Top 6 Most Engaging Essays About Tết Đoan Ngọ

Throughout the year, two important dates stand out for the Vietnamese: Tết Nguyên Đán and Tết Đoan Ngọ.

Tết Đoan Ngọ, which originated in China, has been adopted by Vietnam and several other Asian countries. In Vietnam, it has evolved into a day for pest control and ancestor worship. Many people simply call it 'the 5th day of the 5th month.'

On this day, families perform ancestral rites to honor their forebears, pray for good weather, and wish for healthy crops. Afterwards, a festive family meal is shared, with everyone coming together like on Lunar New Year.

The preparations for the meal vary by region, but on the 5th of May, the people of Bình Thuận, particularly in Tánh Linh and Đức Linh, influenced by the Quảng Nam settlers, follow customs from their homeland. On this day, work on the farms is paused, children wear new clothes, and they play around the village. Meanwhile, women prepare ingredients for making traditional foods such as sticky rice cakes, tro cakes, bánh tét, and beverages just like during Lunar New Year.

Tro cake, a dish of Central Vietnam, is made from sticky rice soaked in lye water. It can be filled with either sweet or savory fillings, or served plain with sugar or honey.

At noon on the 5th, families set up offerings, including cakes and fruits, to honor their ancestors. Some also take the opportunity to pick medicinal leaves from their gardens to prepare herbal remedies. Following the ceremony, a family meal is enjoyed, with dishes like mì Quảng, bánh tráng cuốn thịt heo, and bánh xèo.

May 5th often coincides with rainy weather, making it the perfect time to gather by the fire and enjoy crispy bánh xèo filled with shrimp, pork, and mushrooms, served with fresh herbs and dipping sauce spiced with chili and garlic. The sounds of the sizzling pancakes and joyful conversations add to the festive atmosphere.

In contrast, people in La Gi typically celebrate the 5th of May with dishes like roast pig and bánh hỏi with duck. The duck is prepared in various ways, such as boiled with ginger sauce, stewed with bamboo shoots, or as blood pudding. The traditional belief is that eating duck, which is cooling, helps balance the body's energy during the hot month of May.

In addition to the main dishes, desserts such as chè trôi nước (sweet rice dumplings) and cơm rượu (fermented rice) are enjoyed. According to folk wisdom, eating cơm rượu on this day helps to cleanse the body of harmful pests.

The ancient belief is that the spicy taste of fermented rice, combined with the sharp kick of the alcohol, helps expel harmful parasites from the body, making cơm rượu an essential part of the pest-killing celebration.

Ngô Văn Tuấn

The 5th of May is a deeply rooted cultural day for rural people, known by various names. In my hometown of Quảng Nam, it's simply referred to as Tết Mùng Năm. Every year on this day, the villagers gather baskets to pick mùng năm leaves.

Tết Mùng Năm (the 5th day of the 5th lunar month) is a time of excitement for me, anticipating offerings and helping my mother collect leaves. When I was younger, my grandparents would wake up early to prepare fruit and cakes for the offerings. Common fruits included ripe ones from the garden such as jackfruit, papaya, and bananas, along with traditional bánh ú tro and sweet sticky rice.

Since the first or second day of the month, I'd go to the fields to harvest ripe jackfruit, careful not to let it fall and bruise. We were always told to pick one fruit each day to ensure we had ripe jackfruit by the time of the ceremony. Some years, we were fortunate enough to offer fruit straight from the tree.

By midday, my mother would take the baskets up the hill to collect the mùng năm leaves. Often, light rains would fall on the morning of the 5th, as my grandmother believed the rain cleansed the leaves for use in tea. During this time, no one would bring cattle to graze on the hill, as they feared the animals would soil the plants, rendering the leaves unsuitable for the tea.

Once the baskets were full, my mother would return to prepare the offerings, while my grandmother would begin cutting the leaves into smaller pieces to dry quickly in the sun.

On the 5th, the whole village would take to the fields for a fishing expedition, catching fish with their bare hands. The weather was often mild, with the occasional warm sunshine, yet the fish would be lethargic, some even leaping out of the water in exhaustion.

