Top 10 Most Meaningful Essays on Family Meals

In today's youth culture, the phrase 'mother's cooking' is often used to praise a delicious dish or high-quality content on social media. The phrase has become a benchmark for measuring taste and authenticity. Why is that? The most fitting answer is that nearly everyone spends almost a third of their life with their parents, with family, from the time we learn to eat, speak, and grow. The attachment to a 'mother's meal' is deep because it connects us to the very roots of our being, the moments when we are nurtured by love and care. During the fourth wave of the COVID-19 pandemic, with its more dangerous variants and widespread impact, the distance between people and 'mother's cooking' seemed to grow further. In lockdowns and quarantines, moments that should have been spent together with loved ones made the longing for family and 'mother's cooking' even more profound.

In the old days, when our family was large, the effort to feed all of us was already a huge task for my parents. Like many other families, meals were mostly simple rice with vegetables. Meat and fish were rare, reserved for occasional special meals, and with five sons all at the age of 'growing like weeds,' there was never enough food to go around. So, whenever we had guests from the countryside, I was always excited because it meant we'd get to enjoy a more generous meal during their visit. Before moving to Hanoi, my parents were from the countryside, where both sides of the family had large extended households. They lived simply, valuing honesty and kindness, so even distant relatives would stop by whenever they were in Hanoi. And when they visited, my parents would always invite them to stay for a meal. Some guests just dropped by for a quick meal before heading back, while others came for medical treatment or to bring their children to school and stayed for a few days. Of course, guests always brought along some local food as a gift. People in Hanoi are known for their refined taste, but in our home, each person had to eat three to five bowls of rice per meal, so the rice pot at our house was as big as those in local eateries. Guests from the countryside were always comfortable in our home, eating heartily without the need to be polite. If someone only had one or two bowls, my parents would encourage them to eat more, knowing they hadn't had enough. One guest once told my parents: 'Your house is great! No need to hold back.' In return, whenever we visited the countryside, our family was always warmly welcomed. Usually, we would stay with immediate family or close relatives when we visited the countryside. Though we were from a poor rural area where meals often included corn or cassava, whenever a guest from Hanoi visited, everyone would rush to invite my parents to their homes for a meal. Even distant relatives, upon hearing that my parents were in town, would cycle ten kilometers just to invite them over for lunch. Despite the many invitations, my parents could never visit everyone due to time constraints. However, some relatives would complain, saying: 'We cooked chicken and prepared a meal, but you didn't come. Is it because you think we're too poor to serve you a decent meal?' My parents never explained, simply saying they didn't have enough time to visit everyone. For me, the meals served to guests in the countryside were always delicious, with free-range chicken, homegrown vegetables, and if there was any market-bought meat or fish, it was always fresh and clean. The warmth and love in the atmosphere made the meal feel even more special. *Time has passed—over a third of a century—and life in rural areas has improved significantly. I was born in the city, but whenever we had family matters, we would visit our ancestral home. The relatives in the countryside are now mostly of my generation. The older generation, including my parents' siblings, has either grown old or passed away. If I meet someone, I have to be introduced to know how we are related. Nowadays, when I visit the countryside, I usually choose to stay in a hotel for comfort. At first, I worried that my relatives might scold me for not staying at their homes or for eating out instead of sharing meals with them. But it seems I was overthinking—no one really cares where I stay or eat. It’s not that I’m distancing myself, but I find it more comfortable, especially when traveling with my family. Staying in a hotel is less intrusive and more convenient. Ironically, some of the people who used to visit us in Hanoi no longer do. The distance between us has gradually grown. However, the memory of family meals with guests will always stay with me. The meals from those days were much more fulfilling than any fancy feast today... They were delicious because they were filled with love and connection!

