Top 10 Best Essays on Mustard Flowers

After the Lunar New Year, we went back to our hometown. The village was most lively during this time as preparations for the ancestral ritual were underway. This ritual, celebrated more than the New Year itself, gathers all the children and grandchildren from far and wide to honor their ancestors. During this period, the village is filled with the golden hue of mustard flowers. Each small garden, though modest, would carry a trace of yellow, glimmering in the warm spring sunshine.

I still remember that house, a small cottage by the dike, where a narrow path formed by grass led to the old teacher’s house, which looked most beautiful at this time of year. People used to say the teacher’s house was strange. Despite the fact that it was just the two of them, with little to eat or drink, every year they planted an entire mustard garden. The vegetables never finished, and the garden would bloom with mustard flowers.

I was always curious about this but never had a chance to ask. Every time I visited my hometown, I would drop by the teacher’s house, sometimes bringing magazines, sometimes books of poetry, and we would chat about literature for hours.

One day, while drinking green tea and nibbling on candied fruits, we discussed mustard flowers. The teacher’s garden was expansive, and his wife would go to the market every day, picking vegetables like morning glory and water spinach, but she never sold the mustard flowers. They grew lush and full. We talked about the color of this simple flower. I could never understand why the golden color of the mustard flowers brought a sense of lingering sadness, perhaps because it bloomed when spring had already passed, leaving a feeling of something unfinished. The teacher simply smiled at that. He said that in the countryside, no matter how long someone had been away, the sight of the yellow mustard flowers always felt familiar, as they were the flowers of home, symbols of longing and yearning, and despite filling the fields, they carried a sorrowful, endless feeling.

Is there a color that signifies longing? I asked. At first, the teacher laughed: 'Planting mustard is for both sustenance and to grow flowers for my wife.' His wife loved mustard flowers, so he waited for the season to gift her an entire garden of blooms. But after getting closer to them, I understood there was a sad story behind this garden of mustard flowers: when the teacher's wife received the news of her only son's death during the border war of February 1979, she collapsed and could not recover. When she finally woke up, she saw the figure of her son in the garden, surrounded by the bright yellow mustard flowers. From then on, every winter, they planted mustard flowers. The path leading to their house would always be covered in yellow mustard flowers every spring. Now I understand why the golden mustard flowers carry such melancholy, as if they hold on to something, waiting, yearning, and lingering.

I left with the teachers' memories in my heart. The images of the yellow mustard flowers in my computer still bring me back to that feeling. Now I understand why there is a color called longing, and why the golden mustard flowers seem so melancholic. Their color holds on, waits, and brings a bittersweet feeling that stirs the heart. In the end, every creature in this world holds a message, a deep meaning for those who love them. Just like mustard flowers, simple and rustic, yet they are the teacher and his wife’s favorite flower.

Lâm Lâm

It’s now the season of mustard flowers. The season that makes me, a man approaching thirty, remember with a fervor that borders on obsession. A season from my past that once captivated me, nurturing the soul of my childhood with fields of vibrant yellow memories. The flood of memories brings me back to those childhood days. Who will go with me to visit the mustard flower field?!

That was the most beautiful field in my memory. It wasn’t a vast expanse, as wide as a rice field, nor as endless as a cornfield. It was simply a small, charming field, gently sloping along the riverbank, beside the calm flowing waters. There was no need to pick a special day or month—whenever the weather cooled, my mother would sow the mustard seeds. After the seedlings sprouted and grew lush green, a few cold winds later, the field would burst into a magical golden color.

The footprints of my childhood are imprinted all over the mustard field, soaked into the riverbank sand, beside the mustard plants swaying in the breeze. I remember the mornings when the dew was still sleepy, and I would follow my mother to water the plants. The mustard would smile as it absorbed the clear river water, and I would smile back as it greeted me. My mother, always indulgent with her youngest child, bought me a tiny umbrella from the blacksmith. I was overjoyed, thinking I was a true farmer, though my friends laughed when they saw me “lost” among the flowers. I didn’t care, for I felt happiness every morning, taking responsibility for the mustard plants I tended.

The mustard field carried with it memories of joy, sorrow, and hard work. The villagers were never hesitant to share their stories. It was the everyday, simple things—the worries after each harvest, wondering if the rice would fetch a good price. I could see the sincerity in their faces, no deceit or scheming to achieve something grand or trivial. Everything became love beside the mustard flower field. In the dry heat of the season, the mustard flowers bloomed in bright, golden glory, bringing forth hues of hope. The neat green mustard rows, dotted with clusters of proud little buds, beckoned. I had left my buffalo behind as I stood among the mustard flowers, lost in a dreamlike world where the field felt both real and fantastical. I couldn’t take a step away from the purity of this field. We, the children of the village, rushed into the field, embracing the yellow flowers, inhaling their fragrance deeply. The girls giggled as they fashioned mustard stalks into bride and groom dolls, while the boys played amateur photographer, cupping their hands around their eyes to direct their friends into poses. We created countless shapes, and the laughter echoed through the entire space.

