Mom's Spring Kitchen

My mother's kitchen has been renovated with modern appliances, but as an old habit, she still keeps the old wood-burning stove as a family memento. A humble space, yet for so long it has been the "heart" of the family, especially during Tet (Vietnamese New Year). It's where the old values of Vietnamese culture are preserved, where even the turbulent flow of the market economy outside must pause before the soot-stained wooden door.

Stepping into the kitchen on a spring day, the first scent I encountered was that of nostalgia. It was a blend of the fragrant aroma of glutinous rice, the fresh green scent of banana leaves blanched in boiling water, the pungent aroma of ginger jam, the fragrant smell of pepper and onions in jellied meat... all mixed with the scent of the smooth layer of ash from the kitchen hearth covering the roasted potatoes.

My mother's kitchen in the spring. Photo: AI

My mother, a woman who has lived through more than sixty farming seasons, considers the kitchen her own "sanctuary." In the context of modern society, where people can order everything with a tap on their phone, she still meticulously soaks rice, washes beans, and marinates meat by hand. She says, "A store-bought Tet is a borrowed Tet, but a Tet in my own kitchen is my true Tet." In the kitchen during the spring season, there are countless things: in one corner is a basket of pristine white sticky rice – a symbol of abundance; in another, a jar of pickled onions fermenting – a touch of balance representing yin and yang in the Tet feast… For my mother , cuisine is not just about nutrition, but a fusion of reverence for ancestors and boundless love for her children and grandchildren.

I remember the Lunar New Year after the COVID-19 pandemic, when our family's finances were under a lot of pressure. My mother skillfully managed our spending amidst fluctuating market prices. No matter what, the kitchen had to be well-stocked for the spring festivities. This "well-stocked" didn't mean expensive delicacies, but rather the meticulous care she put into each piece of pork sausage and each bowl of bamboo shoot soup. My mother taught me that no matter how difficult the economic situation, the Lunar New Year must be well-prepared, because it's a way of appreciating the fruits of a year's labor and hoping for a prosperous new beginning.

During the spring festival, the kitchen is also the place where warm family gatherings take place. By the flickering fire of the pot of sticky rice cakes on the thirtieth night of the lunar year, mothers recount stories of the old days, of the subsidy era when people lined up to buy every gram of meat for the filling. These stories are like an invisible thread connecting generations, helping children far from home understand the value of resilience and gratitude.

As the afternoon sun cast its shadows on the courtyard on the 30th of Tet, the New Year's Eve dinner was ready. My mother's kitchen became even more bustling, radiating a strangely warm energy. Looking at my mother in her worn apron and graying hair, I suddenly realized: The kitchen is not just a place for cooking; it's where my mother kindles the flame of faith, hope, and family unity.

On a spring day, after traveling thousands of miles, all we long for is to return home, to sit in our mother's smoky kitchen, to listen to the crackling fire and feel the rich aroma of Tet (Vietnamese New Year) permeate our very being and our souls. Because there, we can be our truest selves, receiving unconditional love in the embrace of our mother and homeland.

Thuy An

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/van-hoa-xa-hoi/van-hoa/202602/gian-bepngay-xuan-cua-me-6bc31ea/