Dragon Boat Festival Memories in the Zongzi-Scented Time

Dragon Boat Festival Memories in the Zongzi-Scented Time
In the mid-summer season,as the first chirps of cicadas rise,the refreshing fragrance of mugwort quietly permeates every household along the streets and alleys.My mother,who had already started preparing early,heard the long-awaited news of my return.Even though her voice over the phone remained gentle,there was unquenchable joy in it."All the preparations for this year have been set in place.We've just been counting the days for your return."she said,her voice threaded with a warmth that betrayed the excitement dancing in her tone.After hanging up,Mother went on bustling about with methodical ease,the rich scent of glutinous rice and bamboo leaves clinging to her fingers.

In my mind's eye,each Dragon Boat Festival eve would find Mother bustling about with practiced ease.The glutinous rice required soaking for hours until it yielded softly to the press of a finger.Bamboo leaves were boiled,then left to unfurl gently in clear water,their green veins trembling like lace.Pitted red dates glistened like rubies,glossy red beans lay plump and ready,marinated streaky pork exuded savory notes,and salted duck yolks—golden orbs—all awaited their alchemical turn in the steamer.Thanks to my mother's meticulous preparations,the instant I pushed open the door,the ingredients arrayed on the table seemed to offer a silent welcome,their very presence summoning me to wash my hands and partake in this time-honored zongzi-making ritual.

The art of zongzi-making is a legacy my mother wove into my very being.In childhood ignorance,I merely gorged on the sticky treats,blind to the wisdom in her teachings—oblivious that each fold of bamboo leaf held more than rice and filling.As her hands moved deftly among the ingredients,mother said,"Mastering this craft ensures that wherever you roam,the taste of home will never be lost." I was but a half-understanding child then,squatting at her side,my fingers fiddling curiously with the smooth bamboo leaves—oblivious that each rustle held the promise of belonging.Now,though my hands still fumble slightly,each step of zongzi-making is inked with Mother's lessons:rolling soaked bamboo leaves into a tapered cone,pinching the base to seal out any gaps,layering in glutinous rice,nestling in fillings,then capping them with another sweep of rice—so the grains clutch the fillings like a secret held in a fist.Finally,I fold the leaf's tapered tip over the rice,then tuck the excess along the zongzi's contours to shape its angular form.In that hazy moment,I can almost see Mother holding me as a child,her hands guiding mine—each patient fold a lesson written in bamboo and time.Now that I'm all grown up,she sits beside me,her hands moving independently through the motions—only pausing to eye my work and offer a murmured correction.The same gentle smile still plays on her lips.And every time,father joins in too,feigning indignation as he starts:"You keep saying I can't make zongzi—watch me show you!"Then he'll challenge me to a friendly competition,determined to prove his skills haven't faded.

Beyond making zongzi,I've honed the craft of selecting calamus and mugwort for our home.My expertise lies in discerning details:for mugwort,I seek out stalks with pungent aroma,deep green hue,and pliable toughness;for calamus,I favor roots plump as jade and springy to the touch.Once home,Father and I work in tandem:tying a red string in a slipknot two finger-widths above the roots,crossing the ends to wind tight coils that cinch the bundles firm,then looping the string into a bow.After trimming the excess,we hang them—above doorframes,beside windows,and in the living room's focal spots—like green talismans warding the space.

My mother often reminds me to fasten the strings tighter,lest the zongzi fall apart in the steamer.Yet in my eyes,those delicate threads do more than secure the rice—they weave our family closer,stitching hearts together like knots in a lifelong tapestry.

In the mingled scents of zongzi and mugwort,Dragon Boat Festival memories ripen like aged wine,infusing each passing year with a warmth that never fades.