The mustard flower field wove sweet, innocent, and pure memories. Like the mustard flowers from the village, we grew up simply, without complaints or demands. Then, when far from home, the mustard flowers faded into a distant, unending stream of golden memories. When tired and weary, I long to return to the mustard flower field, to release all the sorrows and burdens of my heart. Who will go with me to visit the mustard flower field? Just for a little while, to relive those memories. Whether in the chilly winter rain or the dry, crisp sunshine, the mustard flowers will always bloom brightly, offering warmth to the cold hearts of those far from home.

Essay by MAI HOÀNG

There is a flower with a simple name: the mustard flower. In the spring sunlight, it stands like a pure village girl, showing off its vibrant yellow petals, gently swaying in the breeze. One afternoon, wandering along the Mã River, I came across a stunning patch of mustard flowers by the riverbank, their bright yellow hue stirring memories of long-lost times...

As the fresh spring sun's rays warm the earth, the delicate mustard sprouts begin to bloom. The air seems to come alive, as the mustard rows stretch out joyfully in the new sunlight, emerging from their winter slumber. When the sky warms, the mustard flowers bloom in full golden splendor. The wind carries a faint scent of this quintessential countryside flower, lingering with every step you take. Even though you may walk far, the sweet fragrance and the tiny specks of yellow in the sunset are impossible to forget...

For me, I cannot recall when it all began, but the mustard flower has always been tied to my nostalgic thoughts of the past, where the river runs through my childhood village. It is a place where we played hide-and-seek among the vast mustard fields by the riverbanks. The flowers seem as fragile as butterfly wings, fluttering gently into my dreams on those moonlit nights. This is where we, the children, would pretend to get married, innocently placing yellow petals in our hair, only for them to fall off with each step, just like the flowers that slipped from the hands of the girl next door. I can still remember how she cried when the flower crowns disappeared, and I feel the same regret when I think back to those days...

I often dream of returning to my childhood, to the endless mustard flower fields, to the golden shores of the river. My heart feels a flutter as I remember those days of watering and picking pests in the mustard fields, and how, on the way home, the scent of flowers and earth would weave itself into my clothes, leaving a fragrance that lingered in every step. Surrounded by the vastness of flowers, I felt so small, and the troubles of the world seemed to disappear, leaving only the enchanting yellow hue and a deep, lingering sense of longing...

In my hometown, the mustard flowers are beginning to bloom in full splendor. As I walk by the riverbank, I can hear the soft melody of a song from years ago, "There is a season when mustard flowers bloom yellow along the riverbanks..." and my heart calms. The little girl I knew back then has since married, and now, only the mustard flowers remain, as they do every year...

TRẦN ĐỨC TUẤN

I was born in a countryside where the riverbanks are bathed in the warm golden light of the sun. The wind swirls, carrying the sweet fragrance of blooming mustard flowers. I find myself drawn back to my mother’s distant fields, filled with a longing that intertwines with beautiful memories of the golden mustard blooms across the seasons.

Among all the varieties of mustard, it is the mustard stalk that captivates me most with its beauty. The mustard plant, dressed in vibrant green leaves, with its white stems and golden flowers, stretches across the riverbanks or the endless rice fields that seem to meet the horizon. I am mesmerized by the wild, pure, and irresistible beauty of these plants. The mustard stalks are plump, with buds that bloom into delicate flowers overnight, their yellow stamens glowing brightly in the warm spring breeze. The petals are thin, soft, and fluttering, infusing the first month of the year with vibrancy. Yellow and white butterflies flutter joyfully in the air, embodying the energy of the season. If you’re keen, you’ll notice the sweet, earthy scent of the alluvial soil, and the tangy, sharp aroma of sweat—the essence of the countryside—carrying you through the mustard fields as you inhale deeply, savoring the moment.

In January, the mustard flowers are at their peak. They bloom, offering their fragrance to all – to you, to me, and to life itself. These flowers, glowing with the color of sunlight, symbolize warmth and boundless energy, thriving in the face of the winter cold and patiently waiting to bloom and bear fruit. The mustard flower embodies the pure, graceful beauty of a village girl, rising from deep reverence and love, sparking hope in humanity's kindness.

My grandmother used to say that when my mother gave birth to me, the mustard flowers bloomed brightly, shining with golden radiance amidst the harsh winter cold. The day I started first grade, my mother woke up at dawn with the rooster, taking the mustard flowers to the market five kilometers away to buy books and clothes for me. The mustard flowers wilted under the midday sun, carrying the weight of my mother’s burdens, each step soaked in the sorrow of sun and rain. How lonely they seemed in the busy market... When I left for college, my mother said, "You’re growing up so fast, just like the mustard flowers blooming and bearing seeds." I reluctantly bid her goodbye, and the golden mustard flowers seemed to wave, bidding me farewell, eagerly waiting for my return. My mother, fragile like a sliver of sunlight, faded away in the twilight. It’s true: as a child, I longed to grow up quickly, to fly freely, to explore the vast world. But now, as an adult, I find myself missing those beautiful childhood days, longing for those golden, warm seasons with my mother.

When I first experienced love, and my first heartbreak came, the world seemed to collapse. I, the girl with eyes like the sun, wept bitterly, my heart aching. I missed my mother, I missed the tall casuarinas along the riverbank, the sound of the kites soaring in the wind, and the peaceful mustard fields turning gently in the breeze. I clung to my mother’s frail shoulders, finding strength again.

