In late autumn in Hanoi , simply opening the window in the early morning reveals a gentle chill touching the fingertips, a thin layer of mist like glass covering the treetops, and the scent of milk flowers just strong enough to make one pause for a moment. In this city, people don't just count the seasons by calendar, but by scents. Some mornings on my way to school, I would hear the familiar street vendor's call and softly sing a line from Trinh Cong Son's song: "The season of green rice flakes arrives, fragrant in little hands..." Just one line evokes a whole realm of memories of my kind, deceased grandmother.

Illustration photo: tapchicongthuong.vn

I remember those August afternoons, toddling along with my grandmother to the fields, asking hundreds of "why" questions like a child: Why is sticky rice with young rice grains green, while other sticky rice is white or yellow? She would gently explain as she planted the rice seedlings. And thanks to her voice, as soft as the breeze in the fields, I gradually understood the meaning of the color of the young rice grains. That day the sun wasn't scorching, and the wind blowing from the rice paddies was wonderfully cool. My grandmother told me that making young rice grains is unlike any other job; people have to get up before dark, walk through the cold, misty fields to cut bundles of tender rice. The grains are still damp with dew, their fragrance still intact. Once home, they must immediately light the fire and roast them; they can't let them sit for too long. Too much fire and the grains will burn; too little fire and the husks won't separate.

After roasting comes pounding. The rhythmic pounding of the wooden pestle against the stone mortar is like the heartbeat of autumn. After pounding, there's sifting, winnowing, and picking; each step requires patience and meticulousness. Just a little haste and the whole batch of puffed rice will be ruined. Standing beside my grandmother, watching the rice stalks sway in the wind, I truly understood that to produce a tiny packet of puffed rice, so much effort from the farmers is invested – sweat, perseverance, and a silent love for the rice of their homeland.

A fleeting scent of milk flower startled me back to reality. The familiar call of the woman selling sticky rice with young rice flakes echoed through the street. I hurried out and bought a packet. On a tray covered with fresh green lotus leaves, the pot of sticky rice with young rice flakes emitted a fragrant aroma. Opening the packet, I felt as if autumn itself was nestled in my hands. The young rice flakes were soft and chewy, retaining their color of tender rice; the finely ground mung beans were a golden hue like the morning sun; and the grated coconut was white and creamy, both nutty and rich. A simple dish of sticky rice that stirred a sense of nostalgia, as if an invisible thread connected me from Hanoi all the way to the fields of my ancestral homeland.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, I suddenly found myself reflecting. The me of today, a young student juggling studies and part-time work, easily tired and prone to giving up. A little pressure and I sigh. Yet, the farmers, throughout the rice harvest season, through countless misty mornings, through hours spent standing by the roasting stove, remain silent, patient, without a single complaint. Thinking this, I felt small and ashamed. It turns out that what I consider "hard work" is insignificant compared to their arduous lives.

Gazing at the packet of sticky rice with green rice flakes in my hand, I realized that amidst the modern city streets, this small treat makes one want to slow down and find inner peace. Hanoi's sticky rice with green rice flakes is not only delicious to enjoy and beautiful to look at, but also a reminder. It reminds us that delicate, pure things like those green rice flakes don't come naturally. They are made from the diligence, perseverance, and love of labor of people who toil under the sun and rain, who know how to distill the essence of nature to give back to the world a flavor of Hanoi culture, simple yet profound.

Amidst the fragrance of milk flowers and the chewy, aromatic taste of sticky rice with young rice flakes, I contemplated a simple yet profound truth: Sometimes, just a packet of sticky rice with young rice flakes, carrying the scent of Hanoi's autumn, is enough to soothe our hearts, to make us love and appreciate life more.

    Source: https://www.qdnd.vn/van-hoa/doi-song/mua-com-xanh-ve-1011090