Top 10 Essays on Food That Evoke the Best Memories

My friend just brought out a beautiful flower-shaped jelly cake to offer. The scorching June sun made everything hot, but one bite of this jelly instantly cooled me down! I hesitated, though, unwilling to eat the delicate purple flowering branches. Looking at the green leaves, memories of the first refreshing jelly pieces I ever had suddenly flashed back...

My hometown is in the hilly, midland region, where the grass and trees were lush. The pine trees stretched far across the ridges. Beneath the forest canopy, a world of grass, wildflowers, and fruit bushes bloomed through all four seasons. On the mountain tops, sparse trees and tall grass sometimes grew so thick they covered your head. The rocky, sharp-edged boulders contrasted with the green thorny bushes, thriving despite the scorching summer sun. We often climbed the hills, gathering fallen pine needles, picking ripe berries, and collecting leaves from those thorny bushes. Everyone called them the 'Ganga leaves.'

Back then, I was too young to remember who taught me about them. All I knew was that I would joyfully join my cousins and families to hike the mountains, climbing rocks like little goats, picking the leaves. We were never allowed to cut them, even though the plants had sparse thorns that would make us bleed. Only the middle-aged leaves, not too old or too young, were picked. My grandmother said they made the best jelly and ensured the plants continued to grow for everyone to harvest. I loved the fresh, soothing fragrance of the Ganga leaves. Sometimes, after gathering them, we would run around searching for wild fruits or sit on large rocks, letting the breeze dry our sweaty faces, watching the village in the distance, and breathing in the sweet scent carried by the wind from the vast fields. It was such a dreamy feeling...

I loved that hillside so much! I adored the pine trees growing in irregular rows on the slopes, their young buds forming towers of green along the hill. The scent of pinecones filled the air, and the chirping grasshoppers and crickets danced through the leaves! I loved the calls of the cuckoo bird, 'catching shrimps for the stew,' echoing through the sky, accompanied by the distant sound of pigeons calling...

But I loved the hills most in fruit season. The ripe red mulberries in the damp valleys near the rocks, the sweet purple peonies; vines filled with tiny pinkish-purple fruits, wild sour fruits, and the black shining berries tangled in the thorns, calling us... My favorite part was following the subtle scent of ripe fruits through the underbrush, discovering tiny wild fruits like passionfruit or sweet chestnuts, inhaling their intoxicating scent while forgetting my hunger... Sometimes, we children even picked sour leaves and bitter fruits to eat. We would bite into small green 'cow's teats,' or taste the tiny pink pomelos, fragrant and slightly spicy... even the seeds of the wild 'Mua' fruit!

The season of ripe 'Sim' berries was a paradise for us kids. Just days ago, the purple-pink flowers were swaying gently on the branches, and now, they had transformed into lush, ripe fruits, their sweet purple bellies hanging heavy. Our mouths and faces were all stained purple... and the children's laughter echoed in the hills, marked by the purple color of the wild fruit...

The midland hills gave us so many delicious treats—sweet fruits that nourished the bodies and souls of us poor children. I often hummed local songs as we wandered through the sparse underbrush or bent down to pick up fallen pinecones from the fragrant pine needle carpet. Later, whenever I think back to my homeland, I call it the 'Singing Hills':

There are winds of green,
Flying through the little forest,
The sweet scent of chestnuts gone,
The purple Sim berries blooming on the hills...
Only the lullaby remains,
Forever drifting in my memories,
The wings of time, long ago,
Wet with the pure stream’s flow...
There are steep mountain slopes,
Full of fragrant white flowers,
The pine trees hum and sigh,
As I lie on the fragrant leaf bed...
Remembering the misty valley,
The wind carries the scent of clouds,
The cattle graze lazily,
The wild 'Mua' flowers open in pink...
From the mountaintop so vast,
I look out across all directions,
Spotting the tiny village far away,
Feeling nostalgic for the old bamboo hedges...

Coming back to the days gone by,
Seeing the kites flying high,
The sweet smell of cassava and sweet potatoes in the hearth,
The crickets and grasshoppers return...

The summers spent wandering, tasting the flavors of wild fruits,
The sour leaves from the forest’s edge...
Enchanted by the fragrance of white and pink flowers,
The birds chirping at the mountain top,
The golden butterflies flitting nervously,
Wings fluttering through the days of childhood...

