She advised her mother to replace the wood stove with a gas stove several times, but she ignored it and refused. Although people have used electric stoves and gas stoves for a long time, she is still faithful to the bracket attached to the straw in the kitchen full of smoke and soot. The all-black space that overlaps each other, thick as if it can be peeled off, attracts her strangely.
Broken branches and fallen leaves are gathered here to light a fire for today and for many days to come. Jackfruit, mango, and milkweed in the garden changed their leaves every day, so she couldn't stop cleaning and the fire was thus "supplied", red and pink. Firewood is stacked in the kitchen gable, above are bamboo baskets containing compacted dried leaves. Firewood is not only for cooking daily food and drinks, but also for an unspecified future date: "Parents lie down, they must also have sticks to warm water to invite relatives". She used to say so.
She lives on the street, every time she comes back to her hometown, she makes delicious dishes for her parents, not regretting her work, even less her possessions, but she is afraid to go to the kitchen. She felt uncomfortable right from the stooping gait in the kitchen gable to the way she sat with her knees bent while cooking; sometimes the firewood is wet, blows up to the point of shortness of breath, tears in tears because of the smoke. Picking up trash, the ashes flew everywhere, clinging to people. Again, touching the jar of mussels everywhere, after cooking the meal, she rubbed her hands until her hands were red, but the obnoxious black stains were still there. The water in the kitchen is a distance from the kitchen, so washing things or getting water must go in and out until tired. Even the bowl and chopsticks are also sticky with ash; The dirty space she was used to, now suddenly felt uncomfortable.
She bought bright pots and pans instead of the ones that were chipped and black inside and out. I just went back to the street, you cleaned it and put it away, using the same old things as usual. Even the new bowls I bought from my mother, I also put them in the cupboard to carefully store them, save them for when there is a group of people, I still use old dark dishes every day. The kitchen was smoky, cramped, and frustrating for her children, but she seemed to be comfortable with her mother, she still retreated morning and night, even when standing up and sitting down against the wall.
"Why do you have to suffer with firewood so fluttering?" She hesitated and wondered, not daring to speak for fear of displeasing her mother, thinking that the child would quickly lose its roots. She overcomes by preparing a lot of food to bring home to reduce the amount of time in the kitchen. The refrigerator is small, but it doesn't last long, so good food becomes bad after a few days. She was confused, trying to figure out how to deal with firewood, the most difficult thing was to get her mother to agree to change her mind.
She guessed when she thought, the first item - where's the money, is the reason why she hesitated to say goodbye to the litter box. All her life, she kept squeezing and collecting money from her children and grandchildren, so her mother was not needy, and every year she asked her children to save her. Having money, but frugality seems to have become immutable. The children "in tune" countless times: "Just buy whatever you like, don't regret it, mom". The answer made me bewildered: "My parents are used to it". I'm used to the old people's rice tray when there are only a few shriveled braised fish or cucumbers through the meal, but I can raise a few ducks or save a dozen eggs and send it to "children" on the street. I don't dare to eat ten thousand dumplings or a plate of banh beo, but every time I come back to play, I give them hundreds of dollars, trying to get it. She repeatedly stopped: "They don't lack anything, mom keeps it and spends it". Seeing the bill curled up in her thin hand, giving it as persistently as pleading, she switched to the receiver's can: "Don't, let me buy fish, baby". Hearing him say "no children" and then running away, she grimaced: "I'll give it to you, not now!?".
She advised her father to be busy, but her mother still did not switch from straw to gas stove, she gradually lost patience, her voice sounded annoyed: "Don't stop me anymore, next week I will take a few days off, ask the workers to redo the kitchen and install the stove. always gas". Looking at her mother's indifference, she gave a convincing reason: "Mother is weak, struggling with firewood, if she falls into the kitchen, she suffers". Next, she sketched the idea of renovating the kitchen, from expanding the premises to molding the kitchen, then clad ceramic tiles and bought a rack for dishes, hanging pots and pans. Without waiting for you to stop talking, mother timidly asked: "But still leave the wood stove?". I wonder but there is a "compromise" part: "Putting firewood is dusty, but I like it, it's fine". Finally, she concluded what she thought her mother would be happy about: "For expenses alone, I'll just let you."
Father has long passed the limit of "sixteen children in the ear" so it is easy to calculate in advance your intentions: "Whatever". Mother is still indifferent, seems hesitant but not convenient to speak. She was surprised and disappointed: "Why, mother?". Mother looked at the garden full of fallen leaves, her voice lamented: "I prefer the fire from the garbage to the cold green light of the gas stove". Fire is also different? Why don't you want to be happy, but like to suffer? Her mother's words made her bewildered, but she did not dare to contort. Mother seemed to understand me, softening her voice: "Okay, let me calculate".
If the old fisherman in the old story was surprised to see that his fortune was suddenly turned into a splendid castle by a goldfish, then she would have a similar feeling when she looked at her mother's kitchen the next time she returned to her hometown. there. Imagine dreaming, the kitchen was enlarged to make room for the gas stove, and the ceramic tiles were shining from the floor to the wall. From dish racks to chopsticks or casserole racks, all are made of polished stainless steel, and even the spice jars are made of transparent glass. The black firewood bracket is still there, but nestled in the corner, contrasting with the bright space next to it. When asked about the cost of the project I always dreamed of, my mother laughed: "It doesn't cost much". Still smiling, but her voice was firm when I asked to contribute: "Put it away, I have money".
She was once more surprised when she learned that her mother bought a gas stove to pamper her children. The proof is that every time she returns to her hometown, she finds that the kitchen is always warmed by firewood, while the gas stove next to it is like leftovers. As it turned out, my mother did not regret buying a new kitchen, just liked the fire from the garbage. She realized something else, from her own heart. That is when the mother no longer takes care of her own food and water, the children on the street take turns to take care of the two elderly people, bringing with them the habit of using gas stoves and induction cookers.
One rainy day, looking at her mother's wood-burning kitchen, she suddenly felt heartbroken. Long time no cooking, the iron pedestal is cold, standing in the middle of the ashes scattered by the chickens. She suddenly misses the charcoal stove every morning and every afternoon, remembers the burning rice husks day and night, warming the kitchen in the distant days; remember the smoke embracing the thatched roof in the late afternoon; remember cassava tubers buried in embers, blowing while eating, mouth full of jars of mussels. The image of the whole family gathering around a pot of banh tet, rubbing their cold hands over the coals, waiting for New Year's Eve, once entered into poetry and music, but was far away from her, suddenly appeared.
She suddenly realized, firewood is like welding to measure the warmth in each roof. Houses that occasionally burn red and emit smoke are usually churches that are often empty of owners; erratic cooks are sometimes in trouble. On the contrary, three times a day, the fire is burning bright red, which is a signal of fullness and fullness, harmonious reunion.
Until the distant future, many young people probably only know the kitchen gathering firewood - a familiar image of the village through books or the stories of the elderly. That premonition made her sad, regretful.
Looking at the fallen leaves all over the garden, she picked up the broom, brought it to the kitchen, and turned on the fire. Mother was sleeping in the upper house, suddenly got up bewildered: "Where is the smell of garbage?". I came up from downstairs, smiling: "I made a fire, mom".
Fire came out of the kitchen, warming the house.
