The beloved kitchen in winter.

Outside, the northeast monsoon wind swept in, howling against the tin roof and seeping through the cracks in the door. The last autumn leaves silently fell. The dry earth and sky welcomed a new winter. My sisters and I crawled out from under the blankets, waiting for Mother to find warm clothes.

Each of us had our teeth chattering. The wind freely crept through the house. It was so cold, a cold that clung to our dry, brittle hair, a cold that felt like someone was cutting into our flesh. Father had gotten up early and was busy in the kitchen. The flickering firelight seemed to urge us to hurry downstairs.

The dry firewood crackled and popped as it caught fire. Flames licked upwards, embracing the steaming pot of water. My sisters and I huddled together, surrounding Dad to keep warm. We warmed our hands over the fire to ward off the chill. Our chapped faces flushed red with laughter. It was so warm! That's the feeling I always remember of our old family kitchen every winter. The tiny kitchen, still thick with soot, was always brightly illuminated by the loving firelight. There was a spot piled high with dry firewood, along with several sacks of sawdust stacked in the corner.

A dark brown wooden cupboard was propped up on four bowls of water to keep ants away. The three-tiered cupboard had been there since before I was born. The bottom tier was spacious, used for storing pots and pans, bags of salt, and bottles of fish sauce, soy sauce, and vinegar. The second tier, enclosed by vertical wooden slats, held various bowls and plates, with a wicker basket for chopsticks hanging outside. The bottom tier, enclosed like a cabinet, held jars of golden lard, jars of plum blossom sugar, dried spices, and leftover food.

My favorite thing was every morning, after brushing our teeth and washing our faces with warm water, my sisters and I would gather around Dad to fry rice. Dad would sprinkle some water on the leftover rice from the day before to soften it. The dried onions that Mom kept in the basket hanging in the kitchen loft were taken out. A spoonful of solidified, white pork fat sizzled as it caught fire, the aroma of fried onions filled the air, and a few leftover pieces of crispy pork cracklings glowed golden.

The grains of rice tossed and rolled in the pan as Dad stirred them. He kept the heat low so the rice would slowly become firm, glossy, and slightly golden. The aroma of the rice, the fire, and the oil blended together, creating a fragrant, crispy dish that made everyone's mouth water. Dad scooped out three generous bowls of rice for my sisters and me, while Mom and Dad's bowls were slightly smaller. We savored our rice, never feeling full. But those were the delicious and filling winter breakfasts that kept us from feeling hungry throughout our five long school periods.

After school, all I wanted was to run home as fast as I could. In the distance, wisps of smoke rose from the small kitchen. My mother was cooking lunch. The aroma of the food wafted out, beckoning her children to hurry home. Her hands skillfully tended the fire, frying a few crispy dried fish, roasting peanuts with a sprinkle of white salt, or simply a rich, red tomato sauce… These simple dishes, infused with so much love and care, reflected her anticipation of her husband and children returning home.

When Dad and my siblings had taken their afternoon nap, Mom suggested we make some ginger candy. I was so happy, meticulously slicing old ginger by the glowing fire while watching Mom caramelize the sugar. The sugar crystals slowly melted and thickened into syrup. The whole kitchen was filled with a fragrant aroma. Mom stretched out the syrup, making it very pliable and white, then cut it into pretty little candies. By the time Dad and my siblings woke up, the candy was ready. The whole family enjoyed the spicy candies that melted in our mouths. It was Mom's warm treat to help us get through the cold season.

When my father retired, he learned the craft of making rice wine. So, throughout the winter, our kitchen was always filled with the warm, fragrant aroma of rice wine. My sisters and I loved bringing our books down to the kitchen to study while tending the fire. Each drop of the exquisite wine, distilled from precious grains, trickled down through a small copper tube into a small, dripping earthenware pot. The scent of yeast and wine intertwined, creating a rich, intoxicating aroma. The smell of sweet potatoes, cooked until tender, mingled with the scent of the potatoes buried in the hot ashes. The whole family gathered together, sharing the sweet and savory moments. My father proudly recounted stories of the battlefield. He and his comrades endured the freezing cold under the rain of bombs and bullets, yet no one ever complained. Everyone was determined to overcome all difficulties, always thinking of the glorious day of victory. In her free time, my mother taught my sisters and me how to crochet various patterns of woolen scarves, such as diamond shapes, twisted rope, squares, and rosettes...

Little hands nimbly grasped the crochet hooks, following their mother's instructions, the colorful balls of yarn glistening in the warm firelight. A blue scarf, a yellow scarf... - warmth and love were given to the recipients, and the money from selling the scarves would be used to buy new clothes, a year-end gift from their mother to her very obedient children.

But what I love most are the days of the twelfth lunar month when I return home, the kitchen bursting with hustle and bustle and warmth. Everyone is busy but happy. Dad is always stirring the fragrant pork sausage, fragrant with pepper. Mom skillfully simmers peanut candy, sesame candy, ginger jam, and star fruit jam. We children excitedly run in and out, squeezing beans, shelling peanuts, wiping leaves... helping Mom and Dad.

Taking a bite of the sweet and spicy ginger jam, or a crunchy, fragrant piece of peanut candy. The children's eyes gleam with delight; what more could they ask for? They are filled with contentment, full of joy and overflowing with happiness. No matter how gloomy the weather outside, no matter how cold the drizzle, it cannot reach my kitchen. It's always filled with the sounds of laughter and conversation, and joys beyond compare.

Time flows by, carrying with it memories; my father has passed away, and the old kitchen is no more. Winter whispers its anxieties in the cold wind. In a foreign land, I sit and reminisce about the past. The sweet, tender moments of love in that warm winter kitchen...

(According to nguoihanoi.vn)

Source: https://baophutho.vn/than-thuong-can-bep-mua-dong-226458.htm