... Every time we went up the hill to gather the leaves, it was a delight. And making the jelly at home was equally joyful. Beforehand, the older siblings or grandmother would boil a big pot of water to cool, and sometimes, they'd sneak some sugar from the house, as sugar was scarce back then, or maybe use some sugarcane or sweet grass roots...

We washed the Ganga leaves several times, letting them dry slightly, then squashed them in a large bowl or pot. I remember once, we even washed our rubber sandals clean and used them as a press, rubbing the leaves strongly. Once the leaves were reduced to a paste, we wrapped them in a piece of coarse white cloth, dipped it into the pot of water to cool, squeezed it out thoroughly. Sometimes, we’d add a little limewater from my grandmother’s betel-nut jar, but that wasn’t always the case. After just a few minutes, the water would thicken and set into jelly.

To cool it further, my older siblings would wrap the pot of jelly in raincloth and lower it down into the well. A few hours later, or the next morning, we’d pull it out.

The jelly, in its greenish-blue form, was delicious when cut into cubes and served in bowls with syrup, sometimes with a bit of banana or pomelo blossom oil! Other times, we’d heat some sugarcane juice, sweet grass roots, and sprinkle a little sugar over the jelly, then eagerly dig in... With every bite, it cooled and refreshed our insides, even if it wasn’t sweet enough to cover the fresh, fragrant taste of the leaves.

Years have passed, but I still remember those afternoons filled with sunshine, sitting under the swaying bamboo trees, sipping bowls of jelly as cool as jade. The taste of the hills, yet even more delightful because we made it ourselves. It tasted even sweeter when I saw my grandmother and mother’s sparkling smiles as they tasted the jelly we children had made...

It’s been decades since I returned to that distant hillside. I don’t know if the Ganga leaves, Sim berries, or the wild fruit trees still exist, or if they’ve faded away with the passing years, along with the once-swaying pine trees. But in my heart, the Singing Hills with their wild fruits, fragrant leaves, and the first clear jelly I ever tasted will forever remain in my memory, a part of my life’s journey!

- Bùi Thanh Hà -

How long has it been, it feels like half a lifetime since I last had the turmeric porridge that my grandmother used to lovingly prepare for us in the old days...

I still remember how her back bent low to carefully remove the stones from the rice, which was full of rough, broken grains. She worked tirelessly like a hen gathering its chicks. After finishing, she carefully placed the cleaned rice into a large, wide bowl. She took a pot, darkened by years of use, and began to sift through the rice as though she were panning for gold. The difference being, the heavy bits at the bottom of the bowl had to be discarded. The chickens waited eagerly, swooping in to peck up whatever they could. She stirred the rice thoroughly, letting the remaining kernels float away, then she blew on the fire. Fragments of dried banana leaves started to catch fire, and she quickly put them out, afraid that the flames might reach the pile of firewood saved for cooking pig feed. The wooden logs burned steadily, and she trusted them for the fire. With just a handful of rice, she prepared a large pot, telling me that the porridge couldn’t boil over, as that would cause it to lose its nutrients and flavor. She reminded me to keep an eye on the fire while she went outside to dig up the turmeric. After cleaning the turmeric thoroughly, she ground it in a mortar. Once the turmeric was crushed, she wrapped it in a piece of cloth and squeezed out the rich, golden juice. The aroma of the porridge soon filled the house, making our stomachs growl and our eyes widen in anticipation. Those were hard times, and even a meal could be a struggle. As children, we didn’t have snacks like the ones kids have today. Instead, we would wander around the garden, picking young jackfruit seeds, and eating them with a pinch of salt. The bitter, salty taste would linger on our tongues, and then we would go back inside to sip from a gourd of tea, made from leaves wrapped in bamboo bark, which had been soaking in water for days.

Grandmother added the turmeric juice to the porridge and adjusted the seasoning. She then crushed and fried some shallots in golden lard, adding them to the pot. The mix of rice, turmeric, and shallots created an indescribable, thick concoction. She carefully brought the bowls to the table, serving each child individually, though I always got a separate bowl. I pouted at this special treatment, as I thought eating from a plate would be more fun. But she always said that girls shouldn’t eat from plates, as it was too casual and that we’d never know when someone might lead us astray in life. I never understood her reasoning, but her turmeric porridge stayed with me throughout my childhood.