I have lived through many seasons of golden mustard flowers: the season of growing up, the season of studying, the season of seeking happiness as life flows on. Now, standing in a foreign land, surrounded by golden mustard fields under the white snow, my heart aches with longing for my mother’s mustard-crab soup, the crispy pickled vegetables during the Lunar New Year, and the overwhelming nostalgia that carries me back to my childhood, back to the golden mustard fields.

My mother, tireless, worked the fields, like a mustard flower soaking in the sunlight. She instilled hope in us, her children, as we grew full of life from the fertile earth. She nurtured my childhood, filled with freedom and dreams, flowing with the golden mustard flowers, carrying the spirit of hard work, sacrifice, and unconditional love. My mother’s life was like the mustard flowers—sweet and bitter, radiant and full of hardships.

Seasons passed quickly. January gave way to the end of the days. The mustard flowers withered, their petals falling like forgotten memories. The life of the mustard flowers, as devoted as my mother, had come to an end. She returned to the other side of the mustard fields, as gently as a river flowing back to the vast ocean. My siblings and I have grown, walking the fields of knowledge, fulfilling her hopes. I return to the golden mustard fields of my youth, where the sounds of my mother’s voice call me back from afar.

Khương Thị Mến

Time has a way of dusting over memories. The riverside village where I grew up now boasts tall buildings, but the mustard fields remain unchanged, still swaying like a vast sea of gold at the start of spring. The mustard flowers by the river have become a melancholy memory in the hearts of those who have left their hometowns, like me.

After a long and gloomy winter, the breath of spring has lit up the whole space, awakening every living thing, every blade of grass. January, the beginning of spring, is also the time when the remaining mustard blooms to show its full beauty before it fades and withers. Walking along the narrow dike leading into the village, with wild grass clinging to my feet, I was overcome with joy when I gazed upon the vast field of golden mustard flowers, gently swaying in the breeze.

If you simply observe a single mustard flower, it might not leave a strong impression, but to wander through the vast sea of golden flowers, with countless delicate petals swaying in the breeze and sun, it is hard not to be moved. The small mustard flowers, dressed in bright yellow, combine with the spring sunlight, making the earth feel alive and renewed. There is no extravagant beauty to show off, yet the mustard flowers bloom humbly along the riverbank. My mother often said that mustard flowers, though simple, possess a subtle charm much like a rural girl. In a barren field, mustard flowers stand strong and resilient against the harsh sun and wind, silently offering their beauty and fragrance to the world. Gentle and fragile as they are, mustard flowers still captivate the heart, stirring emotions in all who see them. It's no wonder these flowers have found their way into poetry with such tenderness:

There’s a season of mustard flowers
Blooming golden on the riverbank
You are still a maiden
Waiting for me, though unmarried

When I was a child, my house stood by the river. Every time the end of winter and the beginning of spring arrived, the small house would light up with the yellow hue of mustard flowers. It was strange because before Tết, the mustard garden was just filled with tall, green stems that my mother would harvest, tie into bundles, and take to the market. Yet, just half a month later, the entire field was drenched in gold. I still remember that our staple food in the winter was always mustard greens, especially the mustard stalks. Every evening, my mother would cut a whole bunch for my sister and me to peel and stir-fry with garlic. The golden mustard greens beside a bowl of soft, fragrant rice, with their sweet and refreshing taste, became the backdrop for laughter and turned into a beautiful memory of my youth. Moreover, mustard flowers were also a remedy for the poor. My grandmother would gather many mustard flowers, dry them, and brew them for tea to cool off. Grandma said that mustard flowers cooked with ginger could even cure sore throats, colds, and coughs...

This afternoon, still on the familiar dike, I stopped to savor the pungent fragrance of mustard flowers, a scent that brings back memories of the past. Back then, we children often played in the mustard fields. We would pick the most beautiful, longest flowers to make garlands, placing them on the bride’s head and pinning them to the groom’s suit. Those brides and grooms from back then have grown up and drifted far away from the mustard fields by the river.

The riverside village where I grew up now has many tall buildings, but the mustard fields remain unchanged, still swaying like a golden sea at the start of spring. Sometimes, amidst the bustling city life, surrounded by intricate dishes, I still yearn for the sweet, nutty flavor of garlic stir-fried mustard stems and still picture a riverbank with fresh, golden mustard flowers, gently swaying, calling out...

Author: Nguyễn Thị Huệ /

Like countless other wildflowers, mustard does not boast an air of elegance or nobility. It is humble and plain, much like the place it comes from, the people who tend it. Mustard lingers in the golden stream of memory, endless and vibrant. For those weary from life's burdens, return once more to the mustard fields and you will find solace, letting go of daily worries as your heart floats away into a vast, dreamy serenity, rising with the spirit of the countryside and the earth...

When the mustard blooms again, it stretches across the entire riverside, radiant in the dry, sharp sunlight. The mustard flowers glow brightly, vibrant and full of hope. A memory of mustard flowers rushes back to my heart, fresh and beautiful.

The mustard is at its most beautiful in full bloom. The neat rows of green stalks are dotted with clusters of yellow buds, shimmering in the light. It’s impossible to resist the pure beauty of this wildflower. My memories of tending cows by the mustard fields feel both dreamlike and real. A little friend with a charming crooked tooth would laugh joyfully as she tied mustard stems together, playing at being a bride and groom. Another childhood friend was obsessed with “photography,” cupping his hands to his eyes, always instructing us to pose for pictures. How innocent and carefree we were!

