My grandmother's garden grows a variety of vegetables and fruits year-round, and the soil is especially suitable for beans: green beans, broad beans, kidney beans... White beans, in particular, are almost completely free of pests and diseases. Year after year, at the beginning of September, my grandmother would till the soil and plant beans.
The white bean plants quickly sprouted new shoots, each tender bud vying to reach high into the winter breeze. Occasionally, I would help Grandma prune the shoots to encourage the plant to branch out, bloom, and bear abundant fruit. The young beans, laden with fruit, were harvested by Grandma and boiled or stir-fried—both were dishes the whole family loved.
Around the end of November in the lunar calendar, when the beans have exhausted all their nutrients to nourish the plump seeds, the bean stalks begin to dry and wither. The villagers harvest the beans, separate the shells, dry them, and store them carefully for use throughout the year.
Dried white beans cooked with brown sugar create a fragrant and refreshing sweet dessert. Occasionally, when my grandmother found pork bones or trotters at the market, she would simmer them with the white beans until tender. But what I looked forward to most was the candied beans she made first to offer to our ancestors, then to treat guests and for the whole family to enjoy during Tet (Lunar New Year).
The last days of December were bitterly cold, and the garden was damp. Occasionally, on a sunny day, Grandma would bring out a whole basket of dried white beans that she had saved to air dry.
Around the 27th of the twelfth lunar month, my grandmother would meticulously remove any tough or bad beans, then wash them thoroughly with water. After washing, she would soak the beans for a few hours until they swelled, wash them again, and then boil them in a pot with a little salt, making sure the water completely covered the beans.
Occasionally, Grandma would stir the beans with a ladle and check to add more water if needed. Depending on the size of the beans, she would adjust the cooking time until they were tender but not mushy. After boiling, she would remove the beans and let them drain.
Next came the sugar marinating process. My grandmother's hands moved swiftly, layering the beans with sugar, then another layer of beans, then another layer of sugar, in a ratio of one kilogram of beans to half a kilogram of sugar. This way, the beans absorbed the sugar evenly and avoided the need to stir or toss, which could easily crush them and ruin their appearance. I often saw my grandmother marinate the beans overnight.
Early the next morning, Grandma busied herself lighting a fire to simmer the beans. Initially, she used a large fire until it boiled, then reduced the amount of firewood to a simmer. The dark yellow sugar syrup melted, the firewood crackled, and the aroma of the jam began to fill the kitchen.
When the sugar syrup has almost evaporated and the beans become translucent, reduce the heat to very low and stir gently to prevent the beans from breaking. Simmer for about half an hour, testing the beans to see if they are slightly crispy when done. Add the fragrant powder and turn off the heat. After removing from the heat, gently shake the pan to ensure the jam is completely dry. Pour the beans onto a tray, spread evenly, and let cool completely before transferring to an airtight jar.
Every year, even before Tet (Lunar New Year) arrived, my grandmother would set aside a jar of it and say, "Let the grandchildren eat it first, otherwise they'll be waiting around like fools!" The jam had a distinctive aroma of beans, ginger, and wood smoke, along with the scent of my grandmother's betel nut and all the love an elderly person has for their children and grandchildren.
Source: https://baoquangnam.vn/vi-tet-tu-mut-dau-vuon-nha-3147729.html
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