During the pandemic, I found myself in the kitchen once again, trying to replicate the comforting aroma of the shallots and turmeric. We sat with our faces flushed from the steam, leaning back in our chairs and savoring each spoonful, trying to gather strength to push through the crisis. Gone were the days of bending over the stove to stoke the fire or squeezing turmeric by hand. But I could never understand why Grandma always added turmeric to the porridge, perhaps to trick our eyes into thinking there was more than just rice and spices.

Even without meat or fish, just a handful of rice, turmeric, and shallots, her porridge still fills my memories. Now, as I handle the shallots with my hands, I find myself missing her more than ever.

Through the years of change and life's ups and downs, I returned home today, lighting an incense stick and fondly recalling my grandmother. How I long for that golden, turmeric porridge that sustained us through our childhood.

By Hồ Loan

This morning, I woke up early to go to the market, preparing food and offerings for the ancestor worship ceremony on Vu Lan Festival. I made traditional dishes such as chicken, sausage, shrimp, and squid... along with various fruits and cakes... everything was plentiful and neatly arranged. As I brought the offering tray to the altar, my heart still felt something was missing. Of course, it was the local dishes like 'cọ om' and 'dưa trám'—simple but essential flavors from the land of Cam Khe, Phu Tho. These are the tastes of home that must be present in my husband's family's festive meal.

When I was a child, I never understood why I loved the poem 'Has anyone woken early / To see the fresh cọ forest? / The leaves spread with rays of sun / Like the sun itself / Oh cọ forest, how lovely you are!' (Nguyễn Viết Bình). I imagined a land full of trees and houses covered with cọ leaves on the slopes. Later, I unknowingly found myself living in a place known for 'Cọ forests, tea hills, and lush green fields.' When I saw those endless cọ hills with their mossy trunks and the leaves soaring towards the sky under the early sun, I was in awe.

Before, I only knew that cọ leaves were used for roofing and making brooms, but I never realized that the cọ fruit itself was a delicacy. My father-in-law told me that around the end of October and early November, as the first cold winds blew, the cọ fruits would ripen. People would select mature, glossy black cọ fruits, clean them, and cook them. Timing and the right temperature were key; if overcooked, the fruit would become tough and bitter. When cooked properly, the cọ fruits turn a rich brown, and the oil rises to the surface, turning golden brown. I remember the first meal at my in-laws' house, where I saw a platter of golden, savory cọ om on the table. I had no idea what it was but assumed it must be delicious. My husband gently placed one in my bowl and said, 'This is cọ om, try it. It’s really good.' Indeed, when I tasted it, the soft, sweet, and rich flavor of the dish left a lasting impression.

Not only did I enjoy cọ om, but I also loved the 'dưa trám muối' (pickled trám fruit) that my father-in-law made.

At my in-laws' house, there is a large black trám tree. It is lush with dark green leaves and provides shade all year round, attracting many birds. The tree offers peace and comfort whenever we visit. I remember during autumn, when the cold wind blew, the trám fruits would fall with a thud, covering the ground. My father-in-law would collect the ripe fruits, wash them, and give them to the neighbors in small bags, saving a portion for me to take home. He would also set aside some to pickle. Some years, when the harvest was abundant, he even sold trám at the market. The money he earned helped send his four children through university. His love, care, and sacrifice always moved me deeply.

This year, autumn has come, and trám is in season, but due to the pandemic, we couldn’t visit my father-in-law for Vu Lan Festival. Missing him, I longed for the pickled trám he used to make. To make the pickled trám, he carefully selected the ripe, black fruits, washed them, and cooked them until soft. He then prepared the right salt solution, poured it over the trám in a jar, and sealed it for about half a month. When the trám was ready, it had a perfect balance of salty, sour, and sweet flavors, soft and aromatic.

Trám fruit isn’t only used for pickling, but can also be used in many other delicious dishes like trám stew with pork belly, trám om, trám rolls with vegetables, and trám sticky rice. On Vu Lan Festival, my father-in-law always made these dishes, saying they were the specialties of the hometown.

Indeed, cọ om and trám dishes aren't luxurious or extravagant. In the past, they were simple, everyday foods that the poor people relied on. Yet today, these dishes have become specialties of a region, not everyone has the chance to taste them.

