Dear winter kitchen

Outside, the northeast monsoon was rushing in, fluttering on the tin roof, and seeping through the cracks in the door. The last autumn leaves quietly let themselves fall. The dry sky and earth welcomed a new winter. My sisters and I crawled out from under the blankets to wait for our mother to find warm clothes.

Everyone's teeth were chattering. The wind blew freely throughout the house. It was so cold, the cold brushed against 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 always lit up by the fire of love. There was a place filled with dry wood, along with several sacks of sawdust stacked up in the corner.

A dark brown wooden cupboard was placed high above four bowls of water to keep ants away. The three-tiered 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, vinegar, etc. The second tier was covered with vertical wooden bars, covering dishes, and a rattan basket for chopsticks hung outside. The last tier was closed, with a door that opened like a cupboard, used to store golden-yellow lard, a jar of plum blossom sugar, dried spices, and preserved foods.

What I like most 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. A spoonful of solidified, white lard. The sound of the lard catching fire and sizzling, the fragrant smell of fried onions, and a few pieces of leftover crispy fried pork.

The rice grains rolled evenly on the pan as Dad stirred. The heat was kept low so the rice would slowly become shiny and golden brown. The smell of rice, the smell of fire, and the smell of fat blended together, fragrant and crispy, making everyone crave it. Dad scooped up the rice and divided it equally among us, three full bowls, while our 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 year of long school hours.

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 aroma of the food wafted out, beckoning her children to hurry up. Mom's hands were skillful in gathering the fire, a couple of crispy fried dried fish, white-flecked salted peanuts, or simply a shimmering, bright red tomato sauce... Simple dishes that Mom carefully prepared, filled with 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 ginger candy. I was very happy, carefully slicing old ginger by the red-hot stove to watch my mother caramelize sugar. The sugar slowly melted and 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 candy was done. The whole family enjoyed the spicy candy that melted in their mouths. It was a warm gift to help my father and I 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 wine was distilled from heavenly pearls, dripping down the copper pipe 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 sour. My father proudly told stories about the old battlefield. He 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 of 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 following mother's instructions, colorful balls of wool glittered under the firelight. A blue scarf, a yellow scarf... - the warmth and love were 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 we wander back home in the twelfth lunar month, 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 is skillfully making 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 filled with admiration, full of satisfaction and happiness. Despite the gloomy sky outside, the cold drizzle cannot reach my kitchen. That place is always filled with the sound of laughter, and joy that cannot be compared.

Time flies away into memories, my father has gone to the land of white clouds and the old kitchen is no longer there. Winter lets its worries murmur in the cold wind. In a foreign land, I sit and count the old memories. The sweet and fragrant love in the warm winter kitchen...

(According to nguoihanoi.vn)

Source: https://baophutho.vn/than-thuong-can-bep-mua-dong-226458.htm