The mustard field wove our sweet childhood memories. A childhood of poverty and toil, with my mother’s daily water-fetching tasks. The mustard stalks swayed in the morning dew, fresh and pure. Mustard grew gently without need of much care, just as my mother labored tirelessly in the fields. Perhaps mustard, too, understood the struggles of people like her, working under the harsh sun...

Like countless other wildflowers, mustard does not carry an air of grandeur or aristocracy. It is simple and modest, just like the land where it grew, the people who nurtured it. Mustard dissolves in the endless golden flow of memory. For those weighed down by the cares of life, return to the mustard field, and your heart will feel light as you forget all your worries, drifting away into boundless, serene joy, blooming with the energy of the land...

And it feels so warm, amidst the cold winter, to be enveloped in the yellow of mustard flowers.

In the vast mustard fields, one feels as though the earth and sky are reborn, blending in harmony with the soul. How could I ever forget the image of bright yellow mustard flowers on a humble meal table? The spicy, simple flavor, rustic and earthy, is deeply etched in my memories. This sharp taste nourished children like me, helping us grow. And now, in the bustling cities, when I taste all kinds of exotic foods, I still remember my grandmother and mother, busy preparing meals filled with the fragrance of the countryside.

For the barefoot children with sun-kissed hair, the golden mustard fields were not just a place for play, but a source of life, hope, and a full meal, as well as a freshly pressed garment. A few rows of mustard weren’t much different for us on New Year's Day, but still, we felt a deep sense of peace.

The memory of the mustard flowers lingers in my first, innocent love. At sixteen, I was full of dreams of happiness, holding hands with my love on the mustard-filled fields, gazing at each other with affection and tenderness. The song from my childhood, about a beautiful love story left unfinished, still echoes in my mind: There’s a season of mustard flowers/Golden sunlight in a daze/Holding your hand nervously/I say words of love…,” now, it’s not just a song for others—it’s about me. Blame the mustard flowers for the tears, for the sorrowful ache in my heart.

Now, the mustard fields by the river are still there, but fewer and fewer, fading away into patches of scattered bushes. The yellow still shines amidst the lush green leaves, the youthful blue of spring, but my heart feels no joy. I greedily want to see the entire riverside bathed in golden hues, to touch that gentle yellow wherever I go! But then, my heart sinks with the realization that the past is so far gone. The riverside is now mined for sand, and urbanization is slowly creeping into the once peaceful countryside. A wave of indescribable sadness fills my soul. Where can I find the mustard fields of my barefoot youth?

Quyền Văn

Chuyến xe ngược lên vùng cao chậm rãi bò qua từng con dốc. Mùa Đông, cây cối xác xơ trơ trụi thân cành. Những chiếc lá rụng xuống gốc như rải tấm thảm vàng vọt khắp sườn đồi, núi. Màu vàng của lá rơi đang phác họa bức tranh trầm mặc. Tạo hóa điểm tô cho mùa Đông những gam màu buồn nhất năm, nhưng con người không chấp nhận điều đó. Nếu màu vàng của lá rụng tượng trưng cho sự chia lìa thì con người đã tạo ra một màu vàng khác thể hiện sự sinh sôi. Đó là màu vàng óng ả, rực rỡ của hoa cải.

Sau khi đốt những thân xác hoa màu đã thu hoạch, từng vạt nương được khoác lên tấm áo mơn mởn từ mầm cải xanh non. Mùa Đông miền núi, muôn loài say ngủ giữa sương muối... Cảm tưởng như sự sống không tồn tại ở nơi này thì kỳ lạ thay, các giống cải lại đội giá rét lớn lên xanh mướt. Cải sinh sôi tốt nhất vào mùa giá lạnh. Người vùng cao chỉ gieo cải một lần trên đám nương vừa đốt, việc còn lại là chờ thu hoạch. Những mầm cải lớn lên bằng nguồn dinh dưỡng của tro đốt nương, của gió núi, mưa rừng và sương lạnh. Sự sinh trưởng của chúng tự nhiên hơn bất cứ thứ gì khác trên đời.

Những vạt nương cải xanh mướt tạo ra sức sống mãnh liệt trong mùa Đông, tô thêm sắc màu tươi mới cho bức tranh vốn nhiều ảm đạm. Từng chiều, các chị, các mẹ lại lên nương cải bẻ từng bẹ lá mập mạp, tươi ngon. Cải là thứ rau chính trong bữa ăn của người miền núi. Những bẹ lá xanh non sẽ được chế biến các món xào, luộc, canh. Đang đói mà có bát canh cải nấu gừng nóng hổi ăn với cơm lúa nương thì ngon hết ý. Cái lạnh thấm trong người sẽ bị đẩy ra theo từng giọt mồ hôi li ti thấm đầy trên trán cùng với đó là cảm giác khoan thai, dễ chịu. Những lá già hơn sẽ được phơi gió một hai ngày rồi đem muối dưa. Dưa cải nương ăn có vị giòn tan như ăn cả đất trời. Những món ăn nấu từ dưa cải cũng có hương vị rất đặc trưng. Phần còn lại của cây cải trên nương vẫn cứ lớn lên và trổ ra những bông hoa vàng rực.

