Every Lunar New Year’s Eve, my mom and grandma would be up before the sun.
I didn’t understand it then—I was a kid riding the high of red envelopes, days off from school, and a house that smelled like something magnificent was always simmering on the stove. The cousins would arrive in waves. The adults would talk too loudly and laugh too hard. Someone’s kid would inevitably knock something over. And through all of it, my mom and grandma would weave between the kitchen and the table, calm and purposeful, like they were the still center of a very joyful chaos.
That was Tết to me growing up. Red and gold. Noise and warmth. The best food of the year, eaten with the people I loved most.
It wasn’t until I hosted my own Lunar New Year feast that I began to truly understand what my mother and grandmother had been doing all along.
Planning the menu, I found myself reaching for the same dishes they always made. Not out of habit, exactly. More like instinct. Or maybe inheritance. I wanted to make bánh chưng—the sticky rice cake wrapped in banana leaves—because it is, as I’ve come to learn, a profound symbol of the Earth, of gratitude, of family unity.
I wanted the canh khổ qua, the stuffed bitter melon soup, because its very name carries a wish: that all the hardships and struggles of the past year will pass and disappear.
I wanted thịt kho trứng, the braised pork with eggs glossy in their caramel sauce, not only because it tastes good, but also because it represents the hope that everything falls perfectly into place.
I wanted these things not just because they taste like home—though they do, deeply—but because I finally understood that each dish is a sentence in a language Vietnamese families have been speaking for generations. A language of care, of intention, of hope dressed up as food.
This year, I hosted again on February 15th – the 28th of December in the lunar year of the Snake. I made a menu for my friends, most of whom weren’t Vietnamese, so they could understand what they were eating and why. Watching my friends read the menu, pause, and look at their food a little differently—that felt like something.
Here is what I know now that I didn’t know as a child: there is a particular kind of pressure that comes with being the one who sets the table.
My mom and grandma were not just cooking. They were creating the memory that my sister and I, and my cousins, will carry for the rest of our lives—the smell of lemongrass, the particular weight of a sticky rice cake in banana leaves, the way a bowl of soup can hold an entire wish inside it.
My Vietnamese heritage has given me so much more than recipes. It has given me a way of marking time that is rooted in meaning. It has given me the instinct to gather people together and feed them. It has given me the understanding that food is never just food—it is a symbol, a story, a wish, and a memory all at once.
It has enriched the way I see the world in ways I am still discovering.
This year, I set the table. The canh nấm ngũ sắc—the mixed vegetable and mushroom soup—shone as a distinguishable centerpiece, embodying the hope for a peaceful year ahead. The xôi gấc glowed red on its plate, carrying the wish for lots of good luck in this Year of the Horse.
We had a wonderful time, eating, exchanging New Year blessings, and just talking about life. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I thought of my mom and grandma, up before the sun, and I finally understood exactly what they were doing.
They were making sure the good times stay in our hearts.
Chúc Mừng Năm Mới — Happy Lunar New Year.