All that's needed for Tet

Writer's note: So here you go, a translation of that Vietnamese post, but the joy of Lunar New Year in the air needs no interpretation.

Once upon a Saturday morning, a full-blown sleep was programmed in my brain to make up for all the wretched mornings for school, when a shuffling noise from the kitchen woke me up. Despite the noise, I struggled to resist the enticing warmth of the heater and get out of bed. Still, in my rumpled pajamas, I crept down the stairs to see Mom sitting beside the wooden table, meticulously peeling bulbs of kiệu (a type of onion). A bowl chock-full of washed pigs' ears (yes, you've heard it right) was lying right beside, with the veins ingraining like the wavy patterns of the wooden table. Seeing me agape, Mom chuckled, "It's the Kitchen God's Day in Vietnam, so why not have some kiệus?" I simply stood there, inhaling every bit of the pungent smell of pickled onions, which signaled the arrival of another Tet (Lunar New Year in Vietnamese).

This would be the first Tet that I'm away from Vietnam, despite living abroad for nearly 3 years. Yes, I can't help feeling wistful, as my homeland can't be closer than an ocean away. No longer are there cram nights for semester exams like back in Vietnam, yet the lofty pile of homework nearly made me forget the excitement of Tet. I pulled a chair, transfixed with Mom's dexterous hands slicing pickles then the pig ears, my mind wandering to envision Tet knocking on the doorsteps of the corners of Saigon. Around a week before Tet, I would get all jumpy in the class from counting down to the big holiday break from school. The whole class then would break their backs cleaning the classroom as for the cleaning traditions we had, yet a flashing grin was on everyone's face. My hands would be sore from carrying candies home after the end-of-year celebration, along with piles of textbooks that the school insisted students bring home to clear out the desk drawers. Just as the wheels of the school bus rolled, we would holler with ecstatic joy amid the deafening Tet music blasting out from the 3 portable speakers. I couldn't miss springing into the kitchen to see the tất niên (end-of-year) lunch, which was intricately prepared by the hands of Mom and multiple other aunties. Their work wasn't futile: dishes of chả thủ (head cheese) neatly arranged in porcelain dishes adorned with succulent tomato slices, along with two steaming boiled chickens made me forget about the just-handed Math test. However, the one that I couldn't keep my eyes out was the mouth-watering beef salad dish at the end of the table, ready to be drizzled with spicy soy sauce. This loitering wouldn't end until my sister's "report" to Mom that some slices of head cheese were missing :)

Real photo of a monetary venture in my middle school. One isn't a true Viet without being involved in some sort of laying odds at Tet.

Not every year did I travel to my family's hometown for Tet, but not a single year passed without a trip there. Although born in Sai Gon, I would embrace the province of Binh Dinh as my true hometown. As quaint as it could sound, my "hometown" is right in Qui Nhon, a lively coastal city in Central Vietnam, where the mountains kiss the ocean. It was a mere 7 or 8 years ago that Qui Nhon was a tiny city with empty sandy beaches smooth from footprints. The streets were murky as twilight ends, as the only major sources of light outside were from squid-harvesting coracles flashing like night stars out yonder. A few years passed without trips to Qui Nhon for Tet due to the heavy school workload brought an immense excitement as I returned there. The whole city was brimming with vivacity: seaside cafés filled with guitar serenades, flocks of tourists streaming to the city square, along with the honks of traffic harmonizing with the rocks and rolls of the waves. Many an afternoon did I splashed in the crisp waters in the East Sea, where the water was so clean that you can see krill jumping in swarms (careful not to open your mouth while swimming unless you're curious to taste real fresh seafood!) Those coastal wanderlusts would be rewarded with an extended stay at the local food stalls, where bún thịt nướng (smoky grilled meat with vermicelli) or bánh bèo (rice flour cakes topped with a battalion of pork floss and scallions with fish sauce) would help me offset the calories lost from swimming in a nanosecond. After the culinary carnival, I strolled along the shady streets, where every corner of Qui Nhon engraved deep into my memory was again explored like a dusty Polaroid tape reopened.

Qui Nhon at night through 3 lenses

1) Nguyen Hue street winding around the beach, photographed while the author was eating bánh bèo from a nearby stall

2)Surf Bar Qui Nhon, where they sold every beverage except those found in a typical bar

3) Long Khanh pagoda, Lunar New Year's Eve

However, Qui Nhon isn't in all its glory until Tet, when almost every street was lined with rows of flowers stretching endlessly like the undulating waves beyond. In front of every house would be a pot of mai flowers (the flowers on this post's thumbnail, the Christmas Tree of the Vietnamese's biggest holiday) or golden chrysanthemums, if not for even more exotic choices like papayas, lilies, or cherry blossoms brought in from the North (in a land where summers never go below 28 degrees Celsius). On those rare January misty mornings, I would get up early to wait for Mom back from Quan Tran market with Tet goodies. Though located in the heart of the city, Quan Tran market still retained the unfolded traditions that were seemingly lost amid the hectic current of life. Wrapped in crimson paper were bánh in, cakes made from sweet grilled rice flour and black bean filling and not without a wisp of ginger. Neatly cut in diamond pieces were of bánh hồng, another Tet delight molded from the fragrant glutinous dough and wrapped in freshly-cut banana leaves. While Mom was placing offerings on the ancestors' altar, my sister and I helped tidy the house until hunger would make us go to the nearby pagoda where stood a marvelous fried banana stall. The whole family would be in a frenzy of cleaning up till the evening came. Out on a moped in the crisp night air, we went to see folk music contests and New Year festivals around the city. I would dwell on the silky sand on the beach with a fresh coconut, eyes gluing to a scene in Tam Ha Nam Duong, one of the folklore music shows set out in the air. Suddenly, a boom yonder echoed, followed by vibrant bursts of fireworks set from the square. The usually acrid smell of burning fireworks intertwining with the musky fragrance of incense and salty sea breezes brought a flint of nostalgia. Not until after midnight, I came home snuggling in the blanket with crimson dreams of fireworks and red envelopes.

A sunshine of chrysanthemums, from the ancestor's altar to the streets

A quiet Long Khanh pagoda on the 5th day of Tet (not photographed while the author was sipping grass-jelly nearby)

A winter afternoon on Canada's west coast. Golden streaks of sunlight glittered the dewy grass carpet outside. Mom had already finished putting the sliced onions and meat inside tall glass jars. Dad had also done painting and fixed the lock on the door. We hurriedly set the table up for lunch, not forgetting to add more slices of chả thủ to the already packed plate. I chattered about the upcoming plans for Semester 2, which included bringing some traditional Tet dishes for lunch at school. After a sumptuous end-of-year meal, the whole family would huddle together to video call our grandparents and relatives, all while reminiscing at the sound of Saigon traffic echoing in Messenger. I guess that's all needed for Tet.