In every drop of homemade wine

(GLO) - Beneath the village bamboo groves, as the sun's intensity fades and the late afternoon light recedes from the low-lying houses, the wind blows from the fields, carrying the scent of young rice in December, the smell of alluvial soil long preserved in the earth, sweet and gentle like the breath of the countryside.

The bamboo groves stand there, deep green, mature, and resilient, as if they have weathered countless seasons of change, maintaining their form and sheltering my village. Beneath their shade, people slow down, their hearts easily settle, and they easily recall memories that seemed to have been dormant for a long time.

The land of Nhon Hoa, my hometown in An Nhon, where I was born, always evokes such a sense of wistful longing in me!

My house, built in 1973, nestles beside a bamboo grove, its tiled roof covered in moss, its walls darkened by the weathering of traditional brickwork. I am fortunate to have been born in the Go Sanh region, a land once renowned for its pottery, a place where the earth still holds traces of a distant imperial capital.

This land has witnessed a thousand years of Champa history with its ancient, silent towers, then the Tay Son dynasty with its Imperial Citadel, and the hooves of horses stirring up historical waves. Countless people have come and gone, countless dynasties have risen and fallen, but the land remains here, silently holding onto memories in the gentle aroma of its wine.

A homeland steeped in castles and fortifications must have wine. Drinking wine in that land, beneath that bamboo grove, each sip seems to seep in another layer of time, slowly spreading deep into one's heart.

Bamboo from Gò Sành. Photo: TBP

I have an older friend who loves his hometown so much that every time he talks about it, a whole distant past comes flooding back. He remembers the names of the hamlets, the wells, the small river winding behind the bamboo groves, and even place names that he thought had faded with time.

For him, those names were coordinates of memory, landmarks to establish his identity as a village. He himself told me that no matter how things change, the village will always be the village, the bamboo will still stand there, the river that flows through our childhoods, whether it's my house or yours, no one can change that…

It was he, many years ago, who initiated the meeting: "Let's get together sometime, under the bamboo grove in your village, and have a good drink of Bau Da rice wine. I really like this bamboo grove. Sitting on the earthen ground of Go Sanh, surrounded by cool, old bamboo, in such a peaceful rural setting, and with the wine, it's absolutely fantastic."

Sitting in the shade of my hometown, I hear the rustling of bamboo in the wind, like the whisper of time rubbing against the ramparts of memory, and I can't count how many drinking sessions with friends have taken place here.

On those occasions, Bau Da rice wine was poured into small, clear, shimmering glasses. The first sip flowed down the throat, spicy and hot, then gradually warming. This local wine didn't rush to make one drunk. It seemed to allow one to stay sober enough to remember.

And for me, "remember" is a whole sky full of cherished memories from the past. It's about sneaking out of naps at noon to catch cicadas by the bamboo grove, about going searching for water snakes and gathering firewood during the flood season when the yard was full of water; about evenings when the power went out, children lying scattered in the yard listening to adults tell old stories, and when they got bored, they'd go play slingshot games.

What I remember most are the days of the Lunar New Year when my mother was still alive. She would personally make all sorts of candied fruits and cakes, stirring the dough until it was soft and sticky, shaping each piece into a neat square, and we would sit beside her, inhaling the aroma. The scent of New Year's cakes sizzling in the pan permeated our senses, clinging to even the innocent dreams of our childhood.

One day at the end of the twelfth lunar month, my two friends and I sat together by the old house, leaning against the familiar, quiet bamboo grove. We called each other friends, but the two of them were more than 20 years older than me. Yet, during this drinking session, all roles were set aside, leaving only kindred spirits, addressing each other with simple, unadorned terms like brothers…

Conversation followed conversation, wine flowed through the bamboo walls, and suddenly the world seemed to expand. The distant, dreamlike horizons of days gone by, as if torn open, rushed in, turning even the sober into delirious beings, yet still retaining the lucidity of those who had experienced much hardship.

At that drinking session, I brought out a bottle of yellow chrysanthemum wine, a wine that evokes memories of quiet moonlit nights spent passing through the chrysanthemum-growing region of An Nhon. In my memory, the chrysanthemums of December appear dreamlike under the silvery moonlight.

These small, deep yellow petals bravely endure the cold to offer the first blossoms of spring. Hoàng Hoa Tửu (Yellow Flower Wine) is made from these very petals, soaked in Bàu Đá glutinous rice wine, aged in earthenware jars, and kept in a sheltered corner of the veranda for years.

Upon opening the bottle, the floral aroma immediately blends with the pungent, smooth scent of the wine, lingering on the lips and tongue; a subtle sweetness spreads, gently flowing down the stomach, a strangely delightful sensation. Taking a sip, it feels like inhaling an entire past moonlit season, an entire countryside quietly transitioning into spring.

We sipped slowly, speaking to each other in hushed tones, sometimes falling silent together, with only the sound of the wind rustling through the bamboo and the chirping of insects as evening fell.

As the moon rose, its light filtered through the bamboo grove, dappling the undulating mounds of earth in the garden, and falling upon faces weathered by the sun and wind of life. The wine was smooth on the lips. Everyone felt a pleasant lightness, the comforting lightness of returning home, finding their rightful place, where the heart suddenly found peace.

In the late moonlight, the bamboo grove still stood there. The earth of Gò Sành remained silent beneath our feet, quietly supporting our frail shadows in our homeland.

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/tren-tung-giot-ruou-que-nha-post579925.html