Legend of the Kitchen Gods

A grandmother carried a small basin out to the pond behind the house, leading her grandchild by the hand. In it a red carp flicked gently, its scales glinting in the dry sunshine of the year's end. It was already the afternoon of the 23rd day of the last lunar month. The grandmother tipped the basin toward the water. The fish flicked its tail once, drew a ring of ripples, and was gone. The child looked up and asked where she was sending the fish. She smiled and said the carp was carrying the Kitchen God, ông Táo, up to heaven.

Then she told the story. It is one the old people of the family tell again whenever the kitchen smoke of the year's end smells sweet, as the days run down toward Tết, the Lunar New Year festival in Vietnam. It tells why three hearth stones called ông đầu rau lean their heads together in the kitchen to keep the fire.

Once upon a time, there was a poor couple named Trọng Cao and Thị Nhi. They had nothing but a thatched roof and a small kitchen, but they loved each other dearly. Morning and evening they had each other, in hunger and in plenty. Every evening the fire glowed red, and sitting by the pot of rice, they felt their whole home was warm.

But then came a year when the harvest failed, and hunger spread everywhere. The fields dried up, the rice ears stood empty, and there was nothing left in the house to eat. Trọng Cao had to say goodbye to his wife and travel far away, to find work and send food home. Before he left, he took her hands and promised he would try to come back soon. He asked her to wait for him. Thị Nhi stood at the end of the lane and watched him fade down the road, her heart heavy.

He was gone for a long, long time. One year passed, then two, then seven long years, and still there was no word. The road was long and hard, and no letters came. Every day Thị Nhi watched the lane, but he never appeared. Everyone in the village said he must have met some misfortune in a faraway land. Thị Nhi cried until she had no tears left. She believed she had truly lost her husband.

Some time later, a gentle man in the village named Phạm Lang saw how alone Thị Nhi was. He often came by to help, carrying water one day, splitting firewood the next. In time, moved by her loneliness, he asked if they might lean on each other and share a life. Thị Nhi hesitated for a long while. But believing her first husband was surely gone, she agreed. The two became husband and wife. Phạm Lang loved her with all his heart, and the little kitchen glowed red again and filled with laughter.

Then, just when no one expected it, Trọng Cao came home.

Through all his years of wandering and hard labor, he had longed only for the day he would see his wife again. But when he reached the edge of the village, he froze. The wife he had missed for so long now had a new home and a kind new husband. Trọng Cao watched from a distance, his eyes brimming with tears. He loved Thị Nhi, so he did not want to walk in and disturb her new happiness. He only stood there in silence, keeping his sorrow to himself.

Each of these three people carried a different ache, yet every heart held only love, and not a single word of blame. But however much people love one another, heaven still puts them to the test. Then, by a cruel turn of fate, all three left this world on the same sad afternoon. None of them had time to say one more word to the others.

Here the grandmother paused. She stroked the child's hair, and her voice grew soft. "Don't be sad yet," she said. "The warmest part is still to come."

The three were brought up to the court of heaven, to stand before Ngọc Hoàng, the Jade Emperor. The Jade Emperor questioned each of them in turn. All three hid nothing and spoke honestly of what was in their hearts. Thị Nhi said she loved her first husband, who had shared her years of hunger and hardship. She loved her second husband too, who had taken her in when she was all alone. Trọng Cao said he still loved his wife, and that was why he had quietly stepped aside, so she could live in peace and happiness. When the turn came to Phạm Lang, he said only, softly, that he admired the faithful hearts of the other two.

Having heard them all, the Jade Emperor was silent for a long time. In these three people he saw not a trace of jealousy or resentment, only love and forgiveness for one another. It was a love rarely found in this world.

Moved by such hearts, the Jade Emperor could not bear to part them. He let all three stay together forever, in the warmest place of every home, the kitchen. The three became the three ông đầu rau. They became three hearth stones leaning their heads together, holding up the pot side by side and keeping the family fire burning.

The Jade Emperor also gave each of them a task, so that the three would care for one home together. Phạm Lang took charge of the cooking and meals. Trọng Cao looked after the house, inside and out. Thị Nhi saw to the market, the food and the clothing. Three hearts gathered around one flame, watching over the family so that it would always have enough and live in harmony. Vietnamese people call the three of them together Táo Quân, or ông Công ông Táo.

Hearing this, the child suddenly understood why the grandmother had let the carp go into the pond that afternoon. Legend says that every year, on the 23rd day of the last lunar month, the three Kitchen Gods ride carp through nine layers of cloud to appear before the Jade Emperor. They go up to tell heaven about the family's past year: who has been hardworking and good, which household has lived in harmony, what joys and sorrows there have been. So the carp released into ponds and rivers serve as horses, carrying the Kitchen Gods on their way.

Ever since then, at the end of every year, households get ready to send ông Táo back to heaven. People clean the kitchen until it is spotless, set out a small offering tray, then release carp into the rivers and ponds. In the crisp chill of the days just before Tết, it is a warm custom that Vietnamese people keep to this day.

When the story was over, the child turned toward the kitchen and looked at the three glossy black stones holding up the pot over a low, flickering flame. The three stones still leaned their heads together, quietly keeping the fire and the warmth for the whole family, just as in the grandmother's story. Out on the pond, the water had gone still, and the red carp was far away. In the kitchen, the fire still crackled, and the smell of fresh rice was waiting for the whole family to gather around.