Từ xa xa nhìn lên nương cải, cả ngọn núi, lưng đồi được dát một màu vàng rực rỡ. Từng cơn gió thổi qua khiến hoa cải như con sóng đang chao lượn. Tôi mở cửa kính xe để nhìn rõ hơn sắc hoa vàng óng. Vài vị khách du lịch đứng nép bên nương chụp ảnh cùng hoa cải. Chiếc gùi trên lưng các chị như những bình hoa khổng lồ.

Chiếc gùi đựng đầy hoa cải sặc sỡ kia đưa tôi về miền ấu thơ xa lắc. Mỗi chiều Đông, mặc cho gió rét luồn qua buốt lạnh, tôi cứ ra đứng bên con dốc đầu bản chờ bà đi nương về. Từ đằng xa, dù màu áo chàm của bà lẫn với màu đá nhưng những sắc vàng đang chuyển động kia thì không lẫn vào đâu được. Tôi chạy lại phía bà đón lấy bó hoa cải. Vài chú ong chăm chỉ vẫn bay theo những cành hoa rung rinh trên tay tôi để hút mật.

Bà về với Tổ tiên vào một buổi chiều nương cải vàng óng. Cơn cảm lạnh đột ngột khiến tuổi già của bà không đủ sức chống chọi. Mộ của bà được đặt bên nương cải. Mỗi chiều tôi lại hái một bó cải vàng ươm đặt trước mộ. Tôi cứ thế lớn lên cùng những kỷ niệm về mùa hoa cải.

Con đường ngược dốc đưa tôi đến một vùng đất xa lạ nhưng đầy thân quen. Lạ vì lần đầu tiên tôi lên đây công tác. Quen vì nhìn đâu cũng núi, cũng đồi cùng những nương cải vàng óng ả. Quen hay lạ chỉ khác nhau ở cái tên, còn cảm nhận của con người khi lên miền núi đều giống nhau. Cũng như bông cải trên nương, chúng không quan tâm mình đang ở chỗ nào, cứ có đủ gió, đủ sương, đủ dinh dưỡng là chúng sẽ góp cho đời một màu vàng rực rỡ.

Tản văn: NGÔ BÁ HÒA

Through time, I have come to realize that, throughout history, songs and historical anecdotes about mustard plants often bring to mind sadness, longing, and an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, making us wish to merge with the spirit of the plant and express it through poetry—whether the verse is simple, humble, and clumsy, or infused with the bittersweet, slightly spicy, and sweet essence of the mustard plant, which satisfies hunger and refreshes the soul, while remaining romantic and poetic, evoking deep memories and affection for generations.

Every late summer, as the cool breeze of early autumn begins, my sister would invite me to plant mustard seeds. These tiny, dark brown seeds, slightly larger than sesame, were dried in the spring and stored in a jar sealed with banana leaves, kept on the attic shelf. My sister advised me to soak them in warm water to help them sprout before planting them the next day in prepared soil, loose and smooth like sifted flour. Every day, I would go out to admire the plants. As a curious child, I was enchanted by the tiny sprouts, which I lovingly called "little mustard seedlings," then "teenage mustard plants." Soon, two tiny round leaves appeared, followed by long, delicate leaves, waving in the wind like tiny hands.

The lush green mustard plants seemed to drink in the dew, rain, and air, thriving on the nourishment provided by my sisters and me. It seemed as though the plants could even hear the gentle lullabies of our mother drifting through the window, and the longing songs of my sister blended with the sounds of the weaving loom... and so, the mustard grew into plants that brought warmth, happiness, beauty, and passion to our lives.

For some reason, I have always been fond of women named "Cải" (mustard). The graceful and charming Thúy Cải, a People's Artist of the Bắc Ninh Quan họ troupe, only deepened my affection!

Perhaps it is because I have always viewed the mustard plant as distinctly feminine. Its soft, fresh leaves and delicate yet vibrant flowers attract butterflies and bees. Much like women, the mustard plant gives itself selflessly to the world from the moment it is born, offering everything it has—even its bitter taste—for the benefit of others.

When the mustard plants reached three or four leaves, my sister would thin out the weak plants to make space for younger ones, preparing them for a dish of young mustard greens.

When the plants grew five or seven leaves, we would "harvest" them by cutting off the leaves, bundle them in banana stalks, and sell them to people who wanted to grow them. From here, vast mustard fields stretched across the countryside.

The mustard in my hometown is unique, a pure and ancient variety. From planting the seeds to the end of the plant’s life, it takes about seven or eight months. While other crops are ready for harvest, the mustard remains youthful. My sister would laugh and say, "Mustard is a slow-grower, like a girl who matures late, but in the future, she will be very beautiful and graceful. To win her heart, one must be patient and take good care of her." Then, she would recite an old saying:

"Want to eat mustard for its purity
Thài lài leaves, delicious, laid out at the edge of the pond."

Our family has a small garden by the Sông Sứ River, where we grow mustard. Surrounded by a fence made of wild vines that bloom with flowers, it is the perfect place to care for our beloved plants.