For me, cọ om and dưa trám are foods that carry the deep flavors of family love. They are delicious not only because of their sweet and savory taste but also because they are filled with affection, empathy, and sharing. I believe that if we love and cherish one another, no matter how simple the food, it will bring us happiness. True happiness isn't something distant that we must chase after; it's right here, around us, in these fruits and traditional dishes. Yes, this special flavor will always stay in our hearts, reminding us to appreciate the goodness in life!

Đào Ngọc Hà

Late at night, sitting alone by her familiar laptop next to the window, the chilly breeze of late autumn brushes against her arms, making her yearn for warmth. She pulls on a light sweater, sets her computer to sleep mode, and curls up by the window. Her eyes peer through the dark, seeking the flickering oil lamp light from her childhood home, the one with the door full of holes like old lampshades. She remembers her mother hunched over, stitching clothes for her in the quiet afternoons, the sound of her mother getting up in the middle of the night to protect the chickens from the cold, and most of all, the smell of corn rice and cassava rice every evening as the family gathered around the table...

Back then, each meal, her mother would carefully carry a pot of rice and set it at the head of the wooden table, made from an old door with legs nailed on. Around it were eight small wooden chairs, their seats now worn smooth from years of use. The family gathered around the steaming rice and a bowl of delicious vegetable soup made from morning glory and fermented soybeans. The smell of corn mixed in the rice still lingers to this day.

During the subsidy period, corn rice, cassava rice, sweet potatoes, and other starchy foods were common meals for rural Vietnamese families. She recalls the taste of salty, earthy cassava and sweet potatoes her mother used to cook, and the image of her mother, thin and worn, stirring the rice around the table. Her eyes blur with the memory of the pure white rice bowl that she alone, the youngest daughter, was given—such is the depth of the memory!

She remembers those times when she was called 'the little one' by the whole family, and even the village. Despite having a fairly fancy name, only her teachers and classmates knew it. Of course, 'the little one' was pampered by the family. Especially at mealtimes, her mother would save a corner of plain rice, while the rest of the pot was filled with cassava or sweet potatoes. The elders would say that one grain of rice carried three pieces of cassava. The little one could enjoy a bowl of white, fragrant rice without caring about the frowning faces of her older sisters who were tired of the never-ending mixed rice. But sometimes, she would ask for corn rice because the smell of corn, with its unique sweetness and earthy richness, was incredibly tempting. Maybe it was because she was often given special treatment, but she longed for the corn rice that everyone else had grown tired of. When the little one asked for corn rice, her mother didn’t have to fuss, just carefully setting aside a portion of rice without adding cassava or sweet potatoes. And so, the pot of rice would blend perfectly with either corn or cassava. The little one preferred the corn rice made with cornmeal. The cornmeal would be added when the rice had just absorbed all the water, and after resting in the warm ash for a while, the pot would begin to release steam and the fragrant smell of fresh rice and corn would fill the air. Back then, the little one’s family never had old stocks of rice from previous harvests, so even mixed rice, whether simple or complex, was made with freshly harvested grains, lending a unique, fresh flavor that stimulated the senses like no other. The flavor of cornmeal rice, she would never forget. It was rich, slightly sweet, and had a delightful texture that was a perfect contrast to the smoothness of the rice. Even today, after tasting all sorts of dishes, whether corn cakes, corn sticky rice, or corn soup, nothing compares to the alluring taste of the humble cornmeal rice of those days. Indeed, it was delicious, a true delicacy from a time when mixed rice was a challenge for every family, yet for the little one, corn rice was a 'delight.' This wasn’t a case of nostalgia for a simple dish after experiencing a life of abundance, but the unique taste of that dish was enchanting in its own right, captivating the senses of a young child from a poor family with its deep flavors.

Was it the unique taste of the food itself, or was it that the little one mistook the sweetness of the corn and sweet potatoes for the profound love her mother had for her, a love as boundless as the smoke from the evening hearth? After more than thirty years, the little one, now grown with some gray hairs, can truly appreciate the deliciousness of that cornmeal rice, perhaps because it was the only rice she ate alone, separate from the plain rice she ate every day. The little one’s gray hair marked the same time her mother’s hair had turned completely white.

Mother, when will I ever repay you for the love poured into that sweet, earthy bowl of cornmeal rice and the pure white rice you saved for me, a lifetime’s worth of care? All I have now are the Sundays spent with you, combing through the thinning gray strands of your hair, tying it neatly as you did when I was young and off to school, and sharing a laugh. Your smile warms the heart of a daughter far from home.