Trần Minh

Born and raised in a rural village, no matter where life takes me, the deep love for my homeland and the warmth of rural life always stay in my heart. After many years away, today, I return to visit and realize that I am still that child of the countryside, filled with the same deep affection that I once had. The village roads are now paved, some sections are even cemented, making everything look much more spacious and orderly. Although the surroundings look different, the feeling of home is still the same. As I walk down the familiar paths, the scent of the countryside air and the calmness of the village envelop me, taking me back to my roots. The changes in the village are apparent, but the soul of the countryside remains intact—there are still rows of neatly trimmed hibiscus along the roads, still houses with little flower gardens, and almost no gates to lock. People in the countryside are simple, honest, and genuine, as seen in their lifestyle—open, unguarded, and welcoming. This openness is something every child of the village takes pride in. The warmth of the countryside can be felt in the smiles and greetings when you step foot into the village. It’s as if the villagers have been nurtured by the kindness of all, and this generosity is reflected in their open-heartedness. Returning to the old house in this humble village, I feel an unexpected warmth. It’s a feeling quite different from the constant hustle and struggles of city life. The small house is full of memories of my childhood, a place where I was nurtured by my parents’ love and care, and where my siblings' concern shaped who I am today. My mother, though now slower, with her back bent and hair gray, still goes to the garden to pick some wild vegetables to cook for dinner, just like when I was a child. My brother hurries to the fields to catch small fish and shrimp for our evening meal. It’s the season for rice planting, and as the floodwaters recede, the shrimp and fish are abundant. Just by setting up a few bamboo traps on the edges of the rice paddies, we can catch enough to eat. The warmth of the family, the smell of rice boiling on the stove, and the smoke drifting from the kitchen all blend together, creating a peaceful scene, with the evening sky turning golden and the village wrapped in the colors of dusk. It’s a beautiful picture of rural life. While waiting for everyone to gather for dinner, I roast a few shrimp on the embers of the stove. The scent of grilled shrimp and fish reminds me of the things I’ve always missed while being away. The aroma of these dishes brings me back to my childhood, to those days spent catching crabs, collecting snails, and setting traps for fish and shrimp. During breaks, we would roast the shrimp and fish, and the smell of them, mixed with the earthy, muddy scent, and the sweetness of the river’s fertile soil, would fill the air. It’s a taste of the countryside that stays in the heart of anyone who has left, like me. Over the years, I've eaten shrimp and fish many times, but it’s never quite the same. Now, I realize that the flavor I was missing was the taste of my childhood, the sweetness of the simple, humble countryside life. The evening meal in the countryside takes me back to that feeling of warmth and love from my childhood. For the people of my village, dinner, which sometimes isn’t until late, is the most important meal of the day. Breakfast is often skipped, as people are up early working in the fields, and lunch is a simple meal at home for the children, while the adults are out in the fields. But dinner is when everyone gathers together. I remember my father, during those evening meals, would ask each of us about our day, our work, and our studies. He didn’t scold us, but gently explained right from wrong, guiding us with a kind smile during those humble meals. The love my father gave, rooted in the traditions of our village, shaped my soul from childhood. Today, coming back to the countryside and enjoying a meal filled with love, I finally get to savor the flavors of my childhood. It’s a simple meal, but one that carries the weight of familial love and village memories. The evening meal in my village, though simple, is a heartfelt expression of love and connection.

Lê Quang Thọ

"No matter how far you go, remember the smoke from the kitchen and the garden of your homeland."

