A Mangrove Apple Salad with Love

Mangrove apple: a Southwest tale of lasting love…

Golden sunlight filters through the swaying branches of the mangrove apple trees, casting a mosaic of light and shadow upon the river’s surface.  A silent witness to the passage of time, the small river meanders out of sight, its waters caressing ancient wharfs worn by years. Here, curved fish hooves linger in patient anticipation, while mangrove apples rise with quiet determination, their roots intertwined with stories.

Old mangrove apple trees offer a dappled canopy along the riverbank. Their branches dip low, flaunting blossoms with buds blushing like pink roses. As night enfolds the world in its embrace, these flowers unfurl in secret, releasing slender petals that are a delicate dance of pink and white. Come dawn, a gentle breeze sets them adrift, sending them floating downstream.

“Water rises in high tide’s embrace, 

Lifting mangrove apple petals with grace.

Under the sun’s warm gaze, tiny fish join the chase.”
      (“Mangrove apple flowers”, Giang Tu Minh)

A girl from the Southwest lingers by the riverbank, her gaze following a playful school of tiny fish as they dart among drifting flower petals. Lost in thought, she reminisces about a strong man with a tender smile, who once rowed alongside her, ferrying rice from the fields to their home. His cheeks would flush with a shy crimson whenever her song filled the air:

“Mangrove apple trees cradle our modest craft,

Against the river’s gusts, together we’ve steered and laughed.”

From the thatched kitchen at the house’s edge, her mother’s voice calls out, weaving through the air. She responds with haste, gathering mangrove apple flowers with practiced hands. Today, these blooms will grace a salad for her father’s gathering with friends. This salad is usually adorned with grilled dried fish. But today is special; her father has brought home fresh shrimps from last night’s catch, prompting her mother to procure pork belly for a sumptuous shrimp and meat flower salad.

Her father, with skilled fingers, has already threaded shrimp onto coconut leaf stems. Nearby, her younger brother diligently fans the charcoal, coaxing it to the perfect glow for grilling. He places the shrimps over the embers, watching as they turn  deliciously red. The aroma of grilled shrimp fills the kitchen, a scent that promises delight.

In a playful race, the siblings vie to see who can peel the shrimp fastest. Every so often, her brother pops a whole shrimp into his mouth, his cheeks ballooning comically. The sight is so endearing that she can’t help but release a peal of laughter, a sound as heartfelt as the family scene before her.

Her mother, having diced the star fruit, herbs, and meat, now crafts a sweet and sour fish sauce. Meanwhile, she washes and plucks the flower petals with a swift tenderness. Holding a bloom, she pauses in a fleeting stillness as memories flood in. Seasons have turned, each one’s passing marked by the bloom and fade of mangrove apple flowers, yet he has not returned to the wharf that knows his footsteps well.

Laughter and conversation drift up from the wharf, where her father, Uncle Bay, and friends share in camaraderie. A question pierces the mirth: “Why hasn’t Hai visited in so long, brother Bay?” The reply, casual yet laden with implication, floats back: “He’s off handling business in Saigon.” A jest follows, tinged with concern: “Watch out, brother! Your son might find a bride and settle there, leaving you here.”

In that instant, the flower tumbles from her grasp. Her mind empties, save for a lingering verse:

“Climbing to the top of mangrove apple tree,

I wish a tsunami upon your wedding spree.”

Roused from her thoughts by her mother’s expectant look, she hands over the delicate petals and settles down to observe. As her mother’s hands weave through the ingredients, the flower salad takes shape, rivaling the splendor of Ms. Tam transformed by Buddha’s touch in an age-old tale. The palette is vibrant: pink shrimp, white meat, green star fruit and young herbs, and fiery red chili. Yet, it’s the mangrove apple petals—pink and white—that stand out, their fragile appearance belying a resilient nature.

A symphony of flavors unfolds: the saltiness of the sea, the sweetness of life’s joys, the sour tang of challenges, the spice of  cherished moments, and a hint of bitterness – reminiscent of life’s inevitable trials. Her mother often muses that the flower salad’s taste is akin to life itself – complex, memorable, and lingering long after the last bite.

In the living room, the wine glasses clink in a first toast, their merry sound mingling with the buzz of conversation. Uncle Bay’s voice, robust and resonant, cuts through the noise: “My boy’s promised to save up a good amount before he comes back to get married and live with us. And when he’s back, he’ll definitely drop by your place.” His call reaches into the kitchen, “Niece, you’ll whip up that awesome flower salad for him, won’t you?” Her affirmation rings out, bright and clear, followed by a soft chuckle known only to her. Busy with the rice paper on the grill, her mother is smiling and humming:

“I’ll stay single, awaiting your return’s day,

As seasons pass and blooms fade, their petals swept away.”

Her cheeks warmed by a blush, she whispers, “Mom!” and dashes toward the wharf. The venerable mangrove apple tree stands in silent vigil, its leaves dancing in a gentle rhythm with the breeze. She gazes at the nascent fruits, their pale green hue reminiscent of tiny buttons, and muses that they will have matured by the time he returns. She plans to reserve some fermented fish to pair with the tangy fruit, a delicacy he can’t find in Saigon. And she’ll prepare a comforting bowl of water spinach soup, enriched with the fruit and succulent shrimps—a taste of home he’s surely missed.

In this moment, a profound bond with the mangrove apple washes over her. It’s more than a guardian of the shore; it’s a keeper of her affections, a steadfast companion in her wait for love’s return.

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