Author: Nguyễn Thị Mỹ Tuyền

Sticky rice, a dish so familiar to the Vietnamese, has become a staple breakfast for many. Whether you're rich or poor, young or old, it is highly likely that you've had sticky rice as your morning meal to fuel a busy day of work. Beyond breakfast, sticky rice also plays an important role in special ceremonies like weddings, birthdays, funerals, and prayers. At these events, we often see beautifully arranged sticky rice dishes like gac sticky rice, three-colored sticky rice, and green bean sticky rice.

Today, on my usual way to work, I spotted a young, beautiful woman in a traditional áo bà ba, selling corn sticky rice. Although corn sticky rice is nothing new, what made me pause wasn’t the taste or the vendor’s beauty, but the fact that the sticky rice was wrapped in a vibrant green banana leaf. In today’s world, it’s rare to find someone still using banana leaves instead of plastic bags or Styrofoam boxes to wrap sticky rice.

This simple moment took me back to my childhood memories—my mother would pack sticky rice in my school bag for breakfast, or sometimes, I’d have sticky rice for lunch when she had leftover from the morning’s unsold stock.

Corn sticky rice is a humble yet beloved dish, especially for those of us who grew up with it. In my school days, corn sticky rice was a comforting breakfast that could keep you full until lunchtime.

Back then, my mother sold sticky rice from an old bicycle given to her by a relative. To make delicious sticky rice, she worked hard. The process was meticulous and required preparation the night before—soaking the sticky rice, dried corn kernels, and mung beans for six hours, and carefully washing the beans. In the early hours before sunrise, she would start cooking.

The cooking process was intricate, with the sticky rice, corn, and beans all prepared separately. The corn was boiled, and the sticky rice was soaked and steamed in a bamboo steamer. Once the rice was ready, a spoonful of coconut milk was gently poured into the hot sticky rice, filling it with a rich aroma. The scent would waft through the air, making it impossible for the neighbors not to notice.

To enhance the flavor, additional toppings like mashed mung beans, crispy fried shallots, and chicken fat were mixed in. For those who preferred an extra savory kick, roasted sesame seeds and crushed peanuts were added for a crunchy texture.

My mother would prepare the sticky rice early in the morning, spreading a banana leaf on her table, placing the right amount of sticky rice, and adding mung beans, sesame salt, and shredded coconut. She would then fold the banana leaf into a neat package, adding a small section of pandan leaf as a spoon for easy, hygienic eating—all while being eco-friendly.

Nearly 30 years have passed, and things have changed. Today, sticky rice is often made using a modern pressure cooker or rice cooker, drastically reducing the cooking time to under an hour. The aroma is still present, but it doesn’t carry the same unique scent that once filled the air from the old stove.

Sticky rice is now more accessible than ever, packed in plastic containers for convenience, as people rush to work in the mornings. I still buy corn sticky rice occasionally, but I can never replicate the feeling of the sticky rice my mother made for me when I was younger. The taste, the saltiness of my mother's sweat as she cooked, the sweetness of her love for me wrapped in those warm sticky rice packages—I can’t find it in the store today.

I will always remember the taste of the corn sticky rice from those days, but it now lives only in my memories with my mother, floating away with time.

Trần Thiện Thanh - Trầm Từ Thương

Sticky rice, a staple dish for many Vietnamese people, has become a favorite breakfast food. No matter what your job or social status is, it’s likely you’ve enjoyed sticky rice as part of your morning routine. It’s also a key part of various celebrations, such as weddings, birthdays, memorials, and offerings. At these events, sticky rice is often served in various forms, such as gac sticky rice, three-color sticky rice, and mung bean sticky rice.

One day on my regular route to work, I saw a young woman dressed in a traditional áo bà ba, selling corn sticky rice. This dish might not seem extraordinary, but what caught my attention was the way it was wrapped—neatly inside a vibrant banana leaf. In today’s world, it’s quite rare to see sticky rice sold in banana leaves, as most vendors opt for plastic bags or Styrofoam boxes.

The sight of the banana leaf wrapped sticky rice brought back memories of my childhood, when my mother would pack sticky rice in my bag as a breakfast for school. I also remember times when we would eat sticky rice for lunch if my mother had extra left over from her sales that day.