How could I ever forget the place where I was born? How could I forget the rice fields that sang in the wind? In those days, my mother would light the stove, and the smoke would rise in the evening. The memory of those warm family dinners with my parents and all six siblings gathered around the table is something I cherish deeply. Though the meals were simple—pickled vegetables, a handful of herbs, and squash or gourds from the garden—they always tasted so full and satisfying. Even today, I still miss them dearly. Back then, we lived in a small thatched house. Though space was tight, we always made sure to eat in the most important area of the house. Our old aluminum tray was the one treasure we held dear, a gift from my grandparents to my parents when they first set up their own home. We didn’t have clocks, so we would time our meals by the position of the sun. When the shadow of the house aligned with the roof, it was time to eat. The oldest sibling would bring the pot of rice, another would carry the soup, and someone else would scoop the golden-tinted fish sauce and the pickled vegetables placed at the end of the hallway. This simple ritual was a deeply cherished part of our day. Though our family didn’t have much, we adhered to traditions. Dinner could only begin once everyone was present. If one of my parents was late from a trip to the market, we would keep their portion separate. My father would teach us values at the dinner table, saying "Eat with your eyes on the pot and your back to the direction." He’d always remind us, "Learn how to eat, how to speak, how to wrap, and how to open." Family meals weren’t just about nourishment; they were a place where we learned deep moral lessons and how to treat others. I vividly remember those afternoons when my mother would buy some meat and tofu, stir-frying them with onions and oil. The smell would drift through the house, and we’d eagerly gather around the kitchen, trying to sneak a whiff. When dinner was served, my mother would carefully serve my father first, then share with us siblings, but never for herself. My father would pass his share to my mother’s bowl, and my siblings and I would follow suit, each of us offering food to our parents. We’d all eat together, the laughter and warmth filling the room. There were times when the pickled vegetables had become too sour, and my mother would stir-fry them with pork fat. The eggplant would darken, becoming crispy at the edges. Then my mother would announce, "Tonight, we’re having dried beef." My younger siblings would clap their hands with joy, thrilled by the simple yet heartwarming pleasure of the meal. Occasionally, when one of my father’s colleagues visited, he would invite them to stay for dinner. My mother would cleverly set up two tables, one for the guest on the bed and the rest of us on the floor. The guest’s table would only have a plate of fried eggs, some roasted peanuts, and a small bowl of fresh herbs. My younger siblings would insist on sitting next to my father, but my mother would gently persuade them to sit elsewhere. My father, always mindful of the guest, would eat sparingly, leaving most of the food for us. Even though the meal was simple, he always made sure we had the best part. There were evenings when it was almost time for dinner, but my parents were still busy with work. My siblings and I would gather around the table, waiting for them to finish. The oldest would quietly remind us, "Don’t eat too much, save some food for Mom and Dad, they still need energy for work tomorrow." My father overheard and gently corrected her, "The younger ones must eat well to grow strong." Yet that evening, we ate only a little, though my parents insisted we eat more. Later, as I looked at my mother’s moist eyes, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of love and longing. Today, life has become easier, and we no longer struggle to make ends meet. But the old traditions and memories still remain with me. I now realize that happiness isn’t something you need to search for elsewhere; it’s in the simple act of sharing a meal with your family. Those simple meals we shared back then, prepared with so much love and care, were the most delicious and fulfilling of all.

* A poem by Nguyen Hong Minh

Lê Thị Ngọc Lan

In the multitude of concerns that occupy our lives, family plays a central role, often shaping our joy and happiness. Whenever we are far from home, we often feel the pull of nostalgia, and one of the things that brings back those memories is the warmth of family meals. As a nation rooted in rice cultivation, food has always been central to the Vietnamese way of life. Whether it’s a simple meal of rice with fish sauce and pickled vegetables or a more elaborate feast during holidays, rice is a staple that binds us. There is a saying: “A wealthy household eats rice three times a day, while even the poorest will light the fire three times.” Eating is not just about sustenance but a way to connect with one another, imparting valuable life lessons that can only be taught within a family. Respect for elders and family unity has always been a core value in Vietnamese culture. In the past, families often consisted of several generations, where elders were revered, cared for, and taught by the younger members. Being an agrarian society, the Vietnamese family meal typically consisted of homegrown produce, turned into a variety of dishes. A traditional family meal might include three main dishes: a main dish, stir-fried vegetables, and soup. In addition, there would be pickled vegetables, fermented fish, fresh or boiled herbs—all served on a single tray for everyone to share. Meals are an important time for expressing respect and love within the family. The phrase “A greeting is worth more than a feast” captures the essence of family mealtime. It’s common to see the children inviting the grandparents or parents to eat first, and the parents serving the younger children the best portions. A family meal is more than just eating; it’s an opportunity to sit together, share stories, laugh, and bond. The spirit of a meal is important—having a lavish spread but no conversation can make the meal feel empty, while a simple meal shared with love brings warmth and connection. Even if the food is simple, like a dish made from shrimp shells and pumpkin innards, the act of sharing, passing food between husband and wife, or between parents and children, creates an atmosphere of warmth and love. If a family member cannot join the meal, a portion is set aside for them, carefully prepared with love and respect. These moments around the dinner table create lasting memories—whether it’s the warm gaze of a father or the affectionate smile of a mother. These family meals, filled with care and generosity, are what make a home truly special. In today’s fast-paced world, particularly in cities, it’s becoming increasingly difficult for families to have meals together. Busy schedules mean that most family members only gather for dinner, and even then, it’s often a hurried affair. Some family members may be late due to work, while others may be off to classes. In these moments, the shared meals once full of laughter and stories are replaced with individuals eating alone, in front of the TV or while scrolling through their phones. The bond that family meals once nurtured can begin to fray as the act of eating together becomes less common. As society progresses and we shift from a traditional agricultural lifestyle to an industrialized one, the structure of family life is changing. Keeping the tradition of family meals alive, especially for younger families with busy careers and small children, can be challenging. However, it remains important to preserve this practice. Childhood memories of simple meals shared with parents and siblings—eating together on a mat on the floor, laughing and talking—are treasures that stay with us forever. There is nothing more precious than a family gathered around a table, enjoying a meal together, sharing, and looking out for each other. Maintaining the tradition of family meals not only nurtures the happiness of family members but also preserves a beautiful cultural heritage for future generations.

