Smoke lingers, smelling of the kitchen.

Born and raised in a poor coastal village in Central Vietnam, my childhood was intertwined with white sand, casuarina trees, and... kitchen smoke. It was the delicate smoke rising from the thatched roof behind the house each afternoon. It didn't sting my eyes or choke me, but instead carried the distinctive scent of dry leaves, decaying straw, and the salty, sea-tinged aroma of casuarina trees. That smoke not only stained my mother's hair and my father's bare back with the passage of time, but it also left a deep imprint on my heart. Now, far away, with abundant meals, I still long for that familiar scent of the past.

The wood-burning stove is closely associated with my childhood - Photo: TRAN TUYEN

About three decades ago, in my seaside village, life was full of hardships and shortages. Food and clothing were still major worries for my grandparents and parents. Yet, my house was never without... smoke. Smoke permeated the small kitchen, clung to my mother's clothes, lingered on my father's hair, and emanated from the fires kindled with burning pine branches.

On cold days, my siblings and I would go to the edge of the casuarina forest to rake leaves and gather dry casuarina branches and seeds for Mom to use as kindling. My childhood was filled with these nameless tasks: helping Dad chop firewood, using a machete to cut long logs, drying them in the sun, and then neatly stacking them behind the kitchen. Sometimes, I would spend the whole afternoon hunched over, helping Mom gather dry casuarina branches covered in sand, then bundle them up to use as kindling for dinner.

Our evening meal at home was simple yet full of the flavors of the countryside. Grilled herring, sizzling with fat, filled the whole neighborhood with its aroma. It was accompanied by a soup of wild greens, boiled sweet potato leaves, and the fermented fish sauce my mother made herself. Sometimes we'd add sweet potatoes or cassava slices to the white rice, but it was soft and fragrant because it was cooked in an earthenware pot over a wood-fired stove. Each dish was infused with a gentle smoky aroma, as if the homeland itself had been "infused" into every fiber of the fish, every grain of rice, every sprig of vegetable. That smoke not only cooked the food but also seemed to cook the heart of my mother, transforming the simple meal into a culinary delight in my memory.

Every time the wood fire lit up and smoke rose, my mother would have me stand nearby to warm my hands, then whisper, as if reminding me: "The smoke from the wood fire helps dispel dampness and warm the body. This smoke isn't harmful; it helps retain positive energy. People who live off the smoke and fire of our homeland are accustomed to the earth's essence, making them healthier and less prone to illness." These seemingly simple things, I only understood later, were actually folk wisdom. In my village, women, after the painful childbirth, would lie on charcoal burned from pine trees to quickly regain their strength.

In Traditional Chinese Medicine, it is believed that yang energy is the life force that keeps the body warm and regulates internal organs. Conversely, yin energy – cold energy – is the cause of illness, especially in the elderly, women, and children. A fire burning dry wood, leaves, and bark generates a natural flow of heat, dispelling cold energy in the living space and helping the internal organs function more effectively. Therefore, in the old days, even in thatched-roof houses, people were healthier because they lived close to nature, ate simple food, and, most importantly, always had a hearth. The hearth was not only a place for cooking but also the center of the home's vital energy. A family with a hearth means there is life and connection. The ancients taught, "A cold hearth makes a cold house; a warm hearth brings peace." That saying is absolutely true.

Then I grew up, passed my university entrance exams, and left my hometown. During those years living in the city, eating processed food, and staying in air-conditioned rooms, there were days when I felt inexplicably tired. I missed the smoke from the kitchen! Not because I lacked delicious food, but because I missed the warmth of childhood memories. Every time I returned home, I would gaze at the old kitchen hearth. The smell of smoke was still the same, unchanged. Only I had changed—taller, more understanding, and... more appreciative of my parents. I added more firewood to the stove, letting the smoke rise, stinging my eyes a little, but so soothing to my heart.

In the city, people are returning to traditional wood-burning stoves as a lifestyle, called "retreat" or "organic living." But for me, it's not a trend. It's a memory. A part of my childhood. It's where the person I am today was formed. Now, in my thirties, the age Confucius called "thirty, one establishes oneself," I'm no longer the boy who raked leaves, chopped wood, and gathered pine seeds, nor do I shiver by the winter fire. But the smell of the kitchen smoke from those years remains intact within me. It's the smell of my mother, of the countryside, of a time of childhood hardship but full of love.

And every time I see the bluish smoke drifting over the rooftops in the evening, I picture the small kitchen of yesteryear. Smoke is not just the heat of a fire. Smoke is memory. It is a testament to a time, a life, a homeland.

Tran Tuyen

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/khoi-vuong-mui-bep-193350.htm