Delicious food by the fence

Every time I think back to the working-class neighborhood on the outskirts of the city where I lived as a child, I remember the delicious dishes served by the fence first. Delicious, because those flavors have been preserved vividly, even after countless layers of time have covered them, yet whenever I think of them, I yearn for them, and the fence is that treasure trove.

In the old days, when Nha Trang was still a town, except for a few main streets, all the houses in the neighborhoods, villages, or bordering the streets had fences, mostly made of plants, flowers, and foliage. Sometimes, you could guess the social class or personality of the owner just by looking at the fence. Some houses had high walls and gates, with an additional ramp made of jagged broken glass; others only had a few strands of barbed wire; some had hibiscus hedges, morning glory vines, or acacia bushes… There were often trees in front of the houses for shade, and any spare space inside was used to grow useful fruit trees. The trees along the fences of one house would sway across to the house next door; the trees in front of the gate would shade the entire house across the street; and the trees behind the house might even serve as overpasses for neighbors to visit.

My maternal grandparents' house was in Xóm Mới. The land wasn't very big, but as I grew up, I saw that the house already had a banyan tree in front, a crape myrtle tree in the backyard, custard apple and guava trees by the well, a starfruit tree next to the wall, a coconut tree in the middle of the yard, a jasmine bush that spread out and drooped along a long stretch of the fence, and right along the narrow path was a cluster of jasmine flowers and a row of potted roses... On summer afternoons, my grandparents' house became a cool place for passersby under the banyan tree, for neighbors to hang their hammocks under the crape myrtle, and for children to climb the guava tree to escape their afternoon naps.

Then, over time, all the fruits and flowers in my grandmother's garden became just images buried deep in my memory, until one day you said you hadn't eaten the wild mangoes in decades and were craving them, while looking at a black and white photo from decades ago showing the mango tree with only leaves. That statement was like opening a page in an old book recording the delicacies of the hedgerow, page after page of banyan, fig, star fruit, gooseberry, acacia, guava, wild mangoes, longan, plum, tamarind… things that have now become a thing of the past, forgotten.

Who still remembers the thick, green acacia bushes with densely packed, thorny leaves planted as a fence? Not the woody, leafy kind. This fence acacia had small, dense leaves that were plucked and tied into thick, round bunches for playing games, providing a soft, cool feeling underfoot. If you were lucky, you'd pick ripe acacia fruit, its thick, sweet, white-pink flesh revealing a rich texture. Like the cassia tree that practically spilled over the fence, its simple but sturdy flowers often cut for offerings, and its fruit also split open to eat the nutty, creamy seeds. Like the guava tree by the well, half of its branches sprawled into the neighbor's backyard, its ripe fruit fragrant, with crisp, sweet red flesh, the largest only the size of a duck egg, a single bite refreshing in the summer heat. The larger, tastier fruits were higher up because the children couldn't reach them, while the lower ones were covered in jagged fingernail marks, pressed in to check if they were ripe. Any branch in the neighbor's yard was considered overgrown. Under the guava tree was a well, its mouth covered with a square B40 mesh with four corners bent downwards. This net can catch a few guavas falling from the tree, bouncing them up a few times while waiting for the victims to recover. Now, guavas weighing a kilogram are sold everywhere, but they no longer taste the same as they used to. The same goes for longan, plums, star fruit, tamarind...

A few dozen meters from my grandmother's house was a house with a star fruit tree that stretched all the way out onto the road. Who hasn't, at some point, climbed the tree, broken branches, and picked star fruit, or gathered fallen fruit? Having a star fruit tree in front of the house meant no afternoon naps; under its shade, like an umbrella, children chattered, some climbing, some shaking branches, some breaking twigs… How can I forget the craving that moment when I bit into a ripe, sweet, soft star fruit? I remember my friend's dirty hands excitedly holding out a handful of still-green star fruit, a prize of their wares. Now, sometimes when I see wild star fruit trees or those scattered along suburban roads, with their ripe, red fruits trampled to pieces, memories well up in my heart.

Deeply etched in my memory are the apricot tree behind and the banyan tree in front on my grandmother's land. Many people also call the apricot tree the "le ki ma" or "chicken egg" tree… It's a very tall tree, with a wide canopy, its base strung with hammocks to catch the strong sea breeze. During apricot season, the branches are laden with fruit; each harvest fills a whole basket, and my grandmother has to carry each basket around the neighborhood. The tiny white flowers fall all over the yard, making a pleasant crackling sound when squeezed, and some even thread them together to make strings of pearls. The ripe fruit is soft, golden yellow, and after one bite it's sweet, two bites it's rich, and after three bites, people start teasing each other about the yellow, sticky, chewy fruit… Now it's hard to find ripe apricot fruit to admire again.

There was a time when children relied on the banyan tree in front of the house for all four seasons. In winter, its leaves changed color from green to purple, yellow, red, and brown, leaving only its sturdy frame; in spring, it sprouted green shoots; in summer, it bore flowers and fruit; and in autumn, the ripe, juicy yellow fruit fell with a clatter all over the path. I liked to scrape off the amber-colored sap that had solidified on the trunk, soak it in water to soften it, and use it to polish wooden objects until they shone. On days when the dry leaves fell and blew everywhere, my grandmother would have to take a broom and gather them to burn. The thick, white smoke from the burning banyan leaves would billow, and unless the adults scolded them, the children would jump back and forth near the top of the smoke. The scariest time was when the banyan fruits ripened; neighbors who wanted to eat them would often throw stones at the tree to knock them down because the poles weren't high enough to pick them, and climbing was even harder. The ripe banyan fruits would fall and get crushed, and after gnawing on the sour, sweet, and slightly astringent flesh around the fruit, they would throw the rest everywhere. My grandmother would then sweep up all the fallen banyan fruits from the yard into a corner and dry them in the sun until they were completely dry. Then came the afternoons when we wouldn't nap, gathering all the grandchildren to sit and crack open the palm trees to get the seeds. At most, we'd get about two bowls of seeds, the rest going into the stomachs of the children doing the digging, but it was enough for my mother to caramelize them and spread on grilled rice crackers to treat the whole family. This dish has now become extinct, even though the seventy-year-old palm tree still manages to bear flowers and fruit.

If only I had wandered around barefoot and bareheaded more when I was a child, my memories of the delicious treats by the fences of old Nha Trang would surely be endless. My parents, who grew up amidst the sand dunes and wild forests overlooking the vast ocean, still fondly remember the sweet taste of wild mangoes, wild chestnuts, wild berries, wild plums, and tamarind... In those times of hardship, the fruits by the fences were companions, a fragrant treat that connected the villages, and a symbol of the affection for our beloved homeland...

AI DUY

Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/nhung-vung-ky-uc/202406/my-vi-ben-bo-rao-0521dbf/