Ai Nguyen

Born on a piece of land that experiences both the blazing heat of the sun and the endless rain, where the sun beats down on your head and the rain turns the world into a damp mess. We were poor, with many children, and whenever we had a free moment, the women in the family would prepare fermented soybean paste to store for the rainy season.

Rain or shine, as long as there was rice in the barn and fermented paste in the jar, we didn’t worry.

The paste was made from oil cakes, which were the leftover pulp after peanuts were pressed for oil. These cakes were spread out on bamboo mats and dried in the sun. During the off-season, the women would cut the cakes, pound them into small pieces, and sift them to separate the finer bits.

We selected the best glutinous rice and cooked it into sticky rice. While the rice was still warm, it was mixed with the prepared oil cake and seasoned with a bit of salt and sugar.

Everything was then pounded in a mortar, with small batches being ground in a small mortar and large batches in a wooden mortar using a big pestle (called a 'quyet'). The final step was to put the paste in a jar, seal it tightly, and let it ferment for a few days. The result was a golden-brown, fragrant paste, ready to store for the cold winter months.

On rainy days, we would cook a big pot of rice. I’d go to the garden to pick water spinach, wash it, and cut it into pieces. We’d boil some water, toss in the spinach, and then add the paste to season the soup. (The saltiness could be adjusted depending on preference).

Pickled eggplant dipped in the paste was absolutely mouth-watering, a perfect complement to the rice.

On days when we sold some sweet potatoes, the meal would improve. Small pieces of pork fat, cut to the size of a chopstick tip (to stretch it for all the kids), were simmered slowly with a bit of water. The paste and pork would meld together, and the scent would fill the air.

Rural rice was simple, yet filled with love. The family dinner table was full of siblings, parents, and children, with stories that went on and on without end. The laughter of the youngest brother, the tired wrinkles of Mom, and Dad’s sighs filled the room. The shadows of the whole family stretched across the dirt walls.

There was a smoky fire from burning sugarcane stalks, which hadn’t had time to dry properly.

The smoke from the fire, the taste of the paste made by Mom, the tanginess of the pickled eggplant, and the sweetness of the vegetables Dad grew—these flavors stayed with me forever.

How can we forget our hometown?
How can we not love it?

Across the cities, you can find restaurants serving 'MOTHER'S COOKING'. But nothing compares to a home-cooked meal.

If you've been away for too long and haven't had a chance to return home, make sure to plan a trip back to your roots for a taste of the home-cooked meals, before it’s too late!

We leave, but we always long for home
We miss the water spinach soup and the pickled eggplant with paste!

Tâm Phạm

During the years spent abroad, what tugged at my heart most was the yearning for the simple, earthy meal from home, a meal filled with the love and care that only a mother can put into it, shaped by the sun and rain of our homeland.

What could be more comforting than sitting around a table surrounded by family, gathered together on a mat that smells of the countryside, the smoke rising and mingling with the smiles of happy, peaceful faces?

Father sips his rice wine and talks about village life, the endless toil of farming, while Mother carefully scoops rice into humble clay bowls for the growing children. Their laughter fills the room as we, the children, chatter excitedly about school, friends, the clink of plates and chopsticks mixing with the crackling of the fire.