Tending to the mustard was a simple pleasure for my sister and me. The young mustard plants are so charming, with their leaves spread out like delicate green flowers. We would carefully "trim the leaves" to prevent overcrowding. The young mustard greens were soft and tender, perfect for making soup or steaming. During the late autumn and early winter, the cold winds would stir up a sense of longing. We would catch a few fish or gather some freshwater crabs to make a mustard soup with shrimp paste, and a few fresh ginger leaves. No need for seasoning or monosodium glutamate... even just mentioning this can make anyone crave such delicious, rustic dishes.

Now is the month of December, the time for mustard harvesting. The mustard plants in my village, with their "massive" heads, are a source of pride. They grow up to 70 to 80 centimeters, or even a meter tall, with leaves as wide as four fingers pressed together. Some plants even weigh six or seven kilograms.

The mustard stalks, thick and round like wrists, are boiled and served with shrimp paste, or stir-fried with garlic, delicious to the last bite. The remaining leaves are washed and preserved, and can be eaten until next summer. They can be sliced and pickled, mixed with onions, golden and fragrant, and eaten crispy during the Lunar New Year to balance the heavy meats and stewed fish.

If not, pickled mustard is carefully wrung out, eaten with fresh rice, or used in a soup with dill, onions, and tomatoes. It is just as important in life!

My sister and I are people who value good food, good taste, and good dreams. So, the mustard plant, beyond providing delicious food, is also a source of longing that we look forward to every spring: the mustard flower season.

In truth, the mustard flower is not as glamorous or prestigious as orchids, peach blossoms, or chrysanthemums, but when you look at it, you feel entranced. No need for pots or fancy vases, the mustard flower blooms naturally, gracefully, simply, and with the earthy charm of rural life. Every mustard field leaves behind a bright yellow glow in the warm sun. Its color represents passion, drawing you in, and though it is gentle and fragile, its beauty is impossible to resist.

Every time I visit the garden, I feel a surge of emotions as I watch the young mustard plants from last month now grown into sturdy plants with yellowing leaves, their heads high in the air. I am mesmerized by the mustard stalks that reach upward, holding up countless branches and thousands of tiny yellow flowers, fluttering like butterfly wings, exuding a fragrance of longing, swaying and releasing a pungent aroma that mixes with the cold winter winds from the Northeast.

I call the scent of these flowers "the scent of longing" for a reason.

One winter morning, my seventeen-year-old sister stood by a patch of mustard flowers, sending someone off. They stood beside the mustard flowers, which they had carefully nurtured. The peaceful Sông Sứ River reflected their image, and across the riverbank was a vast field of mulberry trees.

- Mustard, stay here, don't cross the river, wait for me to return...!

And war did not allow him to keep his promise.

The mustard branch he took with him would forever remain with him as he "ascended to the heavens," leaving my sister in endless sorrow throughout her life.

Every year, she would look forward to winter, remembering the girl who had once been her, now an elder. In the quiet afternoons, she would stand by the mustard patch by the river, watching the lonely flowers bloom, reciting the old verse, gazing at the withered mulberry trees across the river... A mustard flower would droop down to her feet.

Each year, the mustard flowers wept...!

Then, the rural village turned into a city, and the Sông Sứ River was widened to provide water for irrigation and the water plants. The mulberry fields disappeared, replaced by high-rise buildings.

Only the patch of mustard flowers remained, lonely and forgotten, blooming beside the river in silence...

And then, a few years ago, my sister, too, took the mustard flowers with her to the sky. There was no "water spinach" to bear the bitterness anymore. I, too, left for faraway places. Only the mustard patch remained, abandoned by the river, overgrown with wild grass!

Oh! The mustard plants, when tender and green, gentle and blooming with their soft yellow flowers, carry the beauty of simplicity, purity, and steadfastness—just like the women of my village.

Today, the spicy mustard plants, once the pride of my village, have almost disappeared. People now grow small mustard varieties, quick-growing, with compact leaves resembling cabbage. These new varieties, though more productive, lack the rich flavor and sparse flowers. But they are grown in mass quantities, harvested for their leaves and seeds to produce oil for export.

Many times, I invited friends to visit my hometown during the mustard flower season. We would go to Hồng Lý Commune, in Vũ Thư District, Thái Bình—home to vast mustard fields along the Red River.

The tourists, photographers, and young couples, tired of city life, flocked to the mustard fields.

I watched my younger sister, her eyes bright and smile radiant, her long áo dài fluttering as she posed amidst the flower-filled fields, like a fairy, while "the photographer" captured video and photos. It felt as though I, too, was floating with the happiness of youth and the fullness of life.

The wind from the Red River blew strongly, the scent of mustard flowers filled the air, and the laughter of young lovers revived the distinctive beauty of our rural village, and of the entire northern delta.

My friend from Hanoi was awestruck:

- The scene is more romantic than anything in the movies. I've never seen a mustard field this bright and magnificent...

I love mustard so much that I often find myself reflecting on everything related to it. Once, I read a historical anecdote about mustard, water spinach, and a song. I didn't quite believe the sad story about Prince Mustard and the concubine named Răm, who, during the Tây Sơn rebellion, fled to the island and became the central figure of a sorrowful song that has moved generations.

