The taste of home in memories

The taste of home begins with the flavors of childhood. For these flavors not only nourish us as we grow, but also cultivate in us a love for our homeland. From the first lullabies sung in the cradle, every country child vaguely senses and deeply feels the familiar taste of home. The taste of home is a blend of the salty sweat of a father, the sweet taste of a mother's milk, the pungent smell of mud and earth, and the acrid scent of straw smoke.

The taste of home begins with the image of my mother, toiling year-round in the soot-covered kitchen, cluttered with pots and pans. Back then, our family was very poor; meals consisted only of simple dishes, roughly chopped and stewed in salty sauce, yet so fondly remembered. Meals with pickled vegetables and salted eggplant that my mother stocked up in jars and cans; the sweet and savory taste of sweet potatoes; the rich, fragrant flavor of meat and fish in the joyful eyes of her children during family gatherings or holidays; and the "water spinach soup" and "pickled eggplant" that have become ingrained memories for those of us far from home. These flavors of home evoke nostalgia and affection, accompanying us throughout our lives.

From my mother's kitchen, the flavors of childhood are intertwined with countless traditional treats made from rice flour, glutinous rice, and corn. There's the rich, sweet, and fragrant taste of banh chung and banh tet; the sweet, soft texture of banh ngao; the delicate sweetness of banh bien; the light and refreshing taste of banh duc; and the crunchy, sesame-crusted rice crackers that crackled when bitten into, reminiscent of those distant village lanes and the image of my mother returning from the market. And then there are all sorts of candies: taffy, crispy candies, chewy candies with the sweet aroma of sugarcane syrup, a fragrance that intertwines and intertwines perfectly.

The taste of home is also found in rustic grilled dishes, cooked over a gentle fire in the fields by the buffalo-herding children. The flames crackle and blaze, but the charcoal smolders, creating the sweet aroma of shrimp, crab, and fish, the earthy sweetness of corn, and the taste of potatoes secretly dug up…

The taste of home, the flavor of childhood, begins with a scent and then dissolves into a taste. It is also from this scent that ripens the fruit in the garden of our rural days, when houses were separated by bamboo fences, not yet enclosed by high walls. The garden of childhood is a magical and rich world with countless fruits gradually ripening, appearing even in our imagination. There's the sweet and sour taste of loquat and chayote; the sweet mixed with a hint of bitterness of pomelo; the astringent taste of rambutan, the sweet and creamy taste of sim fruit… Each fruit tells a fairy tale of childhood, a nursery rhyme that lives on in the memories of the village children of those days…

The taste of home is also the sweet aroma emanating from the cool water jar at the gable end of the house, where children would drink from coconut shells whenever they were thirsty without fear of stomach aches. It's the sweet, clear taste from the moss-covered well at the edge of the village, silently holding onto the joys and sorrows of a peaceful, simple era. The sound of scooping water from the bucket echoes hauntingly in dreams. It's the bitter taste of a bowl of green tea brewed with village well water, where neighbors gather to chat during their leisure time.

The taste of home still lingers in the breeze carrying the scent of the earth after the first summer rain, in the crowing of roosters at dawn, the murmuring of children reciting their lessons, and the scent of kitchen smoke at dusk seeping through the leaves. That taste not only makes our tongues yearn for it but also stirs our hearts with nostalgia and a lingering sense of longing.

Home is a world of memories – both familiar and dear, yet distant and vague. It's a place we always long to return to when our hearts are troubled, a place where simply setting foot there and taking a breath is enough to bring peace.

And perhaps, within each of us, the feeling of home never truly disappears. It simply lies dormant somewhere, waiting for the day we quiet our hearts and realize: our homeland has never truly left us; it's just that we may have forgotten it in the hurried pace of life…

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/van-hoa-du-lich-van-hoc-nghe-thuat/van-hoc-nghe-thuat/202512/vi-que-trong-ky-uc-5a70238/