The love for our homeland grows from such simple moments, like the steady flow of a river nourishing the land, always present in my heart as I wander through the busy cities. Every now and then, I feel the longing for the rural flavors, the tastes I only find in the memories of my childhood.

When I walk through foreign lands, I realize how much I miss the taste of water spinach soup and pickled eggplant in my heart, and the quiet image of my mother by the stove, the smell of smoke and saltwater lingering in the air. It stays with me, calling me back to the roots of my soul.

After spending so many seasons in the hustle and bustle of the city, with rushed meals at distant restaurants, I find myself longing for that bowl of freshly harvested rice, craving the refreshing sour soup that only my mother can make. I wish I could sit on the porch again, listening to the sound of the birds chirping, eating grilled fish with homemade dipping sauce, and savoring stir-fried pumpkin leaves with dried shrimp, or the sweet soup made from the tender melons she grew herself.

Each season brought its own harvest, with fresh greens from the garden, fish from the small pond, and the ever-present simplicity of the land. My mother would craft a meal filled with love and simple pleasures, nourishing my body and soul, bringing me back to those childhood days of peace. Whether eating cucumbers or fish, it didn’t matter, as long as I was sitting with her, feeling the warmth of her love.

Oh, how I miss the sounds of the pots and pans, everyone helping Mother set the table on the old mat. I remember the rainy seasons of my youth, gathering around to roast seeds like jackfruit and cashew, the sweet and refreshing taste of black bean soup during the sweltering heat. The taste of nostalgia is as rich as the fish sauce with ginger, as salty as the braised fish with water spinach, as tangy and sweet as the frog soup with wild herbs.

Just one simple meal made by my mother would soothe all the stresses and pains of the world, making me feel at peace in the cradle of my homeland. Everything else feels trivial compared to the warmth and peace of home.

My mother’s happiness lies in the meals she prepares for her children, making them feel like they are still small in her eyes. Her joy is seeing her children eat well in the embrace of her warm, loving home, a home filled with the salt of the earth and the spice of life. Everyone has their dreams of flying high like a kite, but don’t forget the way back home, or the image of the mother waiting by the table, her heart heavy with longing for your return.

“Whoever is far from their roots sits alone, reminiscing about the green bamboo groves and the memories that surround them. Suddenly, I long for… bitter melon soup...”

(*). This line from a song resonates deeply, a melancholy longing that pulls at the heart.

(*) From the song “Still Loving the Bitter Melon Growing Behind the Summer” by composer Bắc Sơn.

Trần Văn Thiên

Born and raised in the countryside, how could I not feel a deep affection and longing for my homeland? I miss the simplicity of my mother's cooking, the humble meals that seemed so ordinary, yet now, far from home, I long to return to my mother's side and enjoy those familiar rural dishes.

The dish that lingers in the hearts of us children of the village is the rice cooked over a wood stove. As the sun sets in the west, casting its fading rays onto the kitchen corner, my mother starts a fire with firewood and straw to cook the evening rice. The smoke rises from the thatched roof as the night falls, wrapping itself around the kitchen like a warm, comforting blanket. The gentle smoke clings to the banana leaves, lightly dusted with ash. I can still recall many evenings, with countless pots of rice, where the banana leaves near the stove always had a fine layer of ash.

We children were experts in food, and we could tell when someone was cooking rice just by walking past the house. Especially when it was fresh rice, you could smell it from the corner of the alley. Fresh rice smells so fragrant and delicious! The best time is when the rice pot is boiling, and the steam rises, filling the air with a sweet, milk-like scent. The first pot of rice in the season, with its perfect white, fluffy grains, was always the highlight. The best part of the pot was the crispy rice at the bottom, which had a strong, smoky aroma, mixed with a slightly bitter taste in places.

My mother’s simple meals were never extravagant. A plate of homegrown greens, boiled and served with fermented shrimp paste, was all we needed. The shrimp paste was best when cooked with crispy pork skin, a little spring onion, and chopped chili. It had to be spicy, with a layer of red oil on top, just the way people from central Vietnam like it. In the summer, our meals always included a bowl of soup, whether it was bottle gourd, pumpkin, or fish soup with local river fish. The sweetness of the soup came from the fish, bringing comfort on those hot summer days. During the rainy season, we would catch fish from the fields. The joy of catching a big catfish was unmatched. We would rush home to show it to my mother, who would cook it with black pepper, filling the house with its fragrant, tingling aroma. Our meals were simple but always satisfying, and every bite reminded me of home.

