The season of young tamarind leaves in my ancestral village.

(ABO) I really like sour soup with young tamarind leaves and tilapia, but that's me now. When I was eight, I used to wonder why my dad would eat three or four bowls of rice in a row whenever he had this dish, even though it only had two simple ingredients.

When I was little, about ten times a year, whenever I had a break from school, my grandparents would drag me to my grandparents' house. My grandparents' village was only about fifty or sixty kilometers from my house, but in my eyes, it was a vast, sun-drenched, remote area. My grandparents' house was just a tiny dot in the distance, stretching across three or four rice fields, yet it was only about the size of my hand. My grandparents' village was mostly rice paddies and tamarind trees, with a few custard apple trees along the pond behind the house. That was it. There weren't as many fruit trees as in my own garden.

To be honest, I don't really like going back to my grandparents' house, because you can't find any sweets or snacks there once you walk around. Whenever I go back, the kids there always gather around and pick tamarind, filling their shirts with it, and then offer it to me. But when I go back, they're thrilled because I bring several bags of colorful candies to share with them.

Everywhere you looked in my grandparents' village, you'd see tamarind trees – in front of the house, by the lane, behind the house, right by the pond. When the rainy season began, the tamarind trees at my grandparents' house would sprout lush green leaves, heavy with raindrops, swaying in the breeze. As soon as my father and I arrived, my grandmother would quickly grab a basket and set out a chair to strip the tamarind leaves. My cousin Chiến, the son of my Aunt Sáu, would carry his fishing net to the edge of the pond. He was tiny, dark-skinned, and skinny, yet he cast the net with such precision, rounder than the letter 'O'. When the net was pulled up, the emaciated tilapia, starving, thrashed about in the net, and he quickly scooped them up and threw them into my grandmother's basket.

Illustrative image.

A rainy afternoon meal at my grandparents' house: a bowl of dried braised fish, a bowl of sour soup with young tamarind leaves and tilapia, with a few slices of chili. I stirred my rice with the piece of braised fish my grandmother had given me, imagining the fried chicken drumstick my mother used to make, and my stomach ached with longing. Turning around, I saw my father eating heartily, exclaiming with delight. Every time he came home during the season of young tamarind leaves, he always ate this dish. I wondered why he ate it so well.

There were many questions and doubts that I only found answers to much later, when I was older.

My grandmother is gone, and I've been so busy with work that it's been a long time since I visited her. My father is still the same, only coming back to the countryside a few times a year. I wonder if my aunts still cook his favorite dishes.

A corner of the tamarind tree grove on Nguyen Hue Street - My Tho City.

The small town where I live is also full of endless rows of tamarind trees, their leaves changing color, new leaves sprouting, flowers blooming, and fruiting—I see them every day on my way to work. Now, I pay attention to the season of young tamarind leaves. When I go to the market or look for the gardeners, I always buy a small bunch to take back to my hometown for my mother to make sour fish soup. Now, I can appreciate the deliciousness of this simple soup—a refreshing, tangy dish with few ingredients: just a little fish, a handful of tender young tamarind leaves, some sawtooth coriander, and a few slices of chili—yet it's indescribably delicious. My father still eats it and praises it, but he no longer exclaims with delight, and the joy and happiness in his eyes are gone.

The sour soup with young tamarind leaves still tastes just as good, Mom still seasons it exactly the way Dad likes it, just like Grandma used to. But... there are some dishes that are delicious partly because of their flavor, but even more so because of the sweet memories of a bygone era.

TUONG QUAN

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