The Quiet Joy of Xôi Gấc (Red Sticky Rice)

My earliest memories of Tết are this: My grandparents seated before us, the rest of us lined up to pay our respects. Brittle New England weather loomed outside, but inside we were warm with bodies and food and drink. The girls dressed in traditional áo dài, the boys in respectable button-downs. There was a sense of quiet awe, even as we crowded together, us kids elbowing and pinching and holding back laughter. We waited our turn to wish our grandparents well and to receive their wisdom. If there were relatives who had passed, we would light incense, pray for them, and ask for their blessing, too. Celebration, I gathered, was not separate from those moments of deliberate quiet, of reverence. 

But of course, on Lunar New Year, we celebrate. We celebrate family and fresh starts, look forward to a year of joy and plenty. I recently surveyed my cousins for their favorite Tết dishes, and bánh chưng (sticky rice cake) and thịt kho (braised pork belly) were top hits. It’s not hard to see why. One bite of fried bánh chưng and your teeth sink past a crispy exterior, past soft sticky rice, into savory meat. Made well, eating thịt kho feels like biting into a cloud, the way the fat melts in your mouth, releasing all its hearty flavors onto your tongue. The richness of these foods add to the holiday’s high sensory experience: the clamor of drums and dragon dances, the almost sandy feel of fresh bills inside red envelopes. Still, a Tết spread would be incomplete, in my opinion, without the inclusion of xôi — sticky rice — to round everything out. 

There are many variations of xôi, but the version commonly seen during Lunar New Year is xôi gấc — simply, red sticky rice. Despite its bold color (which comes from the gấc fruit), I think xôi gấc’s main appeal is its humbleness. It promises ease and flexibility in its preparation. There are regional and familial and personal preferences, but essentially, all you have to do is mix together gấc, rice wine, a little bit of oil, salt, and rice, then let it steam. Even the labor behind it feels meditative. This version is mildly sweet with hints of coconut. There are no explosions of spices that stun the tastebuds, no complex flavors to sort through. What it offers is a pillowy-but-chewy texture that is so captivating, you don’t realize how much you’ve eaten until it’s clean off your plate. 

In preparation for Tết, I’ve been reflecting on the reason for those quiet moments during celebration, why we insist on them year after year despite Tết being a holiday in which loudness is often shorthand for prosperity. As it happens, it was during the making of xôi gấc that I stumbled upon my realization. At my family Tết celebrations, food is typically served buffet-style, which means that everyone is plating to their own taste. Xôi, when made with mild, balanced flavors, can cut through other savory dishes in a way that draws out the most inviting aspects of those dishes. It’s also delightful when topped with shredded coconut, and just as mouthwatering when dipped and rolled in a ground mixture of peanuts, sesame, and sugar.

The dish’s inherent lack of complicatedness — its quietness — allows us to enjoy the vibrance of the other holiday flavors more acutely. The idea seems almost too neat, the way banal insight can be until we are ready to receive it — but as I picked up the lid and gave the steaming rice one last stir, I considered this: In the quiet we can name our longings. In the quiet we can finally hear the wisdom we need for the year ahead.