When evening fell, we would sit on the mat in front of the house, enjoying the meal together after the sun had set behind the bamboo groves. We would share stories of the fields, of life, and of the people we knew, all while the warmth of the meal surrounded us. These memories were naturally ingrained in my heart, and when I left home, they became a constant source of nostalgia.

But the meal I miss the most is the midday meal during harvest season. Early in the morning, my mother would cook rice to bring with her to the fields. The rice was wrapped in banana leaves, keeping it warm until noon. When it was time to eat, we would rest under the shade of trees, the cool breeze from the fields brushing against our skin. The midday meal, though simple with just rice and salted peanuts or sesame, was more delicious and joyful than any gourmet dish.

In the hustle and bustle of life, it’s easy to find a homely meal, but what’s difficult to find is the meal shared with family. Though the ingredients may be the same, the meal cooked in a clay pot over a fire in the kitchen, prepared by my mother’s hands, always feels different. The love, sacrifice, and longing to see the family together is present in every dish. The simplicity of a meal from the village isn’t just about the food; it’s about the love and care put into it, and the warmth of home.

The village meal isn’t just about family; it also brings people closer together. When a family has cooked something special, they will always share it with the neighbors. We children were always tasked with carrying dishes to the next house. The exchange of soup, fish, and other dishes helped strengthen the bonds between neighbors. It’s a unique trait of rural life: the deep, honest relationships that are formed around food and care.

Born from the sweat of my father’s hard work in the fields, and raised on my mother’s home-cooked meals, the taste of the countryside is forever embedded in my soul. No matter how far we go or how successful we become, the sound of rice cooking will always make us yearn for home, for the warmth of our mother’s embrace and the simple, nourishing food of our childhood.

Nguyễn Đức Anh

A family meal is simple enough to talk about, especially in Vietnam, where the custom is to have three meals a day at home. However, in recent times, due to work pressures and countless other reasons, many people end up eating out, with fewer meals at home. As a result, the evening meal often feels more complete, with everyone gathered around the table after the day’s hustle has subsided. There is something heartwarming about a simple dinner prepared by my mother or wife, made from familiar dishes.

When I was young, like most kids, I was more interested in playing than in remembering to return home. Many evenings, my mother had to come after me with a stick, or wait patiently until it was dark, while the food grew cold. Looking back, I feel so much compassion for my mother! The stick she carried wasn’t meant for me, but for the branches by the roadside, which she hit to clear the path. The poor branches suffered because of me. She never hit me, but she always carried the stick when looking for me. Later, she told me she kept it because there were snakes on the rural roads, and she was afraid. This made me feel even more pity for her. What moved me even more was how much she wanted no one to be absent from a meal. The dishes she prepared, simple yet full of rural flavor, would make me long for those evening meals whenever I ate something unfamiliar in distant places. Back then, cooking rice and fermented fish was done over a wood stove. When the sun was setting, just a few weak rays of light would filter through the kitchen as my mother lit the fire to cook the evening rice. The smoke swirled up to the thatched roof as the evening fell, layering the air with its fragrant scent. I remember so many evenings when my mother’s kitchen was filled with the scent of smoke and soot. In that little corner, the smell of freshly harvested rice, as pure as sweet milk, would drift to the end of the alley. The children would eagerly peek into the bubbling pot, inhaling the steam and fighting for the thin layer of rice stuck to the edge of the pot. But the most delicious part was the crispy rice at the bottom of the pot, crunchy and fragrant with the smoky flavor of the rice that had been slightly burnt.

The meals my mother prepared were never extravagant. There was just boiled garden vegetables served with fish sauce, salted freshwater fish, and soup made from garden vegetables like bottle gourd. Yet, they tasted so good, so wholesome. Sometimes, my mother would cook a pot of freshwater fish, both salty and peppery, making me gasp from the spice and the bitterness of the salt, but it was a dish that made you eat more rice, especially on those cold, rainy winter nights. In the summer, there was always a bowl of soup on the table, whether it was made with local herbs and small fish or wild spinach with peanuts, the dishes were perfect to cool off during the scorching midday heat. We rarely had fancy dishes from the market—just a few simple homegrown ingredients, but when it was my mother cooking, I missed those meals the most, especially when I was far from home.

