Whenever I think back to my childhood, what comes to mind isn't the noisy television or the blaring car horns, but the crackling sound of dry firewood, the bubbling of rice, and the fragrant smell of kitchen smoke filling the air.
Back then, our kitchen was just a small, makeshift structure built from bamboo and reeds, with mud walls and a roof made of old palm leaves. The stove was made of clay, and my mother piled dry firewood under it. Every time she cooked rice, she had to sit close to the stove, fanning and adjusting the fire to keep it even. Smoke billowed everywhere, and my mother's eyes were red, but her face always shone brightly in the warm firelight. I would often run around her, picking up firewood, catching the smoke with my hands, and giggling as if I had just discovered a new game.
Rice cooked over a wood fire has a unique aroma. It's infused with the scent of fire, smoke, freshly harvested rice, and even my mother's salty sweat. Sometimes, she would intentionally let a layer of rice burn at the bottom of the pot. The burnt rice was golden brown, crispy, and made a delightful crunching sound as I chewed it. On cold winter days, sitting by the stove, eating hot rice with some dried fish stewed in chili sauce, filled my heart with warmth.
The smoke from the kitchen stove accompanied my mother and me through those difficult years. Meals mixed with noodles and potatoes; thin porridge my mother cooked when the harvest failed; plates of wild vegetables hastily gathered after an afternoon rain... All of them carried the salty taste of sweat and the sweet taste of my mother's love.
Growing up, I left my village and went to the city to study and work. The meals in my small, cramped rented room made me intensely long for the smell of the kitchen smoke from my hometown. On rainy days, sitting alone by the window, I would close my eyes and imagine myself sitting by the old kitchen, my mother busily tending to the bubbling pot of rice, the smoke stinging my eyes but filling my heart with warmth.
Once, when I went back to my hometown, I deliberately asked my mother if I could light a wood-burning stove. She said, "These days, gas and electric stoves are so convenient; who still cooks with wood?" But faced with my pleading gaze, she relented. I clumsily tried to light the fire, the smoke stinging my eyes. My mother sat beside me, fanning the flames and laughing, "See how hard it is, my child?" Yet, amidst the flickering smoke and flames, I suddenly felt a sense of relief; all my worries seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving only memories of my childhood.
Every time I think back to my childhood, I remember the wood-burning stove, the rice my mother cooked, and the lingering scent of smoke that enveloped my young soul like a warm blanket. That smoky scent didn't just cling to my hair and clothes; it seeped deep into my flesh and the beat of my heart. And so, no matter how far I travel or how much I wander, just one encounter with the smell of wood smoke is enough to make me feel like a child again, wanting nothing more than to rush home, embrace my mother, and share a meal steeped in the smoky aroma of those bygone days.
Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/thuong-mui-khoi-bep-post327757.html
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