Flattened Rice at Ok Om Bok

The child's mouth is busy with a small ball of cốm dẹp, young sticky rice pressed into flat flakes. So the wish has to wait patiently behind the tongue until the chewing is done. The child's hands are still pressed together toward the moon. Only the mouth is busy. The flakes are soft and sticky, fragrant with new sticky rice and sweet with coconut water. There is a little richness from grated coconut, and a bit of ripe banana rolled into the ball.

An old hand pats the child gently on the back, as if to say there is no hurry. The elder bends down and quietly asks what the wish will be. The child gives a small nod, still chewing, chewing carefully, and only then swallows. Then, eyes closed, the child whispers the wish to the moon. That wish can stay a secret between the child and the moon.

Behind the child, in the middle of the front yard, a bamboo frame has been put up, and the offering tray has been ready since dusk. There is a very large plate of cốm dẹp, and a fresh coconut with its husk trimmed but its lid kept in place. Around them are all kinds of root vegetables, ripe bananas, fruit from the garden, betel leaves and areca nuts, and cakes. The incense is lit, the lamps are burning, the tea is poured. High above, the full moon has risen over the line of trees.

A few things here need explaining: why a full moon night calls for cốm dẹp, why the grains are flat, and why the grown-ups feed it to each child. And there is the small shadow on the face of the moon, which the Khmer say is a rabbit. The answers lie in the rice fields, in a wooden mortar, in this very yard, and in an old tale.

Tonight is the full moon of the tenth lunar month. In the phum sóc, the villages of the Khmer of southern Vietnam, this is the night of Ok Om Bok. It is held in places such as Sóc Trăng and Trà Vinh. The name Ok Om Bok means being fed cốm dẹp, exactly what the child has just been given. So the festival is also known as the feeding of cốm dẹp, or the offering to the moon.

By now the rainy season is over, and the earliest rice fields are being harvested. The Khmer believe the moon is a god who balances rain and sun so that the rice can grow. After the harvest, people make offerings to the moon to remember that kindness. They thank the moon, and they thank the water and the earth too.

The fitting gift is the new rice itself. Cốm dẹp is made from sticky rice. It stands for devotion to one's elders, and for gratitude to the grain that feeds people. Since long ago, cốm dẹp has been made first and foremost as an offering to the moon.

People choose sticky rice that has only just ripened, while the grains are still soft. They dry it briefly in the sun, sift out the empty grains, and soak it overnight. The next day, a clay pot is heated over a charcoal and wood fire burning low and steady. Only then is the rice poured in to roast. A grown-up stirs it evenly. After a few minutes, the pot fills with small, crisp popping sounds.

Once the popping starts, there is no time to lose, because the rice must be pounded while it is still hot. Two grown-ups stand facing each other at a wooden mortar, each holding a wooden pestle. As one pestle rises, the other comes down, in turns, as if the two were talking in the language of pestles. Often a third person holds a bamboo stick to turn the grains over and scrape off any stuck to the pestles. The pounding starts very gently, then grows stronger and stronger.

Each stroke presses the sticky rice a little thinner, until every grain is flat. So it is the wooden pestle that makes cốm dẹp flat. The thud of the pestles carries across the whole phum sóc, lively and cheerful to the ear.

After the pounding, the rice is winnowed and sifted clean of husks and bran, and only the fragrant flakes are kept. They are mixed with coconut water, grated coconut and a little sugar, then left to rest for about an hour until soft, light and sticky. That is why the child in the yard takes so long to chew. This craft goes back hundreds of years. Many families still keep the wooden mortars, wooden pestles and clay pots handed down from their grandparents.

The ceremony begins when the moon rises over the trees. Where it is held in a pagoda courtyard, the ngũ âm ensemble also plays to open it. The person leading the rite may be an elder of the family, or the head monk of the pagoda. The leader bows three times, thanks the moon, and asks for good health for everyone and for rich harvests.

After the prayers, the children are called over, their hands pressed together toward the moon. One by one, they step forward. The leader takes a handful of cốm dẹp and adds a little banana, a little coconut and a little root vegetable from the tray. The leader rolls it into a ball and feeds it to the child. Then comes a pat on the back and a question about a wish, just as with the little one earlier. The new rice, just offered to the moon with prayers for good health, now goes straight into the mouths of the children of the house.

After the offering, sky lanterns are released into the moonlit sky, and floating lanterns drift and sparkle on the water. Around Sóc Trăng, the festival also has ghe Ngo races. The long boats are richly carved, and dozens of rowers strike the water in a single rhythm.

The festival night also has a time to explain what the moon offering means, and to tell a tale about the shadow on the moon.

That tale has its roots in the Buddhist stories of the Buddha's earlier lives, and the Khmer tell it in their own way. Once upon a time, on a night of the full moon, a gentle rabbit sat alone. That night, the rabbit made a vow from the bottom of its heart. If anyone ever needed it, the rabbit would gladly give away its very self.

It was a tiny vow, yet it carried far. It is said that high in the heavens, a god heard it at once.

The god left the heavens right away and came down to earth. He took the form of a stooped old man and made his way slowly to the rabbit. In a weak voice, the old man asked for a little something to eat, to ease his hunger.

Around the rabbit there was only night dew and moonlight, and nothing to offer the old man. But the rabbit did not turn away, because the vow it had just spoken was still whole in its heart. The rabbit looked up at the old man very kindly and answered softly. If he needed it, the rabbit would offer him everything it had, even its own self.

The moment the rabbit finished speaking, the stooped old man was gone. Before the rabbit stood the god, in his true form. He was moved by such goodness in so small a creature. He bent down, held the rabbit safe and warm in his arms, and flew straight up to the moon. When he arrived, he used his divine power to draw the rabbit's image on the face of the moon. He kept it there forever, so that people would look up and remember a heart that knew how to give.

Out in the yard, the ball of cốm dẹp went down long ago, and only the sweetness of coconut water lingers on the child's tongue. The child tips back to watch a sky lantern rise. The lantern leads the child's eyes straight to the moon, to the shadow the Khmer call a rabbit.

Ever since the night the god carried the rabbit up, every full moon has carried that rabbit's shadow, and this full moon of the tenth month does too. Down in the yard, the leader has finished rolling the next ball of cốm dẹp. Another small mouth is already open, two hands pressed together, and a wish is waiting its turn.