Dressed in a verdant coat of banana leaves, the Vietnamese rice dumpling, or “Bánh Chưng,” has long been a staple in the nation’s culinary repertoire. These little parcels of glutinous rice, filled with a medley of ingredients, tell stories of culture, family, and nostalgia. Yet, as I sit in my dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by the haunting aromas of my childhood, the joy of cooking feels eerily overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of melancholy.
To create these delicate dumplings, one must begin with the right cooking utensils. The process starts with a large pot, deep enough to allow the dumplings to submerge entirely in boiling water. The metallic clang as the pot meets the stovetop echoes in the stillness of my mind. A sturdy wooden spoon stirs the bubbling water, while bundles of banana leaves are prepared, cutting into strips with a sharp knife that feels heavier with every slice. I remember my grandmother’s deft hands — how they would weave the leaves with such grace, yet the weight of her absence fills my heart now.
As the rice is soaked overnight, the anticipation swells like the grains themselves, puffing from the water. A steamer pot waits patiently nearby, but even the gentle steam it emits feels tainted by the weight of memory. I reach for a bowl to mix the mung beans and pork — the scent is soothing yet haunting, reminiscent of family gatherings that now feel like distant echoes. Each meal shared holds the power of connection, yet it is this very connection that amplifies the solitude in my kitchen.
Measuring the ingredients becomes an emotional ritual. The sticky rice, when held in my palms, feels like years of tradition squished in with each grain. The saltiness of the pork chunks bursts with flavors of past experiences. But the joy that once accompanied these ingredients feels misplaced now, like I’m merely going through the motions — a semblance of normalcy when everything around me feels disarrayed.
Layering the fillings within the rice starts to crack the façade of the perfect dumpling. The precision of folding the banana leaves as my grandmother did eludes me. I feel like a child playing with shadows; the dumplings never quite reach the serenity of her creations. The floating worry in my mind whispers that even if I manage to tie the leaves properly, the taste will be a mere shadow of what it used to be.
Once stacked within the pot, the lid slams shut, and all I can do is listen to the gurgling sounds of boiling water mingling with my own internal frustrations. Time stretches endlessly, and I can’t help but stare at the clock, willing it to either move faster to relieve me of this selfimposed burden or to freeze in time, so I could savor the process just a little longer.
The moment finally arrives: the dumplings are pulled from their hot bath, each parcel carrying within it a blend of flavors that tell stories of love, sacrifice, and joy. Yet, I can’t savor the fruits of my labor. The stirring memories of laughter and warmth are overshadowed by an aching heart. I know, deep down, that these were never just dumplings — they were the embodiment of life, of family, and of a time that has slipped through my fingers like grains of rice.
No photos to capture this moment, no voices to share the taste, just the silent sorrow of an empty kitchen devoid of the laughter that should have filled it. Each bite is a reminder of what has been lost — traditions upheld through generations against an increasing tide of time. I can’t help but feel that the weight of these dumplings is also the weight of memories that cling heavily to me, yearning either for resolution or the freedom to be released.