Corn sticky rice is a simple but cherished dish, especially for those of us who grew up eating it. During my school days, it was the perfect breakfast—filling enough to keep you satisfied until the afternoon.

Back then, my mother would sell sticky rice from an old bicycle. To make the sticky rice taste just right, she would work tirelessly, carefully preparing and cooking everything. The process was detailed—soaking the rice, corn, and mung beans the night before, and then starting the cooking process early in the morning, even before the rooster crowed.

The preparation was quite detailed, with each ingredient cooked separately. The corn was boiled, the sticky rice soaked and steamed, and once everything was ready, a spoonful of coconut milk would be poured into the rice, infusing it with a rich aroma that could be smelled all around the neighborhood.

To add more flavor, she would mix in mashed mung beans, fried shallots, and chicken fat. For those who wanted a bit more texture, sesame salt and crushed peanuts were added on top.

Every morning, my mother would lay out a banana leaf and scoop the perfect amount of sticky rice onto it, adding mung beans, sesame salt, and shredded coconut. She would carefully fold the banana leaf to make a neat package, complete with a small piece of pandan leaf as a spoon—this was both practical and eco-friendly.

Now, nearly 30 years later, everything has changed. The sticky rice I make today is often done in a rice cooker or pressure cooker, which takes less than an hour. While the smell is still there, it’s not quite the same as the old-fashioned cooking method that filled the air with the scent of a wood fire.

Sticky rice is now sold in plastic containers for convenience, as people hurry to work. I sometimes buy corn sticky rice for breakfast, but it’s never the same as what my mother used to make. The taste—laden with memories of my mother’s sweat as she worked, the love she poured into each sticky rice package—is something I can’t find in the stores today.

Though time has passed and things have changed, the memory of that corn sticky rice still remains in my heart.

Trần Thiện Thanh - Trầm Từ Thương

Every autumn, the fragrance of fresh green rice fills the air, carried by the vendors walking through the streets of Hanoi. The homeland of green rice, near Hanoi, naturally produces many delicious dishes made with it, which have become iconic to the city. Especially, this rice is often crafted into cakes, delicately packed, and brought to important life events. Young men and women carry trays of these rice cakes to participate in the most significant event of their lives – a marriage proposal. At family gatherings, especially memorial services, a tray of these cakes becomes a thoughtful offering. Girls, gathering together during the rice season, joyfully unwrap the fresh rice, laughing as they chat while savoring it. Some even pair it with ripe bananas, creating a delightful combination of flavors.

In the cold Vancouver winters, which come earlier than my homeland, the red maple leaves fall gently with every breeze, reminding me of the chilly air outside the window.

On weekends, with a little free time, I enjoy making delicious home-cooked meals from my homeland.

The fresh rice is wrapped in two layers of lotus leaves, which keep it as fresh as the day it was harvested. A rustic touch is added with two straw ties that hold the rice packet together. This simple presentation reminds me of the last time a friend gave me rice wrapped in leaves as a farewell gift. The lotus leaves remain green, and as I unwrap them, the essence of autumn seems to linger on each grain of rice.

In this faraway land, bringing fresh rice over the Pacific Ocean, a journey of nearly 20 hours, was a challenge, but I felt so fortunate when I passed customs successfully. It was truly a case of 'hard work pays off'.

It reminds me of how skillfully my mother used to cook. She would prepare savory dishes like rice cakes with green rice, or sweet dishes like green rice porridge or stir-fried green rice. Back then, no one made sticky green rice the way we do now – perhaps it was too much of a luxury.

As a child, I would wait by the stove, eagerly waiting for my mother's instructions, sneaking a few grains of rice. It was so sticky and fragrant. She never used coconut milk; instead, she added a few spoonfuls of white sugar and a bit of lard, stirring it gently over low heat. She'd tell me not to stir too much to avoid mashing the rice. After about fifteen minutes, she’d add some more lard to give the rice a glossy finish. She never used vanilla or any artificial flavorings; the rice’s natural fragrance was special enough. After it was ready, she’d arrange it on a plate, sometimes sprinkling it with freshly grated coconut or roasted sesame seeds to make it more appealing. I could never wait for it to cool down – eating it warm was always the best. When it cooled too much, it could become too chewy, but when it was just warm, it was perfect.

