The Story of the Kitchen God

Long ago, in a small village where the river winds through green rice fields, there lived a poor couple named Trong and Thi. Though they had little money and their house was simple, their love for each other filled their humble home with warmth and happiness. Trong worked hard in the fields, while Thi tended their small garden and kept their house clean and welcoming.

“We may not have gold or silk,” Thi would say as she prepared their simple meals over the small kitchen fire, “but we have each other, and that makes us richer than any merchant.”

“You are right, my dear wife,” Trong would reply, taking her hands in his weathered ones. “Your love is worth more than all the treasures in the king’s palace.”

For several years, they lived in contentment, sharing their modest meals and simple pleasures. But as time passed and no children blessed their union, the strain began to show. Thi grew sad watching other women with their babies, while Trong worried that he was failing as a husband.

Their neighbors, well-meaning but sometimes thoughtless, would often comment on their childless state.

“Perhaps the spirits are displeased with something,” old Mrs. Bay would whisper loud enough for Thi to hear. “A woman who cannot bear children brings bad luck to the household.”

These cruel words cut deeply into Thi’s heart, and slowly, the joy began to drain from their marriage. Where once there had been laughter and gentle conversation, now there were long silences and worried glances.

Trong, seeing his wife’s sorrow and feeling helpless to comfort her, began to spend more time away from home, working longer hours in the fields or drinking rice wine with other men at the village tavern.

“Why do you avoid our home?” Thi asked one evening when Trong returned late and tired.

“I don’t avoid it,” Trong replied defensively. “I work hard to provide for us.”

“But you used to hurry home to share the day’s stories with me,” Thi said softly. “Now you seem to find any excuse to stay away.”

The tension between them grew like weeds in an untended garden. Small disagreements became arguments, and arguments became periods of cold silence. The love that had once made their poverty bearable now seemed buried under layers of disappointment and unspoken resentment.

One particularly difficult evening, after yet another neighbor had made a thoughtless comment about their childlessness, Thi and Trong had their worst argument yet.

“Perhaps they are right,” Trong said in frustration. “Perhaps there is something wrong with our marriage, some curse that prevents us from having the family we want.”

“So now you blame me for our troubles?” Thi asked, tears streaming down her face.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Trong replied, his own voice breaking. “I only know that we used to be happy, and now we are both miserable.”

In her pain and anger, Thi said words she would regret forever: “If you find our marriage such a burden, perhaps you should find another wife who can give you the children I cannot.”

Trong, hurt and angry, replied just as cruelly: “Perhaps I should.”

The next morning, both were too proud and too wounded to apologize. Trong left for the fields without his usual goodbye kiss, and Thi began her daily chores with tears in her eyes.

By evening, the hurt had hardened into stubborn pride. When Trong returned, instead of the usual warm meal and gentle conversation, he found only cold rice and silence.

This pattern continued for days, then weeks. Neither wanted to be the first to apologize, and their once-loving home became a place of loneliness and regret.

Finally, one morning, Trong made a decision that would change everything.

“I cannot live like this anymore,” he told himself. “If we cannot find our way back to happiness together, perhaps it is better that we part.”

He packed his few belongings and left a note for Thi: “I am leaving so that we both might find peace. Perhaps apart we can find the happiness that seems to have died between us.”

When Thi found the note, she collapsed in sorrow, realizing too late how much she still loved her husband and how foolish their pride had been.

Trong wandered from village to village, doing odd jobs and sleeping wherever he could find shelter. But everywhere he went, he carried the memory of Thi’s gentle smile and the warmth they had once shared.

Meanwhile, Thi remained in their little house, keeping it clean and preparing meals as if Trong might return at any moment. She tended their small garden with extra care, growing the vegetables he had always loved best.

One day, a traveling merchant named Phu came to the village and saw Thi working in her garden. He was struck by her quiet dignity and the careful way she tended her plants.

“You work with such devotion,” he said. “These vegetables are the finest I’ve seen in all my travels.”

Thi looked up, her face thin from months of poor eating and worry, but still beautiful in its sadness.

“I grow them as I was taught by my husband,” she said quietly. “Though he is no longer here to enjoy them.”

Phu, who was a kind man and a widower himself, began to visit regularly. He brought Thi small gifts from his travels and gradually won her trust with his gentle manner and patient conversation.

“You should not live alone,” Phu said one day. “A woman needs a husband’s protection, and a man needs a wife’s care. Would you consider becoming my wife?”

Thi hesitated, her heart still belonging to Trong, but practical concerns weighed heavily. She had no family to support her, and village life was difficult for a woman alone.

“I would be honored to be your wife,” she said finally, “though I must tell you honestly that my heart still holds love for the husband who left me.”

“I understand,” Phu replied gently. “But perhaps in time, we can build a new love together.”

They were married quietly, and Phu proved to be a good husband—kind, patient, and understanding of Thi’s sadness. He never complained when she would sometimes stare out the window as if waiting for someone, or when she would accidentally call him by Trong’s name.

