My village is located on the banks of the Hieu River in Cam Lo commune, a rural area with rivers, rice paddies, and ponds interspersed among alluvial soil. Besides growing corn, beans, and rice, my father also leased (paid an annual fee) additional ponds and lakes to raise fish. These ponds and lakes benefit from natural water sources flowing in from small canals. Weeds, duckweed, algae, and lush aquatic vegetation in the ponds become a rich natural food source, nurturing schools of snakehead fish, carp, grass carp, tilapia, and more.
Early on the first morning, my father would set up the pump to drain all the water from the pond. The roar of the pump echoed, and the water from the pond flowed out through the pipes, gradually revealing the soft, muddy bottom. As the water receded, the mud reflected the sunlight. The largest fish began to thrash about, signaling a bountiful harvest.
 |
| Children eagerly gather the small fish left over in the pond - Photo: DT |
When only a small amount of water remained on the surface of the pond, my father would bring his tools and dive in, beginning his "search." The mud would sink up to his calves, sometimes even up to his waist, but he would persistently follow every sound of a fish splashing.
As evening approached and the water receded, carp and grass carp lay exposed on the wet mud, their silver scales glistening. Although some tools were available, catching fish in low water was largely done by hand. With skillful and swift movements, my father grabbed the larger fish, gradually filling the green and red plastic buckets.
Although the days spent draining the pond to catch fish were hard work, the family atmosphere was very joyful thanks to the harmonious cooperation between members. The father handled the "input," while the mother took care of the "output." The largest, freshest fish were set aside, washed clean of mud, and put in basins to sell at the market. The rest the mother would give to neighbors and close relatives as a way of sending a little good fortune at the beginning of the new year.
The kitchen at home, during the days of draining the ponds, was filled with delicious dishes. There was crispy fried tilapia in tomato sauce, its crunchy crust enveloping the fragrant white flesh. Grilled snakehead fish, the smoky aroma blending with the sweet, fatty fish. Carp and catfish were braised in a savory sauce or with pickled mustard greens, the sauce thickening and becoming rich and flavorful, perfect with hot rice. The heads and tails, in particular, were marinated with spices and chili peppers, then cooked with tamarind leaves to create a refreshing, tangy, and subtly sweet flavor.
It wasn't just the adults who were busy; we kids also had our own special season whenever the whole family went to the fields to catch fish. When the water almost completely receded, the muddy puddles between the rice paddies and pond banks became a treasure trove. Tiny carp, crucian carp, eels, and snails still lingered in the muddy crevices and under the weeds, and my friends and I would hunt for them. We'd roll up our pants to our thighs, wading barefoot, carrying small baskets or old plastic containers. Whenever we spotted a slight movement in the mud, we'd all cheer, rush forward, and frantically dig in. Sometimes we'd only catch a fish the size of two fingers, but everyone would shout as if they'd just found a huge prize.
Now, every spring, I no longer follow my father into the ponds and ditches to catch fish, nor do I stand on the edge of the rice fields waiting to hear the sound of fish splashing their tails. I remember my father's sun-tanned hands, his sturdy, strong figure, his face beaming with laughter amidst the muddy rice paddies, and my mother bending over the basket, carefully selecting each fish to put into the larger basket. I remember the taste of the sweet and sour fish soup with tamarind leaves on a breezy spring day welcoming the new year.
Indeed, as time passes, memories return, lingering and becoming clearer. No matter where I go or how much I mature, my heart will always hold my homeland, my native land, with its rain and sunshine, the bustling fields, and familiar faces.
Dieu Thong
Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/van-hoa/202604/ra-dong-tat-ca-9a03b70/
Comment (0)