Remembering the old jackfruit season

One sunny day, the sun was blazing down on the yard. Mom came back from the garden and said that the jackfruit had all sprouted thorns, so she should pick them and tear them apart to dry them, because it would be a waste if they ripened and no one ate them. Hearing Mom say that, I suddenly remembered Grandma's basket of jackfruit so much.

Photo: SONG ANH

When the scorching sun of central Vietnam beat down, the jackfruit had already burst open, its thorns plump and round. It was a truly misty morning, when in the mountains before the village, flocks of sparrows called out the dawn. Grandma tied a long pole to a sickle. Dad carried the pole ahead, and Grandma followed behind, carrying a basket with two carrying poles. My siblings and I trailed along, begging to be escorted. Both unripe and ripe jackfruit were picked. Occasionally, a ripe, wet jackfruit would fall with a thud, its bright yellow, fragrant segments scattering everywhere. Then we would run over, picking and eating them while giggling mischievously.

The jackfruit was brought home, and Grandma used dried banana leaves to wipe away the sap that oozed out after removing the thorns. The jackfruit was then cut into bunches in a basket. The next step was removing the core, leaving only the segments and fibers. My siblings and I all pitched in, some removing the fibers, others the seeds, leaving only the soft jackfruit segments. Grandma placed a cutting board in the middle of the basket and began slicing each segment into thin strips.

The ripe jackfruit and the unripe ones are kept separate. The overripe jackfruit is also kept separately. The creamy white and golden-yellow jackfruit segments are meticulously sliced ​​and scattered on a tray. When the sun begins to shine more intensely, Grandma sets up two long benches in the middle of the yard and spreads the jackfruit on the tray to dry.

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We separated the jackfruit seeds and fibers. The seeds were peeled of their soft outer layer and thrown into a corner of the yard. The large, delicious fibers were set aside; at lunchtime, Grandma would cook a pot of sweet, tender jackfruit fiber soup. The rest, including the thorns and pulp, we raked into a large sieve and carried towards the cowshed.

The baskets of jackfruit shimmered with the summer sun. The ripe jackfruit was crisp and pure white; the young and fully ripe jackfruit turned a golden yellow. Grandma gathered them all in one afternoon as a cool southerly breeze blew. The plastic bag full of jackfruit was tied tightly and stored in a small, eel-skin-colored earthenware jar in the corner of the house.

When the north wind began to blow, Grandma would carefully open the plastic bag and give each of us a handful of jackfruit. Sitting on the creaky bamboo hammock, we would munch on the jackfruit while giggling and singing riddles to each other, asking each other to guess the names of a particular plant or animal.

During lean times, my grandmother's rice pot always had some dried jackfruit added to it. Sometimes, there would be a handful of brown, nutty jackfruit seeds, crushed, peeled, and soaked until soft. Jackfruit rice followed me through my childhood, leaving behind a sweet, haunting memory of the old countryside. Now, my grandmother has passed away, and the trays and chairs used to dry the jackfruit in the yard are gone. The two-room thatched house with the bamboo hammock stretched across the middle has also crumbled with time. Only the image of my grandmother remains in my memories.

Every time the first rays of summer sun appeared, Grandma would glance at the dangling jackfruit, then spread out her basket in the cool shade of the jackfruit tree in the corner of the yard, and set up her cutting board in the middle of the yard to slice the jackfruit with a crunching sound. She would playfully scold my brother when she saw him chewing on the golden, fragrant jackfruit segments: "Hurry up and peel them before the sun gets too hot, stop sitting there worrying about eating! You rascal!" Then she would wipe the corner of her mouth with her checkered scarf, her lips turning a rosy red from chewing betel nut.

I feel fortunate to have those sweet, memorable seasons of my childhood. I remember the jackfruit season of the past.

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Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/nho-mua-mit-cu-a490371.html