I miss those winter rainy days

I remember the rainy days in the countryside, the whole family gathered around the wood stove, felt the smoke sting their eyes, but kept talking and laughing innocently because of so many close stories.

I remember when I was a child, whenever it rained, my parents often couldn’t go to work in the fields. My mother often said that farming depends a lot on the weather, so we have to take advantage of the sunny days to go to the fields, otherwise we have to sit at home and feel sad because of the rain. It’s not clear how sad it is for adults, but for us children, being able to sit together as a family, next to a warm fire, with a few fragrant sweet potatoes buried inside, is an immense joy. At those times, my father often told stories about the days he crossed high mountains and crept into the forest to find honey, which was a priceless gift from nature to the poor countryside.

My father also talked about his childhood days, how he was good at diving, when every rainy season came, he would catch countless fish, eels, burbot… His childhood memories Dad made the whole family laugh out loud. The atmosphere also becomes peaceful when the sound of conversation mixes with the rich taste of sweet potatoes and roasted chestnuts. Occasionally, Dad would hug us all in his arms and burst out laughing.

Occasionally, on days when it rains heavily, my mother soaks some roasted rice and saves it to prepare dishes for the whole family. The childish nature of wanting to eat makes my sisters and I run out every few minutes to squeeze the rice grains to see if they have bloomed yet. In the simple kitchen, I often sat quietly and looked at the slender figure of my mother spinning the mortar, suddenly feeling strangely at peace. That was one of the rare moments when I saw my mother slow down amidst all the hustle and bustle in life.

Children like us at that time kept crowding around, looking at each stream of pure white flour and longing for the delicious cakes my mother had cooked. The fragrant pancakes were cut into small pieces by my mother for us to dip in spicy fish sauce and eat with rice. That simple “poor family” dish is strange but also extremely satisfying, especially on days when it rains for a long time.

During the meal, there were occasional whines and even cries from the youngest child begging his mother to give him the last cake, scraped from the last piece of dough but fried to a crispy texture that everyone liked. To please the children, my mother also took the opportunity to make a bunch of lemongrass salt, remove the fragrant oil and then add lemongrass and salt. The curd rice eaten with lemongrass salt was so delicious, swipe a piece like a grain of rice, blow on the rice. Hot to eat while releasing smoke.

Waiting for the rain to subside, my father will go to the back garden and pick up some Siamese potatoes. Mom is usually divided into three parts, one part is boiled, then beaten and dipped in sesame salt. The remaining portion was sliced ​​thinly and saved for tomorrow morning to be mixed with rice for a delicious meal. Mom will meticulously peel the remaining potatoes, then grind them into small pieces and squeeze them dry. Use the potato base to steam it with a little sugar. When eaten, it will be soft and chewy, creating a strange feeling in your mouth. The mother’s body was rolled into balls and then fried. This is a dish that my sisters really love because of its rich, crunchy flavor mixed with just the right amount of salty and sweet, so wherever the cheeks are fried, we will eat them all. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, my dad goes to the back of the house and finds a bunch of sweet potatoes, cassava tubers or a bunch of ripe bananas, and my mom will happily cook a pot of sweet sweet soup for us to enjoy. After the children finished eating, they eagerly waited for the sweet soup to cook so that their mother could scoop it into a bowl and enjoy it. The fatty aroma of sweet potatoes, the sweet sweetness of bananas, the nutty taste of peanuts mixed with the smell of fatty coconut milk, there’s really nothing better than this.

Then winter slowly passed, and the lives of farmers in my hometown gradually improved. My parents carried the plow to the fields to sow seeds to prepare for a new harvest. In the garden behind the house, my sisters and I also took advantage of the time to clear grass, sow more seeds of mustard greens and kohlrabi, and raise some beds for green mustard greens. The weather is warm and the persistent rains of spring are gradually absent, making people feel more comfortable. But for some reason, it still makes me miss the time spent together in a simple house next to the door frame drizzled with winter rain.

Many years passed, I moved away from my hometown to a noisier city, starting a new life. However, every time winter comes, my mind is suddenly filled with many thoughts. Countless childhood stories seem to be neatly arranged in my memories, whenever I think about them, they appear vividly as if they were just yesterday. Like this morning, leaning against the small window on the fourth floor of the classroom, there was the faint sound of the street vendor selling sweet potatoes. It kept repeating, reminding me of my parents’ frolicsome silhouettes in old winters.