Later, my mother would again gather more mùng năm leaves—of various kinds like guava, rose apple, and others. All of these leaves would be dried and stored to make the special tea known as chè mùng năm.

The dried tea would be stored in banana leaves and placed in sacks for use throughout the year, with a distinct bittersweet taste that was known to cure various ailments. Those suffering from insomnia or digestive issues would drink a hot cup of chè mùng năm to feel instant relief.

My grandfather often joked that if a jackfruit tree failed to bear fruit or produced poor quality fruit, the tradition called for a male child to chop down the tree's root.

Although I would often argue with him, saying that the tree would bear good fruit next year, the tradition persisted, with only small branches being cut in ritual.

On the 5th, if it wasn't a holiday, I would skip school to join the youth of the village to gather medicinal plants like sa nhân, which were highly valued by herbalists and sold at a much higher price on this day. While picking, I would also collect flowers to add to the chè mùng năm for extra flavor.

Although times have changed, and the traditional customs are no longer as widely understood, we still honor Tết Mùng Năm with offerings and rituals, even if the meaning isn't as clear to the younger generation.

TRƯƠNG ANH QUỐC/TTO

With just a few days left until the 5th day of the 5th lunar month, preparations for Tết Đoan Ngọ have already started in my hometown. In the Mekong Delta, we have many simple yet delicious dishes, but for as long as I can remember, every house on this day prepares bánh xèo to offer to the ancestors. The sight and smell of bánh xèo always fills me with excitement, and no matter how old I get, I can never forget the taste of my grandmother's bánh xèo.

When I was younger, every Tết Đoan Ngọ, my mom would take us to my grandmother's house to enjoy bánh xèo. The house would be bustling with relatives coming together, and we had to arrive the day before. Everyone had a role, and it felt like a lively festival. Early in the morning, my grandmother would take the rice to the stone mill to grind it into flour. Watching her skilled hands work the mill was something I admired deeply. I tried to help by grinding the rice myself, but no matter how hard I tried, the stone mill wouldn’t budge. Everyone laughed, and my grandmother said, 'This mill is too heavy for you, my little one. When you grow up, you can grind it yourself.' So, I just helped by placing the rice into the mill.

Grandmother explained that the rice was soaked overnight, and for the best bánh xèo, you need slightly old rice, not fresh rice, because fresh rice makes the batter too soft. I wondered how long it would take to grind the entire bucket of rice, but grandmother smiled and said, 'It will be done in a little while. I do this every year, so you can enjoy it. You won’t get this in the city.' Once the flour was ground, it was placed in a large bowl, covered with heavy boards to drain excess water, and then mixed to make the batter for the bánh xèo. The batter was combined with coconut milk, finely chopped green onions, and a pinch of turmeric. The consistency had to be just right—rich, a little salty, and slightly sweet—not too thick or too runny, for the perfect bánh xèo.

The younger children would head to the garden to pick fresh herbs. The basket of herbs was always tempting: mustard greens, lettuce, mango shoots, guava leaves, wild ginger leaves, herbs, and basil. These would be used to wrap the crispy bánh xèo, dipped in a spicy fish sauce with pickled radishes and carrots.

My mom and aunts would chop coconut heart to make the filling for the bánh xèo. The filling also included thinly sliced pork belly, shrimp, and minced duck meat, all marinated with spices and stir-fried until just cooked.

My mom made the most delicious fish sauce, mixing fresh coconut water, lime, garlic, and chili. The pickled vegetables were made from shredded white and red radishes, stored separately, and added to the fish sauce just before serving. The sight of the fish sauce glistening with floating garlic and chili made my mouth water.

Grandmother would cook the bánh xèo in a large cast iron pan, bigger than my arms stretched wide. The fire from the charcoal stove crackled brightly, sending light smoke drifting through the house, making the place feel warm and cozy. Grandmother was very skilled—she’d ladle the batter into the pan, and as it sizzled, she’d gently tilt the pan so the batter spread into a perfect circle. She added the filling, and when the bánh xèo turned golden, she folded it in half and placed it on a tray lined with banana leaves. My cousins and I would gather around, admiring her work, and our mouths would water at the sound of the 'sizzle sizzle' from the hot oil and the enticing smell of crispy pancakes.

