Visiting the kitchen at the back of the house.

In Ho Chi Minh City during holidays, many people take advantage of the opportunity to arrange their work schedules to return to their hometowns, even if it's only a couple of hours' drive away, they still feel a pang of nostalgia.

Some people come home every month, yet when the holidays arrive, they feel a pang of longing, as if an invisible thread is pulling them back. Once home, they often don't stay inside for long; instead, their feet inevitably lead them to the backyard, to the familiar kitchen annex, where the cool breeze blows and their hearts feel light, as if all the burdens and hardships of their careers and studies have been "healed."

In the South, the dry season is scorching hot. Yet, behind the house, just hanging a hammock is enough to feel cool. The garden breeze blows through the coconut and jackfruit trees, carrying the faint scent of straw and kitchen smoke, lulling you to sleep without you even realizing it. Sometimes, after lying there for a while, you open your eyes to hear your mother calling you in for dinner.

The kitchen annex at the back of the house, or the side annex, is a familiar gathering place for the whole family (PHOTO: UT TINH'S FAMILY STORY).

The kitchen at the back of the house, or the side annex, was a familiar gathering place for the whole family. There, Mom and my older sister lovingly prepared warm, family meals. Sometimes the dishes were just a pot of sour soup with water spinach, a plate of braised fish, or a bowl of fish sauce with chili peppers, yet they held the perfect balance of salty and sweet flavors of family love. The smoke from the kitchen stung our eyes, but it was also that place that held so many memories. There were times when things weren't going well at home, and Mom would quietly go to the back of the house, wipe away her tears with the hem of her dress, and then return to prepare the meal as if nothing had happened.

The kitchen is also a place that witnesses the changes in a person's life. When a daughter first came to live with her husband's family, still feeling awkward and unfamiliar with the customs of her husband's home, she would often stand alone in the backyard, missing home and her mother. Then, as the years passed, that very place became where she stood cooking, caring for her small family, and finding peace in the sound of children playing in the yard.

In the countryside, the kitchen is more than just a place for cooking. It's also a gathering place, a place for storytelling, a place for bonding. At lunchtime, the children huddle together to eat leftover rice with broth, chatting and laughing merrily. In the evening, when Dad comes home from the fields, he stops by the kitchen to ask Mom what they're having for dinner, and while he's at it, he picks a chili pepper, gathers some vegetables, and helps Mom prepare them. In the evening, the whole family gathers around the dinner table, and the conversation flows from stories about the fields and gardens to gossip about the neighborhood.

Modern life has brought about changes to many rural homes. Gas and electric stoves have replaced wood-burning stoves; houses are built more enclosed, with fewer spacious backyards than before. But in the memories of many, the backyard kitchen remains, an indispensable part of Southern Vietnamese family life.

Perhaps that's why, every time people return to their hometown, they don't just go to visit their family and mother, but also to find that sense of peace in the kitchen. Sitting there, listening to the wind, the clinking of dishes, smelling the kitchen smoke, they naturally feel their hearts slow down amidst the hustle and bustle.

The kitchen at the back of the house – just a small corner, yet it holds so much affection. You only realize how much you miss it when you're far away, but once you do, just one return, hanging up the old hammock, hearing Mom call you for dinner, and it feels like you've never left that place.

HEAVENLY BLUE

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/ve-tham-chai-bep-sau-he-post850836.html