Outside, the northeast monsoon winds were rushing in, rustling on the tin roof, and seeping through the cracks in the door. The last leaves of autumn were quietly falling. The dry sky and earth were welcoming a new winter. My sisters and I crawled out from under the blankets and waited for our mother to find warm clothes.
Each of us had our teeth chattering. The wind blew freely throughout the house. It was so cold, the cold curled up into our dry hair, the cold felt like someone was cutting into our skin. Dad had gotten up early and was busy in the kitchen. The flickering fire seemed to urge us to hurry downstairs.
The crackling sound of dry wood catching fire. The flames licked high, embracing the steaming pot of water. My sisters and I sat close together, surrounding our father to keep warm. Our hands were warmed over the fire to ward off the cold. Our red, chapped faces were laughing heartily. So warm! That was the feeling I always remembered about our family’s old kitchen when winter came. The tiny kitchen was covered in soot and smoke, but was always lit by the fire of love. There was a place filled with dry wood, along with several sacks of sawdust stacked in the corner.
A dark brown wooden cupboard was placed high above four bowls of water to keep ants away. The three-tier cupboard had been there since before I was born. The airy lower tier was used to store pots and pans, bags of salt, and bottles of fish sauce, soy sauce, and vinegar. The second tier was covered with vertical wooden bars, covering bowls and plates, and a rattan basket for chopsticks hung outside. The last tier was closed, with a door that opened like a cupboard, and was used to store golden-yellow lard, jars of plum blossom sugar, dried spices, and leftovers.
What I like best is that every morning, after brushing our teeth and washing our faces with warm water, my sisters and I gather together to fry rice with our father. The cold rice from the day before will be sprinkled with a little water by our father to soften it. Some dried onions that our mother kept in a basket hanging in the kitchen are taken out. The spoonful of pork fat is solidified, white. The sound of the pork fat sizzling, the fragrant smell of fried onions, a few pieces of leftover crispy fried pork fat.
The rice grains rolled evenly on the pan as Dad stirred. The fire was kept low so that the rice would slowly become shiny and golden brown. The smell of rice, the smell of fire, and the smell of fat seemed to blend together, fragrant and crispy, making everyone crave it. Dad scooped up the rice and divided it equally among us, three full bowls, while my parents’ bowls were still small. We slowly enjoyed the small bowls of rice, but we never felt full. But those were delicious and filling winter breakfasts that kept us from feeling hungry throughout the long school year.
After school, I just wanted to run home as fast as I could. In the distance, wisps of smoke rose from the small kitchen. Mom was cooking lunch. The fragrant smell of food wafted out, beckoning her children to hurry up. Mom's hands were skillful in gathering the fire, a few crispy fried dried fish, white-flecked salted peanuts, or simply a shimmering, bright red tomato sauce... The simple dishes that Mom carefully prepared contained so much love, waiting for her husband and children to return.
When my father and siblings were taking a nap, my mother invited me to make a batch of ginger candy. I was very happy, meticulously slicing old ginger by the red-hot stove to watch my mother caramelize sugar. The sugar grains slowly melted and then glued into candy. The whole kitchen was filled with a fragrant aroma. My mother pulled the long, soft, white candy out and cut it into pretty candies. When my father and siblings woke up, the batch of candy was complete. The whole family enjoyed the spicy candies that melted in their mouths. It was a warm gift to prevent coughs that my mother gave my father and I to get through the cold season.
When my father retired, he learned how to make rice wine. So during the winter, my kitchen was always filled with fire and fragrant. My sisters and I loved to bring our books to the kitchen to tend the fire and study. Each drop of the quintessence of wine was distilled from the pearls of heaven, through the copper pipe dripping into the eel-skin jar. The aroma of yeast and wine was strong and lingering. The smell of sweet potatoes buried in hot ashes was ripe. The whole family gathered together to share the sweet and bitter. My father proudly told stories about the old battlefield. My father and his comrades were soaked in the cold under the rain of bombs and bullets, but no one complained. Everyone was always determined to overcome all difficulties, thinking about the day of glory and victory. In their free time, my mother taught my sisters and me to crochet scarves in various shapes such as diamond shapes, rope twists, square shapes, asterisks...
Little hands fidgeted with crochet hooks as mother instructed, colorful balls of wool glistened under the firelight. A blue scarf, a yellow scarf... - the warmth of love was brought to the recipients, and the money from selling the scarves would be used to buy new clothes, a year-end gift from mother to her very obedient children.
But the best days are still the days when Chap wanders around and comes back, the kitchen seems to be bustling and warm. Everyone in the family is busy but happy. Dad is always stirring the fragrant batch of pork head sausage. Mom skillfully makes peanut candy, sesame candy, ginger jam, star fruit jam. We kids run in and out to squeeze beans, peel peanuts, wipe leaves... to help our parents.
Trying a piece of sweet, spicy ginger jam, a piece of crispy, fragrant peanut candy. The children's eyes were filled with admiration, full of satisfaction and happiness. Despite the gloomy sky outside, the cold drizzle could not reach my kitchen. That place was always filled with the sound of laughter, and joy that could not be compared.
Time flies into memories, my father has gone to the land of white clouds and the old kitchen is no longer there. Winter lets the worries murmur in the cold wind. In a foreign land, I sit and count the old memories. The sweet and fragrant herbs of love in the warm winter kitchen...
(According to nguoihanoi.vn)
Source: https://baophutho.vn/than-thuong-can-bep-mua-dong-226458.htm
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