We always ate the bánh xèo by hand, tearing off a piece of the hot, crispy pancake, filled with duck, pork, shrimp, mung beans, and coconut heart, wrapped in fresh herbs, and dipped in the fish sauce with pickled vegetables. The mix of sweet, spicy, and tangy flavors was simply irresistible.

Grandmother would smile as she watched us enjoy the bánh xèo. 'If there’s no bánh xèo at Tết Đoan Ngọ, none of you would be here,' she would say, and we would all laugh and eagerly continue eating. As we ate, the sound of 'sizzle sizzle' in the pan and the crunch of the crispy bánh xèo filled the air, the fragrance of the pancakes floating through the house, making us feel connected to the warmth of our rural home.

That taste, that smell, is something I’ll never forget. The salty and sweet flavors of the bánh xèo, the warmth of the fire, the laughter of my relatives—it all lingers in my heart. Now, as I grow older and life gets busier, I realize how much I miss those simple, heartfelt moments. I understand now why my relatives living abroad always ask for bánh xèo when they return home. Tết Đoan Ngọ this year, my sisters and I plan to gather at mom’s house and make bánh xèo. Although the process has become simpler over the years, with premade flour mixes instead of soaking rice overnight and grinding it in a stone mill, the excitement and joy are still there. My older sister can still make delicious fish sauce, though it’s not as rich as mom’s. My younger sister can make perfectly round pancakes, but they don’t look quite as perfect as grandmother’s. Things are different now, but the love and warmth are still the same.

As I serve the bánh xèo for offering to our ancestors, my sisters and I gather around, sharing stories of the past with our children. Watching them eagerly devour the bánh xèo, I say, 'Take it easy, there’s plenty more to eat tomorrow.' My older sister laughs, 'You sound just like grandmother!' I smile, feeling my eyes well up with emotion.

I miss home, I miss the creaking sound of the stone mill, I miss grandmother’s gentle, loving voice, I miss the warmth of the charcoal stove, and I miss the sizzling sound of bánh xèo in the hot pan. The bánh xèo of old, rich with the flavor of home, is only a memory now. Grandmother is gone, and so is my mother, who has spent many Tết Đoan Ngọs without her. But they will always live on in my heart, and the taste of bánh xèo will always remind me of them. Grandma, we miss you so much. We miss your bánh xèo, which we can’t find anymore.

Huyền Văn

In Vietnam, the 5th day of the 5th lunar month is celebrated as Tết Đoan Ngọ, commonly known as the Day to Kill Pests, a day to eradicate harmful insects from crops in the fields.

For me, however, Tết Đoan Ngọ is forever linked with sweet childhood memories. These memories have remained vivid over the years. Every summer, when the scent of roses fills the air and the plump, ripe plums—like the lips of a young girl—are sold at the morning market, I can't help but think of my grandmother. I remember the fragrant sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaves and the red-dyed nails from the leaves of the 'móng' tree. I remember when grandmother was still with me on Tết Đoan Ngọ...

Decades ago, on this day, grandmother would wake me and my brother early. As dawn broke, my mother would head to the garden to pick a few bunches of starfruit leaves and gently dust them over our heads, saying: 'Kill the pests, kill the pests.' We didn't brush our teeth, and we ate a few plums and spoons of sticky rice wine, even though we usually had a proper breakfast of rice or eggs... Was this perhaps the ancient 'pest-killing' ritual?

Another tradition on this day was dyeing the fingernails and toenails with the 'móng' leaves. I once asked my grandmother about it. She was like a walking encyclopedia of folk wisdom, always ready with an answer. With a piece of dried betel nut and a slice of root, she explained, 'Long ago, when people spent a lot of time in the fields, their nails would get dirty and stained from being in water all day. To solve this problem, the practice of dyeing nails with the 'móng' leaves became widespread, passed down from one generation to the next.'

The day before, my mother would go to the garden wall to pick the leaves for dyeing. My grandfather had a 'móng' tree there, its leaves smaller and denser than the regular variety. Dyeing with 'móng' leaves would turn the nails a vibrant red, while the regular leaves would give a duller, yellowish hue.

