While engrossed in watching my father divide the meat, my siblings and I would respond, “Yes, sir!” In our minds, the meat for the Banh Chung filling held a more important place than that used for the barbecued pork or meat jelly, though we couldn’t explain why.

As children, our favorite step was to help wrap the Banh Chung. This crucial task was carried out by our grandparents. We would excitedly sweep the yard, lay out mats, fetch dong leaves and sit around, waiting for our grandparents. The shiny green dong leaves were washed clean, dried, and carefully stripped of their veins by my mother, then neatly arranged on bamboo trays that had darkened with time. The round, golden yellow mung beans were placed in a ceramic bowl next to a basket of pure white sticky rice. The pork belly was sliced and seasoned with a bit of salt mixed with pepper and finely chopped shallots. Everything was in place, just waiting for Grandpa and Grandma to sit down on the mat and start wrapping the cakes.

However, as always, even though my parents had prepared all the ingredients; even though my three siblings had taken their positions, one next to the dong leaves, another by the mung beans, Grandpa would still look around and ask, “Are all of you here?” before slowly going to the well to wash his hands and feet. Before that, he had already changed into a new shirt, donning a traditional headscarf usually reserved for important occasions. Grandma, dressed in her purple ao dai, was chewing betel nuts while waiting for Grandpa. I, a 12 or 13-year-old girl, was always puzzled as to why Grandpa insisted that all three of us be present for wrapping the Banh Chung. Our participation only made things more hectic. Sometimes the youngest would spill rice all over the mat, or the second child would be caught sneaking some mung beans. Despite this, Grandpa always asked my mother to arrange the time for wrapping Banh Chung on a weekend so we could all participate.