Market gifts

Early in the morning, my father cycled out to the rice fields to check on the rice. He wandered around to check the water, worms, and weeds, and just as he was returning to the gate, he heard his mother's clear voice echoing from the beginning of the alley. Today, my mother went to the market and brought home a late breakfast for the whole family, which were hot banh te and fried cakes. While eating the cakes, he looked around at the plastic basket my mother had placed in the corner of the sidewalk, and saw rice paper, sweet soup, and rice cakes. My father laughed and teased me, saying that my mother went "to buy snacks" all over the market. If she had bought so much in the past, the house would have "hung up the pots". My mother's voice was soft, the things she bought were not simply food, but memories of the market gifts of a time of poverty. My mother bought them and was moved with longing for her children far from home. Now they are all grown up, and have been able to travel here and there to eat many delicious and strange things, but my mother believes they still enjoy these small snacks from the past.

I remember the times I went to the market with my mother when I was a child. The market only opened two or three times a month, but near Tet it doubled, concentrating in the second half of December. I remember the boat across the river to the market, "running" by the strength of people bending their backs to row. The river at that time was not as deep and wide as it is now, and no one was worried if the boat sank or capsized because the water was not as high as the head. But sitting on the boat after the market was very worrying, because if the goods fell into the river, it would be a waste of time and money. Those were the days when even a little grain of salt or drop of oil spilled, it was a heartbreaking regret. So everyone carefully gave way to each other on the boat, so that both people and goods could get home safely, without rushing or jostling.

Every time my mother or grandmother went to the market, my sisters and I would bustle out to look. Every time a ferry came, we would see people carrying baskets and carrying poles across the alley, so we would run out to look around. When my mother returned, we would rush out and chatter around, waiting for her to open the package covering the mouth of the basket, then there would be a gift. Back then, as a default action when going to the market, my mother would buy a column of banh duc to give to my grandfather. The column of banh duc was molded like a pork roll now, and smelled of banana leaves heated over a fire. Whoever brought a gift for my grandmother would eat it together until it was all gone. My grandmother only liked to dip banh duc in shrimp paste, which was a dish he could eat all his life without getting bored.

The night before going to the market, my mother prepared the things she produced at home to bring to the market to sell. Sometimes it was a few dozen eggs, a few kilos of peanuts, sometimes a few bunches of ripe bananas, a bunch of young fresh areca nuts... Then she sat down and wrote down on paper a list of the items she needed to buy, clearly so she wouldn't forget or run out. On market days, everything was available, and everything was sold cheaper than at grocery stores or grocer's shops. There, people could freely choose and bargain for items that served their daily needs. It would be easy to buy a delicious piece of meat, a fresh fish to their liking. My mother's market gifts were simply a fried cake with mung bean filling that had cooled down and was chewy; a piece of sugar cane, a taro root, a few pieces of sweet sticky rice cake mixed with the warm spicy flavor of ginger; a crispy, fragrant, sugar-scented, peanut-filled candy; A few thin green, red, purple, and yellow paper cakes that smell of butter and milk… Preparing for the new school year, the gifts will be a few new, loose-fitting clothes, a hairband with a pretty bow, a pair of plastic earrings, a rainbow pencil case… Market gifts are things that are never named on the paper that Mom folds and unfolds until it is crumpled, but Mom never forgets. Just by being a little clever in calculating, Mom can buy them. Small things but in return, they bring a whole sky of joy to Mom’s children.

Thinking about the market gifts from the time of poverty and hardship nearly 30 years ago, I suddenly feel that I am a rich person. A childhood rich in memories, rich in experiences and emotions has nurtured in me the energy to live joyfully and happily when I grow up. I love the distant memories of every time my mother came home from the market, the small house was bustling with laughter, everyone's heart was jumping with excitement.

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