My mother's soy sauce jar

Last night, my mother told me to stop by the Nui Market on my way to teach and buy her some fermented soybean paste. She told me to choose the nice, green kind. I said yes and immediately called a neighbor near the school to go to the market early and buy some from an acquaintance. When I brought it home at noon, my mother exclaimed, "The fermented soybean paste is so beautiful! And just the right size. The most important things in making fermented soybean paste are the beautiful fermented soybean paste and the good quality soybeans." Now that she makes less, she buys the fermented soybean paste, but in the past, she made two large jars each season, and she always made each step herself. Suddenly, I felt nostalgic, remembering those jars of fermented soybean paste in the corner of the brick courtyard of my childhood home.

Illustration: HOANG DANG

In every season, in the corner of the yard—the area between the main house and the kitchen, where a small awning jutted out, shielding it from both excessive sun and rain—two large and small jars of soy sauce sat proudly. My mother had calculated that those two jars would be enough for the family to eat comfortably until the following season, even with occasional visits from neighbors or relatives.

On a cool, leisurely day, my mother would roast soybeans. She roasted them in a thick, shiny cast-iron pan. She arranged several logs underneath to easily control the heat, starting with a high flame and then keeping the embers glowing red – that was enough. Each batch took a very long time to roast, and she had to stir constantly. Occasionally, she would ask me to stir for a moment while she prepared something else.

After just a short while, I wanted to let go, wondering how my mother managed to stir the beans without complaining of fatigue. Once roasted, she poured them onto a tray to cool, then used a glass bottle to crush them in half. Another step requiring skill, which my sisters and I could only watch from the sidelines. Watching each bean crackle against the clear glass bottle was so exciting and captivating. Once the beans were evenly separated, my mother put them in a jar, added water, and stirred them periodically for 7-9 days. When the soy sauce turned a clear amber color, it was ready to ferment. But before fermenting, mold had to form. To get mold, it had to be fermented.

My mother cooked a large pot of fragrant sticky rice. Once cooked, the rice was scooped out onto a tray to let the steam dissipate. Then it was piled up and covered with a piece of cloth. After about 3-4 days, mold had grown all over it, turning a striking mossy green color. My mother would use her hands to loosen the rice on top of the mold and then dry it in the sun.

The day the soy sauce is fermented is a day my mother pays close attention to. She checks both the weather and spiritual beliefs. If a batch goes well, she's overjoyed. The mold is slowly poured into the soy sauce jar along with salt, stirred well so everything is absorbed. Then, she covers the mouth of the jar with a muslin cloth to prevent mosquitoes from getting in, and then places a large bowl on top to protect it from rain and sun.

So, our family had a "treasure" that could be used to make countless delicious dishes for all four seasons. Fermented soybean paste for braising fish, meat, and bananas; a dipping sauce for boiled water spinach, rice cakes, and meat; a soup with sweet potato leaves; and a myriad of other delicious, rustic dishes. Sometimes, even just mixing plain white rice with the fermented soybean paste was incredibly tasty. Because my mother's fermented soybean paste was always expertly made: a beautiful golden color, rich and subtly sweet; and the longer it sat, the thicker and sweeter it became.

I remember those chilly winter mornings when the whole family gathered around a pot of braised fish, its aroma of soy sauce filling the air. Or those summer evening meals spread out on mats in the yard, the bowl of soy sauce shimmering in the center of the table, as if inviting the moon hanging in the sky along with the Moon Goddess and the Cowherd. Neighbors were always eager to ask for my mother's soy sauce, even though they made it themselves, but "it wasn't as good."

Every time she scooped out the soy sauce, my mother would always carefully instruct me to stir it well with a spoon and then gently scoop it into the bowl, making sure no dust or water got into it; then she had to cover it tightly. If the soy sauce started to develop a film on the surface, it would be ruined. Wherever she got a straw hat, she would carefully place it over the jar of soy sauce. Looking at it, you could see an old man sitting silently.

So many delicious childhood treats have accompanied the mossy courtyard, with the familiar aroma of rich, sweet soy sauce. It's the taste of home and the past—a taste that will never be far away or separated.

Source: https://baodanang.vn/channel/5433/202504/chum-tuong-cua-me-4003220/