Meanwhile, Trong’s wanderings had led him to a distant province where he found work as a laborer on a wealthy man’s estate. But no matter how hard he worked or how far he traveled, he could not escape the memory of the love he had thrown away.

One day, he heard a merchant speaking of a village that sounded familiar, and his heart leaped when he realized it was his old home.

“I must see Thi again,” he decided. “I must ask her forgiveness and see if there is any chance to rebuild what we destroyed.”

The journey home took many days, and with each step, Trong rehearsed the words he would say. He would apologize for his pride, beg her forgiveness, and promise to be the husband she deserved.

But when he finally reached his old village, he discovered that Thi was no longer living alone. From a distance, he watched as she worked in the garden alongside a man he didn’t recognize—her new husband, Phu.

Trong’s heart broke as he saw that Thi looked healthier and less worried than when he had left her. The new husband was clearly taking good care of her, and Trong realized that his return might only bring more pain to the woman he still loved.

“She has found happiness without me,” he told himself. “I have no right to disturb her peace now.”

But he could not bring himself to leave without seeing her one more time. That evening, he approached their old house, planning only to look through the window and then depart forever.

As he crept closer, he could see Thi preparing the evening meal, her movements graceful and familiar. The sight of her beloved face overwhelmed him with longing and regret.

Just then, Phu entered the kitchen and said something that made Thi smile—the first genuine smile Trong had seen on her face since before their troubles began.

Watching his former wife’s contentment, Trong felt both joy for her happiness and crushing sorrow for his own loss. In his emotional turmoil, he stumbled and knocked over a clay pot that stood by the window.

The sound alerted Phu, who came outside to investigate. In the darkness, he could not clearly see the intruder, but fearing for his wife’s safety, he grabbed a heavy stick and struck out at the shadowy figure.

The blow caught Trong on the head, and he collapsed unconsciously to the ground.

When Thi heard the commotion and came outside with a lamp, she gasped in horror as the light revealed Trong’s still form.

“This is my former husband,” she cried, falling to her knees beside him. “Oh, Trong, what brought you back to us?”

Phu was stricken with remorse when he realized what had happened.

“I thought he was a thief,” he said. “I never meant to harm him so badly.”

They carried Trong inside and tended to his injury, but it was too severe. As he lay dying, Trong looked up at Thi with eyes full of love and regret.

“I came back to ask your forgiveness,” he whispered. “I wanted to tell you that leaving you was the greatest mistake of my life. But I can see that you have found happiness, and I am glad.”

Thi wept as she held his hand. “I forgive you, my dear husband. And I hope you can forgive me for the cruel words that drove you away. I never stopped loving you.”

Trong smiled weakly and turned to Phu. “Thank you for taking care of her when I could not. You are a better man than I was.”

Phu, overwhelmed by guilt and sorrow, knelt beside the dying man. “I am so sorry, brother. If I could take back this moment, I would.”

“Do not blame yourself,” Trong said. “You were protecting your wife, as any good husband should. Promise me you will continue to make her happy.”

As Trong drew his final breath, both Thi and Phu were overcome with grief—she for the love she had lost twice, and he for the tragedy his protective instincts had caused.

The Jade Emperor, observing this scene from his celestial palace, was moved by the complex mixture of love, loss, forgiveness, and sacrifice he had witnessed.

“These three souls have suffered greatly, but they have also shown the highest qualities of the human heart,” he said to his celestial court. “Their story teaches important lessons about marriage, forgiveness, and the bonds that connect us even beyond death.”

The Jade Emperor decreed that all three would be elevated to divine status, with a special responsibility for watching over earthly families and protecting the harmony of homes.

Trong and Thi were reunited in the afterlife and appointed as the Kitchen Gods—Ong Tao and Ba Tao—responsible for observing family life and reporting to the Jade Emperor each year about the conduct of households throughout Vietnam.

Phu was made their assistant, helping to protect homes from harm and ensuring that kitchens—the heart of family life—remained safe and prosperous.

From that day forward, Vietnamese families honored the Kitchen Gods, placing their altar in the most important room of the house—the kitchen, where family meals are prepared and shared.

Each year, just before Tet, families perform a ceremony to send the Kitchen Gods back to heaven to make their annual report to the Jade Emperor. They burn paper offerings and release live carp into rivers and ponds, believing that these fish will carry the gods safely to the celestial realm.

“Please speak well of our family,” families pray as they make their offerings. “Help us to avoid the mistakes of anger and pride that once caused you such sorrow.”

The story of Trong, Thi, and Phu became a beloved teaching tale, reminding couples to cherish their love, to forgive each other’s faults, and to remember that harsh words spoken in anger can have consequences that last far beyond the moment of speaking.

And in kitchens throughout Vietnam, the gentle presence of the Kitchen Gods continues to watch over families, understanding better than any other divine beings the challenges and rewards of human love, the pain of separation, and the healing power of forgiveness.

During Tet celebrations, when families gather to share traditional foods and renew their bonds, they remember the Kitchen Gods’ story and are reminded that the strongest homes are built not on wealth or status, but on love, understanding, and the willingness to forgive the inevitable mistakes that come with being human.