Early in the morning, Dad rode his bicycle to the rice fields to check on the crops. After circling around to inspect the water levels, pests, and weeds, he was just as he reached the gate when he heard Mom's cheerful voice coming from the end of the lane. She had gone to the market and brought back a late breakfast for the whole family: hot, freshly baked rice cakes and fried cakes. While eating the cakes, he glanced at the plastic basket Mom had placed in the corner of the yard, where he could also find rice crackers, sticky rice cakes, and steamed rice dumplings. Dad chuckled, teasing Mom about her shopping spree at the market, saying that if she bought this much back then, the family would be broke. Mom's voice was soft; the things she bought weren't just food, but memories of market treats from a time of poverty. She bought them, her eyes welling up with tears of longing for her children far from home. Now they've all grown up, traveled far and wide, and eaten many delicious and exotic things, but Mom believes they still enjoy these small, old-fashioned snacks.
I remember going to the market with my mother when I was a child. The market only met two or three times a month, doubling near Tet (Lunar New Year), concentrating in the latter half of December. I remember the ferry crossing the river to the market, "run" by the back-breaking strength of people rowing. The river back then wasn't as deep and wide as it is now; even if the ferry sank or capsized, no one was afraid because even when the water rose, it wouldn't completely submerge people. But sitting on the ferry after the market was very worrying, because if the goods fell into the river, it would be a waste of time and money. In those days, even a grain of salt or a drop of oil spilled was a heartbreaking loss. So everyone was careful to let each other board the ferry, ensuring both people and goods could get home safely, without rushing or crowding.
Whenever my mother or grandmother went to the market, my sisters and I would excitedly wait and watch. Each time the ferry crossed, we'd rush out to peek at the people carrying baskets and loads as they passed the alley. When my mother returned, we'd swarm around her, chattering excitedly, waiting for her to open the bag covering the basket's opening – there would be treats inside. Back then, it was a given that whenever she went to the market, my mother would buy a bundle of rice cakes to give to my maternal grandfather. The bundle of rice cakes was molded like the sausages we have now, and smelled wonderfully of banana leaves heated over a fire. Whoever brought a treat for Grandpa would get to eat it all until it was gone. My grandfather only liked dipping the rice cakes in shrimp paste; it was a dish he could eat his whole life without getting tired of it.
The night before going to the market, my mother would prepare the things we had produced ourselves to sell. Sometimes it would be a few dozen chicken eggs, a few kilograms of peanuts, other times a few bunches of unripe bananas, a cluster of fresh betel nuts… Then she would sit down and write down a list of things to buy, making sure she didn't forget or run out. On market day, you could find everything from the finest to the cheapest, and everything was cheaper than at grocery stores or general stores. There, people could freely choose and bargain for goods for daily life. It was easy to buy a good piece of meat that looked appealing, a fresh fish that was just right. My mother's market gifts were simple: a cold, chewy mung bean-filled fried cake; a piece of sugarcane, a taro root, a few pieces of sweet and chewy sticky rice cake with a warm, spicy ginger flavor, a crispy, fragrant peanut candy; Those thin, buttery-scented, colorful paper cookies... Preparing for the new school year, gifts would be a few new, loose-fitting clothes, a stylish hairband with a bow, plastic earrings, a box of rainbow-colored pencils... Market gifts were never listed on the crumpled paper Mom folded and unfolded, but she never forgot. With a little careful measuring, she could buy them. Small things, but they brought a whole world of joy to her children.
Thinking about the gifts from the market during those difficult times nearly 30 years ago, I suddenly feel rich. A childhood rich in memories, experiences, and emotions has nurtured in me the energy to live a joyful and happy life as an adult. I cherish those distant memories of my mother returning from the market, the small house bustling with laughter and chatter, everyone's heart leaping with excitement.
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