That afternoon, my grandfather would use a bamboo pole to reach the leaves, handing them down to us. I would carefully collect the green, hexagonal leaves, stacking them neatly. These leaves were essential for creating perfect nails, as grandmother always said, 'Using the wrong leaves will result in uneven color.'

After dinner, my grandfather would set up a bamboo mat outside, warming the tea leaves as we relaxed in the evening cool. My mother prepared the lotus leaves and sticky rice wine for the morning market. Grandmother, my brother, and I would get to work on 'beautifying' our nails. She carefully stripped each leaf, removing the yellow ones, and pounded the green ones in a mortar. After the paste was ready, she gently applied it to our nails, making sure not to let any excess spill over, as this would ruin the color. Once the dye was applied, she wrapped our fingers tightly with 'vông' leaves and secured them with rubber bands.

That night, I couldn't sleep, feeling nervous that the dye would come off. The next morning, after removing the leaves and washing away the brownish residue, we had beautiful, vibrant red nails. I remember how excited I was—just like receiving new clothes for the New Year!

This year, I brought my children back to the village. They were woken early for plums and sticky rice wine, just like I was, but somehow, the experience didn't fill the void in my heart. Looking at their gel-red nails, I remembered grandmother. Unfortunately, she's no longer with us, just like the 'móng' tree and 'vông' leaves that used to be in the backyard...

Hoa Diên Vỹ

Tết Đoan Ngọ… a time from my childhood filled with anticipation and excitement. The excitement for this day is only second to the New Year celebrations.

Every year, I would begin counting down from the first day of the month, when my mother bought ripe bananas from the market to offer on the family altar. I'd ask her, 'Is today the 5th of May, Mom?' eagerly waiting for her to say yes, though I already knew the answer. It was a strange, yet comforting ritual. From that moment on, I would quietly relive the memories of last year's Tết Đoan Ngọ and dream of the coming one.

On the morning of the 4th, my mother would leave early for the market. If I wasn’t too sleepy, I would follow her to see the bundles of 'móng' leaves for sale. I was thrilled to bring a branch of these leaves back home, carefully placing it under the bed to keep it fresh. Then, I would skip over to my friend's house, calling her from the gate, 'Thi, did your mom buy the leaves yet? Let’s go pick the vông leaves!' We would gather leaves while chatting about the plans for the next day, deciding which of our friends to invite to the tradition of throwing stones into the well. But to do so, we first had to find the right pieces of broken pottery and smooth stones from the yard or pond.

That evening, I would pound the 'móng' leaves in a small stone mortar, and my younger siblings would gather around, eagerly watching. Next to us, the vông leaves and banana fibers were ready. My mother would carefully take each child's hand, starting with the youngest, and gently apply the crushed 'móng' leaves to our nails. After that, she would wrap the vông leaves around the nails and secure them with banana fibers, ensuring they stayed in place even while we slept. Since I was the oldest girl, I also got the treatment on my toenails, which I absolutely loved.

For the rest of the night, I would carefully hold my hands, feeling the texture of the leaves on my nails. I couldn’t do much with my hands wrapped, but I enjoyed it immensely. Before bed, I would glance at the stones, reminding my grandmother to wake me up early the next day.

On any other day, my grandmother's calls wouldn't wake me up, but on the 5th of May, she only needed to call softly, and I would spring out of bed. The sky was still dark outside as I eagerly lit the lamp, holding my breath as I removed the leaves. My nails were a perfect shade of red, and I couldn’t have been happier. I gathered the stones and rushed to meet the other children. We stood silently, knowing that speaking would ruin the magic of the wishes we were about to make. Once everyone had arrived, we quietly walked to the village well, each of us stepping down one by one to toss our stones in, silently wishing for something we deeply believed in. We never really knew if our wishes came true, but every year, we made them anyway.

