Sesame salt rice on a stormy day

The storm had come in the afternoon. The sky was dark as if someone was angry. Gray clouds were creeping down, heavy, across the tiled roof. The wind whistled through the bamboo grove at the end of the lane. The banana leaves in the garden fluttered, the young corn stalks trembled, their slender stems still trying to stand. The whole neighborhood had bolted their doors, and the only sound was the wind hitting the bamboo fence.

Mother washed rice in an old cast iron pot, the water spilled out, making my hands cold. Tonight’s dinner didn’t have much: a bowl of sesame salt and a pot of mixed vegetable soup. We were poor, so we were so frugal every time a storm came. Mother kept the rice from the previous harvest, and crushed sesame salt in a jar, giving off a light, burnt smell. I sat by the stove, watching the weak flames touch the wet wood, the smoke stinging my eyes. Mother huddled close, her hand shielding her from the wind.

The rice was cooked and fragrant. Mom opened the pot lid, steam rose up, mixed with the smell of roasted sesame. A few grains of rice stuck to the chopsticks, white and sticky. Mom scooped them into four bowls and sprinkled sesame salt on them. I mixed them well, the sesame seeds stuck to the rice, fragrant and salty. Outside, the wind blew hard, the bamboo mat creaked as if it was about to fall apart, but in the small kitchen, there was the light of fire and the smell of hot rice - that was enough to keep us warm.

When I was little, I used to think that sesame salt was a rainy day dish. Whenever I heard a storm, my mother would take out the sesame seeds to roast, stirring them evenly in the pan, using a small, patient fire. The smell of roasted sesame seeds wafted out onto the porch, mixed with the smell of rain, damp earth, and wet straw. The small house was filled with the fragrance. At that time, I often sat by the door, listening to the wind blowing through the cracks in the roof and hearing my hungry stomach growl when my mother poured sesame seeds into the mortar. The wooden pestle beat steadily, deep like a lullaby during the storm season. A meal during a stormy day didn’t have much to offer. A few ladles of hot rice, a bowl of crushed sesame salt, sometimes a little pickled eggplant, or on lucky days, a plate of salty dried fish. The rain outside was heavy, the wind howling as if tearing the space apart.

Rice with sesame salt on a stormy day, I thought it was a hardship but it was the time when I saw the most clearly the appearance of love. Mom didn’t say anything, just sat quietly by the tray, her hand pouring me a spoonful of sesame, her eyes watching the oil lamp about to go out. Her shadow fell on the wall, trembling with each gust of wind. Back then, I only knew how to eat quickly to escape to sleep, not understanding why Mom always sat for a long time at the end of the meal. When I grew up, I learned that Mom lingered to listen to see if the roof leaked, the door was shaking, and the grapefruit trees in the yard were broken by the wind. Then Mom quietly opened the rice jar, shone the light inside, and counted how many meals she had left. That gesture has become a habit of a lifetime: worries are always measured by each can of rice, each sesame seed, each sound of the night wind.

The next morning, the storm had passed. The sky was clear as if it had just been washed clean by a large basin of rainwater. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves, a strangely pleasant, musty smell. The tiled roof was soaked, dripping onto the porch. The yard was full of fallen leaves, broken banana trunks, and drooping grapefruit branches. The rooster crowed hoarsely like someone who had just recovered from a fever. The papaya trees swayed as if struggling with the fatigue of a long night. Mother brought out the bamboo bed to dry, spread out a mat, and put the pot of cold rice on the stove to keep warm. I sprinkled some sesame salt, dipped my fingertip in it, and tasted it. It was still the same salty, nutty, fragrant taste of yesterday.

Many years later, in the middle of a city filled with lights and car horns, I still remember the smell of sesame burning in the old kitchen. One time, in a heavy rain, I bought dried peanuts and salt and roasted them myself on a gas stove. The smoke rose, the burning smell choked my throat. It turns out, some memories don’t need to be intact, just a familiar scent is enough to make people feel dizzy…

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/van-hoa-du-lich-van-hoc-nghe-thuat/van-hoc-nghe-thuat/202510/com-muoi-vung-ngay-bao-86d07d6/