People in the past were simple yet profound. I now tend to support the idea that mustard is a staple in every meal, grown in fields and gardens, while water spinach is just a small herb used as a seasoning in dishes like pickled cabbage or a plate of greens to accompany duck eggs. Therefore, the saying goes:

Mustard ascends to the heavens, while water spinach stays on earth...

And dear reader, I know you, too, have your own opinions...

This year, as the mustard flowers bloom again, I think of my hometown, my sister, the beautiful garden filled with memories of joy and sorrow, the fateful story tied to the mustard flowers of a life lived, the legendary mustard fields by the Red River, the research and debates about the songs... and I find myself reciting the old song again:

The wind carries the mustard to the sky
Water spinach stays behind to bear the bitter words.

Phạm Ngọc Tâm Dung

When winter arrives with its cool chill and the soft golden sunshine, it is the time when mustard flowers bloom, spreading their golden hues. In some suburban areas around Hanoi, the mustard fields bloom in unison, painting the whole area in a radiant golden carpet. This has become a popular destination for many young people to capture photographs, admire the mustard flowers, and recall the peaceful days of childhood…

On the bright mustard fields, a young girl bends to gently touch a bundle of mustard flowers, softly singing: There is a season for mustard flowers, blooming golden by the riverside/ I am at the age of a young girl, waiting for you, though I’m not yet married/ There is a season for mustard flowers, the golden sun in a trance, holding your hand with hesitation, as you speak words of love…. The young man approaches and continues the song: I said my goodbyes, but left without a promise/ Afraid of becoming a white butterfly, lost by the riverside/ And then you were far from me, through many seasons of golden sunshine, waiting for me among the drifting mustard flowers, longing, letters unanswered/ Sadness for the wilting flowers, people tell me to forget, but I must move on, leaving the spring behind, sending my burning heart to the one I long for...

Listening to the tender voices of the young couple singing on the field of mustard flowers, I felt a strange stirring within my heart. I looked at the mustard fields and suddenly remembered the day I bid him farewell, the mustard flowers that my mother planted in the sun, gently swaying in the breeze. And then, after he left, the mustard flowers faded away, like memories seen through a window. The golden sunlight leaned over the narrow path, could it be that he tilted my whole life? How could I ever forget that shy kiss on the old path, where mustard flowers grew, with memories filling the air, carried away by the wind, along with the dreams of a flying kite.

Before the lunar month of Chạp, my mother would sow mustard seeds in long rows of earth. As they grew, she would thin them out, bind them with bamboo and take them to the market, or lightly cook them in salt water and store them in jars for later, leaving the larger, stronger mustard plants to bloom. Spring arrived with the mustard flowers in full bloom, followed by swarms of butterflies and red dragonflies flitting across the golden sea of flowers. Each season of blooming mustard flowers passed, and the seeds would sway in the wind, while my mother would harvest them, drying them in the sun to keep for the next season. I no longer remember how many seasons of mustard flowers I have seen, nor can I count how many heavy water baskets my mother carried from the riverbank, ascending the hills, passing by the young mustard shoots. Night would fall. The boat would anchor in the river. The soft glow of a fire on the boat would illuminate the water's surface.

Sometimes, I would wake in the middle of the night, sensing something strange, something elusive. It wasn't the sound of the flowing river, the crackle of the fire, the scent of ripe guava from the riverbanks, nor the calls of the birds hiding in the thickets. It was something fleeting. The night was cold, but the sky was clear with moonlight. I sat beside the mustard field, gently lifting the clusters of mustard flowers wet with dew. A gust of wind passed through the flowers, brushing my cheek. I shivered. The flowers danced and whispered to me. I softly kissed each bunch of flowers. The river seemed to pause, silent in its listening, only to suddenly surge with joyful waves.

Tonight, far from the sands of the Red River, I feel an odd yearning for a flower, with its pungent, earthy scent, carried by the wind, mixed with the aroma of the fields and rotting straw, that has bloomed once again in the golden mustard flowers by the old riverbank. A season of familiar flowers, half-remembered, half-forgotten, blooming once more by the riverside.

Author: Minh Nguyet

“Có một mùa hoa cải, nở vàng trên bến sông.
Em đang thì con gái, đợi anh chưa lấy chồng.
Có một mùa hoa cải, nắng vàng trong mê mải,
Cầm tay em bối rối, anh nói lời yêu thương…” (1)

Bài thơ và ca khúc hình như đã trở thành một khắc khoải “kinh điển” cho mỗi mùa hoa cải xôn xao về phố Hà Nội qua những hẹn hò xao xuyến tình đầu hay hoài niệm ký ức tình xưa. Mà cũng không biết từ bao giờ mùa hoa cải ven sông Hồng đã trở thành một địa chỉ “check in” không chỉ của giới trẻ Hà thành mà còn của khách phương xa đền Hà Nội…

Có phải từ một truyện ngắn nổi tiếng “Mùa hoa cải bên sông” của nhà thơ Nguyễn Quang Thiều, được viết cách đây gần 30 năm, sau đó đã dựng thành phim truyền hình “Lời nguyền của dòng sông” do Khải Hưng làm đạo điễn, từng đoạt giải vàng Liên hoan phim truyền hình quốc tế tại Bỉ năm 1993, một câu chuyện tình đẹp đến nghẹn lòng bởi sự trắc trở đắng đót… Và từ đó mà mùa hoa cải ven sông Hồng đã như một mùa hẹn hò, mùa tình yêu, mùa của thương nhớ phố Hà Nội đang dịch chuyển về phía mùa xuân.

