[E-Magazine]: Fragrances that remain "pristine"...

Winter drifts slowly across the bridge. Along the riverbank, beside the vibrant yellow rapeseed flowers, are rows of coriander plants with pale purple blossoms. The pungent scent of rapeseed blends with the gentle fragrance of coriander, creating a beautiful, fairytale-like scene.

My house is next to a field. Every time I stop the car, I can see the field turning in the wind. This afternoon, as the sunset slowly casts its curtain, the wind carries me back to the scents of my childhood. The scent of the old coriander means spring is coming. Amidst the vastness of the cold, a poem written years ago reminds me of those late winter days of drizzling rain and biting winds, when the old coriander blooms: "Longing for the distant old season / Rain soaking the stubble, the cold bruises the tattered hat / Long nights filled with longing / The old coriander's intoxicating fragrance calls out to distant love"...

Every year leading up to Tet, my mother would buy a bundle of coriander for me to take back to town and share with neighbors and friends. Those bundles of coriander were surely brimming with love. This year, my mother has passed away. But I will still return to remember those end-of-year markets, to remember those distant seasons of coriander from my childhood...

At the last market of the year, people shop for all sorts of things, but no one forgets to buy a bunch of coriander. Sellers don't haggle, and buyers happily purchase it. That's because a bunch of coriander isn't worth much. One year, my family left two rows of mature coriander, the plants about an arm's length tall. On the afternoon of the 28th of Tet (Lunar New Year), my mother told me to go and pick the coriander. The winter fields were a vibrant green with a variety of vegetables. Lush cabbage, kohlrabi, plump lettuce, and potatoes. The gentle east wind playfully teased the white butterflies on the last blossoms of the late-season mustard greens. The mature coriander, with its small white petals, hung loosely in the breeze. My mother said, "Remember to only choose the really old plants, the older they are, the more fragrant they are!"

Back then, I was only about eleven or twelve, but I could already tell the difference between mature coriander and old coriander: the plant had very few leaves, and the fruit was tiny and round. The stem and fruit had turned a pale purple. I carried the bunch of coriander home, feeling as if I were infused with its gentle fragrance. Every year, on the afternoon of the thirtieth day of the lunar month, my mother would prepare a feast for the New Year's Eve offering. My job was to wash the coriander thoroughly, put it in a pot, fill it with water, and then put it on the stove to boil. The pot of coriander boiled vigorously, its aroma spreading throughout the three rooms of the house, blending with the incense on the writing desk to create an indescribable scent. Even now, I can't forget that fragrance. Spring brings all sorts of things, but the New Year's celebration isn't complete without bathing in coriander water. Then my mother told me to call my younger siblings home to bathe. After calling for a long time, I finally found my youngest brother waiting by the pond at my uncle's house, hoping to be slaughtered and have a kite to play with. "I miss the old days of the New Year so much / Mother calls me home to bathe in fragrant coriander water / hoping I'll be fragrant for a lifetime"...

I don't know when the custom of bathing in fragrant water on New Year's Eve began. Nor do I know how many lives the scent of coriander has permeated. But every spring, it stirs up a sense of nostalgia and longing in me. That fragrance is as simple and unpretentious as the kind and honest people of the countryside. On the last afternoon of the year, the whole neighborhood has never smelled so fragrant. My grandmother said bathing in coriander water washes away the misfortunes of the year. On the morning of the first day of the new year, washing your face with coriander leaves is to welcome a prosperous new year.

I remember one year, my father was allowed home for Tet (Lunar New Year) before going on a long mission to the "B" (the front lines). My mother cooked a large, fragrant pot of coriander water specifically for him. Looking back now, that pot of coriander water was shared by both of them, and they shared wonderful moments of happiness after a long separation... due to the war. We grew up, matured, and established our lives far from home. Then my father also left. My mother lived alone but still cooked coriander leaves for bathing and for fumigating the house and kitchen. One day, on the second day of Tet, when my family returned, my mother had already placed a basin and pot of coriander water outside the door, urging us to wash our faces. For decades, I followed my mother's tradition, cooking coriander water for the New Year's Eve celebration. The scent of coriander, mixed with the fragrance of incense, was so ethereal it seemed otherworldly.

Some say, "Why all this fuss over just a pot of coriander leaves?" And they're right. Nowadays, Western and Chinese companies, and scientists , produce so many kinds of bath oils, shower gels, and alluring fragrances. But for me, and surely for many others far from home, that sacred coriander water has been ingrained in our skin from childhood until now. Another spring is approaching, bringing warmth, love, and hope. And my love for my homeland remains as "pure" as the scent of coriander...

Content by: Le Phuong Lien

Photo: Internet source

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazine-huong-mui-mai-trinh-nguyen-276159.htm