The evening meal usually started once the sun had set behind the trees. We would lay down a ragged mat in front of the house, and the whole family would gather around the table. The air was filled with the stories of daily life—joys and sorrows—that we shared during our meals. These memories naturally stayed with me, and whenever I was far from home, they would return to my mind. Sitting by the evening meal, I couldn’t help but remember the midday meal, especially the one eaten in the fields. Under the shade of trees, we would open the rice packed tightly in banana leaves, and the taste of simple salted rice with sesame during the midday heat felt so refreshing, with the breeze gently blowing on our skin. We would quickly cover our faces with our hats to block the sun and hurriedly rest to be ready for the afternoon work.

Now, I can easily find a meal with the same rural dishes, but what’s hard to find is the warm atmosphere of a family meal. The fast-paced, busy life leaves no room for the smoky kitchen, the old tripod, the pot full of black soot, or the crispy rice at the bottom. The meals my wife prepares with modern equipment are appealing but lack the essence of my mother’s cooking. Perhaps it’s because the fast food in the fridge and the pre-cooked rice from an electric rice cooker lack the tender care that shows love, sacrifice, and the hope for reunion. This warm atmosphere is also crucial; a rural meal is not just about family but also about strengthening bonds with neighbors. If someone cooked something delicious, they would share a bit with the neighbors, and the cycle of sharing always kept the community ties strong. These days, that’s becoming harder to find!

I was born in the village, so I carry the sweat of my father and the delicious meals of my mother in my soul. The rural taste is in everything I do, at every moment. I have never experienced the exact feeling as poet Pham Huu Quang did: 'In the world of wanderers, we are but petty wanderers/But when I hear the sound of rice boiling, I already miss home.' But when I’m far from home, the scent of fresh rice brings a wave of nostalgia, as poet Huy Can wrote: 'The heart of the countryside stirs as the river flows/No sunset smoke, yet still, I miss home.' And who hasn’t felt that way?

Ngô Văn Cư

(Originally published in Bình Phước newspaper)

In today's fast-paced, market-driven world, life has become incredibly busy. Whether in rural areas or cities, many families have lost the joy and warmth of shared meals.

For breakfast, it's often a light, quick meal eaten outside, with people having different preferences. Those working night shifts tend to sleep in and cannot wake up early to join the family for breakfast.

At lunch - children eat at school during extended hours, while parents grab a quick bite at their workplaces.

In the evening - it’s rare for everyone to sit together for a meal because of individual circumstances. Children have school and extra lessons, while parents in industrial zones work shifts. Even those in high positions have delicate reasons for not being able to dine with their families at regular times...

Due to the demands of work, the fast-paced industrial life, and each family member's profession, meals have gradually lost their significance.

Today, eating has become more about filling one’s stomach and meeting basic needs. Fast food, cold meals, or even specialized diets tailored to one's health have become the norm. Many follow dietary plans based on traditional remedies to stay healthy and prevent illnesses, all through consultations at health centers or media outlets...

In reality, family meals are of great importance. When all members of the family gather together, even a simple meal becomes an occasion for warmth and happiness. It’s a time for sharing stories, discussing school matters, work, friends, and teachers, and guiding the children. The family meal represents unity, care, and everyone’s responsibility to their loved ones.

It’s common to see people spending their evenings socializing with friends, having drinks and dinner, but spending a whole week without sharing a meal with their family...

Don’t use work as an excuse. Don’t prioritize expanding relationships or having fun with friends over family. Don’t neglect the significance of meals in today’s world...

Think of the elderly waiting for their children and grandchildren to return home for dinner when the food has gone cold, or the wife tirelessly cooking crab soup after a long day of work, still happy to cook after buying fresh crabs. She waits and waits, but when the husband returns, he’s too drunk after meeting with a client to care about the meal...

Family meals are not just about food. Gone are the days when we had three full meals together. Now, it’s the evening meal where we can gather. So, remember to return to your family when it’s mealtime and recall the old wisdom: 'Meals have their times, markets close at dusk...'

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