Mom’s magical ‘strawberry wine’

April brings sunshine to the eaves. Mother followed the footsteps of the sun to the garden, stopped in front of the green mulberry tree, now dotted with pink and black colors. Strawberry season returns quietly in the hustle and bustle of people and then bears fruit jubilantly as an unexpected gift of the Creator.

Mom told me to bring out a bamboo basket, they both picked strawberries while stepping on the memory train: her youth – my childhood…

At that time, my family was very poor. Mother’s markets rarely have cakes and candy bars as gifts. While the other children eagerly waited for their mothers to return from the market, I always disappeared from sight. I thought that doing so would make my mother less tormented and depressed, only later did I know that sometimes she also let a few “sobs”… steal. Mother held her father’s hand tightly, the two hearts vowed to work together.

My garden is large, all trees are tall, only a few mulberry bushes are within reach. When the strawberry season comes, the children gather around the root, competing to pick the fruit to remove the belly. Ripe blackberries are sweet, succulent; Nursery fruit has two or three colors and is only slightly sour, while young green fruit is shiveringly sour.

Ripe mulberries are best eaten on a sunny day. The more sunny it is, the sweeter the taste. It rained heavily for a few days, the strawberries were both pale and sour. Our kids in strawberry season, mouth, mouth, hands and feet, all clothes are smeared with blue and red colors. I remember once when I accidentally put plastic string on my white uniform shirt, my mother washed it all the time. After the meal, my mother took out my shirt and “punished” me for sitting and rubbing the stain for an hour.

A few years later, I was older and my family conditions were a bit better. Me and the kids already knew the smell of cakes, sweets, and yogurt. The fruit-laden clumps of strawberries are no longer surrounded by gluttonous arms, so they are fully ripe. At that time, the “main road” brought the basket to pick strawberries and pick them up.

The basket full of strawberries is washed and then dried. Strawberries are dry, mom carefully arranged strawberries in a glass jar. For every layer of strawberries, put on a layer of sugar. Finally, close the lid tightly so that the ants do not crawl in. Strawberry and sugar over time will blend into a thick red liquid, which looks very eye-catching. Mum used to wittily call this slightly yeasty drink “strawberry wine”.

Just a few spoonfuls of “strawberry wine” mixed with filtered water and then add a couple of ice cubes to have a glass of cool, delicious water right away. Every hot summer afternoon I “fly” two glasses like that.

The brothers and sisters over to play, saw that my strawberry juice bottle was so delicious, they also picked up a few large jars of soaked strawberries. Since that time, every summer, my whole family excitedly invites each other to pick strawberries soaked in “wine”.

Getting off the memory ship, my mother and I returned to reality. Mom looked at the basket of strawberries and fell in love with the old days. The strawberry carved in the heart of the mother a picture full of sadness but worthy of respect. Strawberry color painted in my childhood a simple picture, lacking but sweet love.
Today, my mother made that magic water as a way to comfort the memories.

And in just twenty more days, my sobbing soul will be grasped by the familiar sweet and sour taste and then embraced.

According to Women in HCMC