Mid Month RitualsTo read more from the cheerful Sierra, please visit her blog at: threecontinentslater.wordpress.com Ming waved away the white ashes that floated towards her from a nearby open window. They were sweet, remnants of offerings that had been burnt earlier that morning. Our host family didn’t burn their offerings. They simply placed them on a table under the shelf in the living room that served as a modest altar for the ancestors. When we woke up, the kitchen was already alive. Even though everyone was awake, the lights remained off and the rooms glowed from sunlight that shone through glass patio door. A quiet energy lingered in the apartment. We ate a quick breakfast of red sticky rice and dark coffee with sweetened condensed milk. Our host father sat on the patio, rhythmically chopping a mixture of meats and vegetables into a plastic bowl. Son appeared in the hallway with a bag from the little “Vinmart” downstairs. In it were yogurts for each of us. They were sweet with small bits of clear aloe throughout. Satisfied, we were ready to begin. Our host mother’s hands expertly chopped a slice of tomato, rubbed the wounded end on the thin white wrapper, shaped an appropriate amount of filling on top, and rolled it into a perfect spring roll. We cautiously copied her motions, forming less than perfect spring rolls, but spring rolls all the same. Occasionally we would look up to find iphone cameras pointed at us, our host parents’ smiling faces behind them. We made shy eye contact and laughed. With occasional corrections, we continued shaping and rolling until the wrappers were gone and silver trays were full. A strong smell filled the kitchen as our host father seared small chunks of pork, still attached to the bone, in a large pan. It was time for the next step.We crouched on the patio around a hot plate, turning the spring rolls with oversized chopsticks as they browned in sizzling oil. I chose five to set aside on a small plate. We continued our task until a visiting neighbor relieved us of it, worried that we were overcooking our lunch. Sitting at the dining table, I gazed at the altar and the array of dishes that set underneath it. A single candle was lit inside a glass flower votive. It glowed red, seeming to bring life to the items on the shelf. Next to the spring rolls that had been set aside were five shot glasses of clear rice wine.We ate heartily and after a period of time, our host mother quiety got up and brought the foods that had sat underneath the altar over to the table. The spring rolls were our favorite. #Vietnam
To read more from the cheerful Sierra, please visit her blog at: threecontinentslater.wordpress.com Ming waved away the white ashes that floated towards her from a nearby open window. They were sweet, remnants of offerings that had been burnt earlier that morning. Our host family didn’t burn their offerings. They simply placed them on a table under the shelf in the living room that served as a modest altar for the ancestors. When we woke up, the kitchen was already alive. Even though everyone was awake, the lights remained off and the rooms glowed from sunlight that shone through glass patio door. A quiet energy lingered in the apartment. We ate a quick breakfast of red sticky rice and dark coffee with sweetened condensed milk. Our host father sat on the patio, rhythmically chopping a mixture of meats and vegetables into a plastic bowl. Son appeared in the hallway with a bag from the little “Vinmart” downstairs. In it were yogurts for each of us. They were sweet with small bits of clear aloe throughout. Satisfied, we were ready to begin. Our host mother’s hands expertly chopped a slice of tomato, rubbed the wounded end on the thin white wrapper, shaped an appropriate amount of filling on top, and rolled it into a perfect spring roll. We cautiously copied her motions, forming less than perfect spring rolls, but spring rolls all the same. Occasionally we would look up to find iphone cameras pointed at us, our host parents’ smiling faces behind them. We made shy eye contact and laughed. With occasional corrections, we continued shaping and rolling until the wrappers were gone and silver trays were full. A strong smell filled the kitchen as our host father seared small chunks of pork, still attached to the bone, in a large pan. It was time for the next step.We crouched on the patio around a hot plate, turning the spring rolls with oversized chopsticks as they browned in sizzling oil. I chose five to set aside on a small plate. We continued our task until a visiting neighbor relieved us of it, worried that we were overcooking our lunch. Sitting at the dining table, I gazed at the altar and the array of dishes that set underneath it. A single candle was lit inside a glass flower votive. It glowed red, seeming to bring life to the items on the shelf. Next to the spring rolls that had been set aside were five shot glasses of clear rice wine.We ate heartily and after a period of time, our host mother quiety got up and brought the foods that had sat underneath the altar over to the table. The spring rolls were our favorite. #Vietnam