Những ngày cuối đông, cảm giác lớp mây thấp vơ vẩn quẩn quanh trên những ngọn tháp các tòa cao ốc, đang cố thả nốt hàng triệu triệu sợi rét buốt bằng từng đợt gió mùa đông bắc, không gian vương màu tro lạnh ảm đạm, vạn vật im lìm ngủ triền miên trong giá băng , phố hư ảo từng mái nhà xám rêu, từng bóng người liêu xiêu ngõ nhỏ…

Nhưng chỉ cần nhích chút ra vùng bãi giữa ven đê sông Hồng, là như lạc vào vương quốc của hoa cải với màu vàng nắng rực rỡ, mê mải từng vạt dập dờn lượn sóng theo làn gió, đẹp đến xao xuyến tâm can, để khó mà rời ánh mắt, để khó mà dợm bước chân ngoảnh mặt đi, để khó mà cưỡng được ham muốn xà vào khoảng vàng rợn ngợp kia mà hít hà hương thơm hăng hắc cay nồng, mà rạo rực giang tay muốn ôm hết đề tận hưởng cho thỏa khao khát…

Làm sao có thể quên những vười hoa cải ven sông Hồng, giăng mắc tương tư cả miền thương nhớ phố Hà Nội. Mỗi vườn hoa cải là một cung bậc cảm xúc, vườn Thạch Bàn- Long Biên đắm đuối nồng nàn cháy bỏng; Mấy khu vườn bên Gia Lâm là cả trời yêu như vườn Yên Viên xao xác thầm thì tình tự, vườn Bình Trù quyến rũ thôi miên ong bướm dập dìu, vườn Phù Đổng lãng mạn ngọt ngào say đắm, vườn Học viện Nông nghiệp Việt Nam – Trâu Quỳ xôn xao tận hiến si mê; Vườn ven sống Đuống nôn nao da diết đằm sâu…

Trong hun hút loang mải mê gió, ngắm những thảm hoa vàng nắng tít tắp mắt nhìn, có chút bâng khuâng nuối tiếc ngay cả khi chưa tạm biệt để về phố. Đã có ai từng một lần hỏi tại sao những vườn hoa cải tháng Giêng, gắn với bến sông Hồng ven đô Hà Nội lại mang vẻ đẹp lộng lẫy mê hồn đên thế, sắc vàng nắng ấm áp mê hoặc bao nôn nao tình đầu, bao hoang hoải hoài nhớ tìm về.

Phải chăng, những mải miết mênh mông hoa cải trong gió bấc, bạt ngàn hoa cải trong lất phất mưa phùn, chếnh choáng hoa cải trong sắc nắng trưa mỏng mảnh, rung rinh phiêu ảo hoa cải trong sương chiều bãng lãng…, đã làm cân bằng bao chênh vênh tâm hồn giữa khoảnh khắc giao mùa cuối đông chạm vào xuân?

Phải chăng, hương hoa hăng nồng mạnh mẽ tỏa ra lấn át cả khoảng không rét buốt tê cóng, cho cảm giác ấm áp quyến rũ lạ kỳ, cho tan chảy những hóa thạch của ký ức?

Tôi đã ngược nắng phươg Nam, ra Hà Nội đúng vào những ngày đông giá buốt như kim châm, chỉ vì tương tư mùa hoa cải vàng ven bãi giữa sông Hồng và hình như có cả nhớ em Hà Nội phố.

Vâng! Em rất lạ. Tôi nhớ mùa hoa cải năm trước, em đưa tôi xuống vườn cải Thạch Bàn mạn Long Biên, khi về, em ôm theo một bó hoa cải vàng tươi, từng chùm hoa cánh nhỏ xíu mỏng trong đính trên những cọng xanh nõn mềm mại.., rồi em cắm hoa vào chiếc bình gốm Bát Tràng men xanh ngọc. Một vẻ đẹp thanh nhã của hoa cải mà không dễ gì ai được ngắm, loài hoa mộc mạc chân quê thường chỉ ở ngoài ruộng ngoài vườn rau, nay tỏa sắc trong căn phòng khách lịch lãm của gia đình em ở phố cổ.

Không biết có phải năm nay cuối đông có chút khắc nghiệt, các loài hoa cảnh mùa xuân gần như đều được “ủ ấm” trong các nhà vườn, nhưng những vườn cải ven sông Hồng thì cứ rực lên kiêu hãnh với màu vàng sáng ấm áp như tỏa nắng, làm tan loãng cả màn sương xám ẩm mở mịt, làm cho ngọn gió bấc cũng như ngập ngừng rẽ ngang khi chạm vào những vạt hoa cải ngút ngát tầm mắt.

Tôi và em Hà Nội phố có khoảnh khắc lạc vào mê mải giữa vườn hoa cải, tay trong tay, môi chạm môi, bỏ rơi mùa đông ngoài bờ sông Hồng kia đang ù ù gió…

Và tôi thầm thì câu hát:
“Có một mùa hoa cải, nắng vàng trong mê mải,
Cầm tay em bối rối, anh nói lời yêu thương…

Hoài Hương