When I returned home, the sky was just starting to lighten. I sat on the porch, waiting for my mother to bring fruits to offer for pest control. The moment I saw her approaching the gate, I rushed inside to wake my siblings, excitedly helping them remove the leaves from their nails, comparing whose nails looked the brightest and most beautiful. My mother would often buy plums and mangoes, and if there was time, she would also make sticky rice wine. The plums were sometimes sour or a little bitter, and the mangoes could be sweet or sour. Despite the sourness, we ate them eagerly, even though our stomachs were empty, and never got a stomach ache.

As I ate, I couldn’t help but admire the vivid red of my nails, both on my hands and feet. The skin around them was a darker red, like betel juice stains, which wasn’t very pretty, but it didn’t matter. A few days of washing with soap would make it disappear, leaving only my red nails, which would never fade. As my nails grew, the red color would push upwards. Over time, my nails would return to their original color when the red was completely overtaken by the white.

By mid-morning, around 8 or 9 a.m., I would help my mother with preparations for the midday ancestor offering. Occasionally, I’d sneak out to see how my friends’ nails looked, comparing them with mine.

Now, every year during Tết Đoan Ngọ, I remember my childhood with great fondness. My village no longer has the 'móng' tree, and the children no longer dye their nails, nor do they have time to search for stones and pottery shards to make wishes like we did back then. For today’s children, Tết Đoan Ngọ has lost its magic. I can’t help but feel a little sad and nostalgic thinking about it.

Bùi Yến

The Tết Đoan Ngọ of my childhood was a day filled with joy and beauty. Every year, as soon as the lunar May arrived, we children eagerly awaited this holiday, hoping for delicious treats, while the adults busied themselves preparing offerings for the festival.

Back then, my village was still very poor, and it wasn’t until the 4th of May that my mother would go to the market to sell chickens, ducks, pumpkins, and gourds, so she could buy the necessary ingredients for the holiday feast. The Tết Đoan Ngọ meal was always a lavish spread. In addition to rice, soup, fish, meat, sweet porridge, sticky rice, tea, and wine, cakes and fruit were essential offerings. My father used to say that Tết Đoan Ngọ was just as sacred as Tết Nguyên Đán. It was also a time for the family to reunite after months of hard work. Once the offerings were laid out on the family altar, my father would light the incense and offer prayers. I stood with my hands clasped, waiting for him to finish the ritual. The scent of incense mixed with the aroma of fruit, tea, and wine created a sacred, solemn fragrance that has remained in my heart ever since.

After the ceremony, we all gathered around the meal. It was a warm and joyful family moment, filled with chatter and laughter. Once the meal was over, my father would ask me to climb the breadfruit tree while he stood below, hacking at the tree trunk with a machete. 'Breadfruit! Will you bear fruit for me?' he’d yell. 'Yes, Father, I will!' I’d shout back from the tree. He’d ask, 'Will it be a lot or a little?' 'A lot, Father.' 'You better remember that! If you don’t have fruit next year, I’ll cut you down!' 'Don’t worry, Father, I’ll bear plenty of fruit!' Afterward, he would prune the branches, removing the old and withered ones. It was a scene repeated in every household in the village—everyone was busy preparing for the holiday. And oh, the joy of it all!

Next, my father would lead us to gather the 'mùng năm' leaves, while my mother stayed home to clean. At that time, everyone in the village went to pick these leaves, rushing to gather them before noon, for after that, the leaves would lose their medicinal powers. We children were always the happiest at this point, shouting and calling dibs on the best leaves. 'This bunch is mine!' 'That one is mine!' It seemed that every plant in nature was considered a remedy, and everyone wanted to collect something. But my father was selective. He would only pick familiar herbs like mâm xôi leaves, vằng leaves, tơ hồng vines, lăng roots, mugwort, gấu grass, and others that were known to treat many ailments. Once the leaves were collected, he and my mother would chop them up and dry them under the sun to make a medicinal tea.

As time passed, my siblings and I grew up and moved away, and we were rarely home for Tết Đoan Ngọ. Our parents would often sit by the offering table, feeling lonely, as the years went by. But what could we do?

Now, as I reflect on those early May days, I wish I could return to that childhood time, to walk with my father to gather 'mùng năm' leaves, to enjoy the sweet fruits—breadfruit, plums, guavas—from the cool village garden with my parents.

Phạm Văn Hoanh