The green rice cakes I made were nothing like the ones you buy outside. I mixed the fresh rice with minced pork and a bit of seasoning, only using fish sauce and monosodium glutamate to avoid overpowering the delicate rice flavor. After blending the ingredients, I shaped small portions and steamed them. After cooling, I would fry them gently in hot oil, the rice puffing up like popcorn, turning crispy on the outside but remaining soft and chewy on the inside. Eating them with my hands was the best.

Now, my mother’s hair has turned gray, and though she sometimes forgets the present, she fondly remembers the past. I can still hear her calling after the maid: 'Go to the market and buy two ounces of fresh rice to make for Thuy, she loves it, and you can’t find it here!'

Now that I’m grown, I miss those times when I could sneak a taste of my mother’s cooking. I don’t even remember the last time she made the green rice for me, but I know it will never happen again. She’s almost ninety now, and sometimes, in the middle of the day, she’ll ask, 'Have you eaten yet today, dear?'

My mother may forget many things now, but she still remembers to remind me, 'Put a few packages of green rice in your suitcase for the journey. It’s a treat to have some while you’re away.'

Now, in this faraway land, I make green rice cakes and stir-fried rice for my own children, sharing with them the stories of this rice – a dish that’s not just a food, but also a token of love and memory that’s passed down through generations.

Thuy Nguyen

I still vividly remember when I was around nine or ten, spending the whole summer at my maternal grandmother's house. Every morning, I followed her to the local market to pass by a stall that sold snacks, where the smell of Kê (a local ingredient) wafted through the air. My heart would race with excitement, and my grandmother would buy me a Kê cake. The market only opened in the mornings, and by around ten o'clock, it would quiet down. The lively atmosphere of the market, full of chatter between buyers and sellers, still lingers in my memories. Especially during market days, when the goods were plentiful and the atmosphere busier than usual, but what stood out most from my childhood was the humble Kê cake.

In reality, this is a simple treat that isn't hard to find. It is said that this snack is popular throughout the northern regions, from Hanoi to Hai Phong and Bac Giang, each area giving it its unique twist. Kê cake is a beloved snack by everyone, from the elderly to children, who find it hard to resist the taste of their homeland.

The ingredients for making this cake are simple and light. All that's needed is a small basket, a tray that fits just right, a bag of crispy sesame bánh đa, and, of course, the key ingredient: Kê (a type of grain). The Kê is cooked until thick and creamy, with a rich golden color and a distinct aroma. Additionally, there are other ingredients like green beans, sugar, and fried onions. Making this Kê cake may be easy, but it requires care and attention to detail. The Kê should be carefully chosen: small, smooth grains that are washed, soaked in a mixture of water and lime water for 30 minutes, and then rinsed and drained. The Kê is then placed in a pot with some water. To achieve the perfect texture and aroma, the cook needs to stir it gently to ensure it doesn't burn or overcook. Overcooking or burning will spoil the taste. When a customer orders, the vendor breaks the bánh đa into triangle-shaped pieces. The bánh đa must be crispy with plenty of sesame seeds. The sound of the bánh đa snapping adds to the anticipation of the customer waiting eagerly. The vendor quickly spreads a thick layer of Kê on the bánh đa, then spoons on some smooth, crushed green beans, followed by a sprinkle of sugar and fried onions, adjusting the amount to each customer's preference. The crispy cake is folded in half, sealing the fillings inside, and it’s ready to be enjoyed!

The cake is best eaten immediately when it's fresh. If left for even just five minutes, the bánh đa will lose its crispiness and the flavor will diminish. When you bite into the Kê cake, you hear a satisfying crunch. The sugar gently dissolves on your tongue, followed by the sweet taste of fried onions, which excites your senses and soothes the heat of summer. The crunch of sesame seeds, the refreshing taste of Kê, and the smoothness of green beans blend together to create a delightful flavor that dances on your tongue. On a hot summer day, the crisp, refreshing, sweet, and savory taste of Kê cake is irresistible. It’s a perfect choice after indulging in greasy meals. The four distinct flavors—crunchy, refreshing, sweet, and savory—are like the four seasons: Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter, creating a taste that stays with you forever...

Sometimes, I can still hear the distant calls of the vendors with their baskets, calling out, "Who wants Kê cake?" These moments bring back childhood memories so vividly, making it impossible to forget the simple, comforting snack that carries with it so many fond memories of my youth.

Trần Mai Hương