improved slightly, but poverty remained like a thick, tightly-fitting cloak that was not easy to remove.

My family had seven sisters, a large but impoverished household. Every year, five or seven weeks before Tet (Lunar New Year), my mother would quietly calculate and save every penny for a more comfortable celebration. The money from selling water spinach, jute mallow, and crabs at the district market was carefully tucked away in a corner of the cupboard. In mid-December, she would buy a few hundred grams of wood ear mushrooms and a kilogram of vermicelli to make pork sausage; several kilograms of glutinous rice were poured into a small jar, sealed tightly as if preserving the hope for a truly prosperous Tet.

In my hometown in late 1999-2000, sticky rice cakes were still something not every household could afford. Lean pork sausage was even more of a luxury. Poor people were used to eating fatty pork sausage, which was cheaper and less expensive. But during Tet, even just adding a plate of fatty pork sausage to the table was enough to make people feel that the new year was knocking on the door.

On the thirtieth morning, a biting north wind blew. My mother woke up at dawn, wrapped her worn brown scarf around her neck, and braved the cold to go to the market to buy fresh scallions for spring rolls. The blanched scallions were a vibrant green, and when rolled with vegetables, eggs, and dried shrimp—a simple yet fragrant treat from the countryside—they filled the kitchen with their aroma. My sisters swept the floor, cleaned the altar, and changed the water in the bowls. The scent of incense, banana leaves, and stir-fried vermicelli mingled together, creating a unique Tet fragrance for our home.

The paved courtyard, the water tank - familiar memories of a bygone era.

 

My mother used to anxiously wait by the pot of sticky rice cakes on the eve of Tet (Lunar New Year's Eve).

The offering for the thirtieth anniversary of the Lunar New Year wasn't actually much: a plate of neatly sliced ​​pork fat, a dozen Thanh Hoa-style fermented pork rolls, a plate of vibrant green spring rolls, and a steaming bowl of vermicelli noodles. Most special of all were a case of 333 beer and a few cans of energy drinks that I bought from the provincial market. Back then, in my hometown, having 333 beer to drink during Tet was a big deal – only families with children returning from the South or those with government officials could afford it.

Before the ancestral altar, my mother, trembling, held the plate of offerings. Her prayers were slow and reverent: "May our children and grandchildren be healthy, our family be safe, and our fields be bountiful." The incense smoke lingered. My mother's eyes lit up as she looked at the photograph of my father—the old soldier who had shared her life of hardship. In that moment of transition between seasons, I saw on my mother's face not only the wrinkles of time, but also the light of faith in us—her children who followed in our father's footsteps in the army and in our mother's profession of farming in the countryside.

The incense burned out, and the meal was laid out on three woven mats stretched across the floor. The red and blue patterns had faded with time, but the reeds remained strong and durable. The extended family gathered, feet touching, shoulders shoulder to shoulder. Cups of homemade rice wine swirled and passed from hand to hand. Simple wishes—"Good health next year," "Prosperity in business," "Family harmony"—sounded so heartwarming.

I still vividly remember the feeling of my hand touching the cool surface of the mat, clearly hearing the rustling of the reeds gently swaying with each movement. That floral mat seemed to hold the warmth of family, preserving the lively laughter and chatter, the soft clinking of bowls and chopsticks on the thirtieth day of the lunar month. It not only supported the New Year's feast but also nurtured a realm of simple yet enduring memories that lasted through the years.

At that moment, almost everyone in my family looked towards my mother. She sat in the middle of the flower-patterned mat, slowly picking up pieces of pork sausage and distributing them equally to each of us. My mother's joy was simple: just having her children sit around the table, enjoying a complete midday meal together. After eating, the whole family sat chewing betel nut and telling stories about Tet. Outside, the wind still rustled through the dry reeds. My mother slowly recounted, "In the old days, people said that you'd be full for three days during Tet and hungry for three months in summer. It was so hard, my child. Back then, there was no meat to eat. Now, this is so much better..."

Then my mother told me about her life. She married my father when she was just sixteen, with nothing but the clothes on her back. Her youth was devoid of makeup, only the calloused fingers of someone who braided rope for hire. There were days when she followed my father to the fields to split reeds in the biting winter wind. There were also days when she trudged through the fields catching tiny crabs to trade for a few cans of rice, cooking a thin porridge for her children to sustain them through the meal. During the lean season, she would stoop low, gleaning rice in the flooded fields, her small figure silhouetted against the vast, cold wind.

Then my father joined the army. From then on, my mother's love for him turned into months of agonizing waiting... And when my father died before the country was unified, my mother fell silent, like the floral mat spread in the middle of the house - silent, steadfast, without a word of complaint. From then on, my mother's love was like the incense offered each evening, a lifetime of silently raising her children.

Over thirty years have passed. Time has been enough for the straw mats of yesteryear to become worn and tattered, enough for the children of that time to grow up. But the New Year's Eve lunch on the thirtieth day of the lunar year has never faded. It's like a piece of Tet (Vietnamese New Year) kept in our hearts, a "legacy" of love, of poverty, yet imbued with warmth and affection.

This Lunar New Year of the Horse, I'm far from home again. The feast in this foreign land includes expensive Japanese beer and imported chocolate. Every flavor is new, sophisticated, and modern. But amidst the dazzling lights, I still feel something is missing – the woven mat from Nga Son used to spread the food on the floor, the sound of the wind rustling through the walls, the sight of my mother sitting at the dinner table.

And every time I look back at that photograph taken thirty years ago, my heart aches. In the old frame are faces etched with hardship, but their eyes shine with the joy of reunion. I can still hear the boisterous laughter, the gentle clinking of bowls and chopsticks on the floral mat.

No matter how many years have passed, I still remember the feast on the thirtieth day of the Lunar New Year, laid out on a woven mat. That Nga Son sedge mat not only served as a base for the meal but also supported my entire childhood – the place where I first cried upon entering the world, where I was lulled through summer afternoon naps, and through cold winter nights listening to the rustling sea breeze outside the walls.

The woven reeds are like the lives of people living by the sea, soaked with sweat, hardship, and hope. On that mat, my family laughed, ate, grew up, and went through the years. Therefore, remembering the woven mat is also remembering a part of my homeland's flesh and blood...

Simple yet enduring, unassuming yet unforgettable...

Source: https://www.qdnd.vn/van-hoa/doi-song/chieu-hoa-bay-co-1026249