The Watermelon, the Sticky Rice Cake, and the Glutinous Rice Ball

In a prosperous village along the Red River, there lived a wealthy merchant named Master Duc who had three sons. As he grew old and felt his strength declining, Master Duc decided it was time to choose which of his sons would inherit his business and continue the family legacy.

The eldest son, Minh, was strong and ambitious, known throughout the village for his success in trading precious stones and silk. The middle son, Tai, was clever and well-educated, having studied literature and mathematics with the finest teachers. The youngest son, Nghia, was gentle and thoughtful, spending his time helping neighbors and caring for the family’s ancestral shrine.

“My sons,” Master Duc announced one evening as they gathered for their family meal, “I am growing old, and the time has come to decide who will inherit my business. But this decision cannot be made lightly—it must be based on more than wealth or education.”

The three brothers listened respectfully as their father continued.

“I will give you each a challenge that will test not your strength or your learning, but your understanding of what truly matters in life. Each of you must create something that represents your love and devotion to our family. You have one month to complete this task.”

Minh, the eldest, immediately began planning an elaborate gift. “I will create something magnificent and expensive,” he thought. “Something that shows how successful I am and how much I can provide for our family.”

Tai, the middle son, decided to use his education and cleverness. “I will create something intellectually impressive,” he reasoned. “Something that demonstrates my wisdom and learning.”

Nghia, the youngest, was puzzled by the challenge. Unlike his brothers, he had no great wealth or advanced education to draw upon. He sat quietly in the garden that evening, watching the stars and wondering how he could possibly compete with his accomplished older brothers.

As the days passed, each brother worked on his project in secret.

Minh traveled to distant markets, purchasing the finest ingredients and hiring skilled craftsmen. He commissioned a magnificent watermelon carved from the rarest jade, with intricate patterns etched into its surface and precious rubies representing the seeds. The artificial watermelon was so perfectly crafted that it looked more beautiful than any real fruit ever could.

“This jade watermelon will last forever,” Minh thought proudly. “It will show Father that my love is as precious and enduring as the most valuable stone.”

Tai spent his time researching ancient recipes and culinary traditions. He discovered a complex recipe for bánh chưng—sticky rice cake—that required twenty-seven different ingredients and three days of careful preparation. His version included rare spices from distant lands, exotic mushrooms, and meat from specially raised birds. The finished cake was a marvel of culinary sophistication.

“This exquisite bánh chưng demonstrates my knowledge and refinement,” Tai thought with satisfaction. “Father will appreciate the depth of learning and cultural understanding it represents.”

Meanwhile, Nghia struggled with his simple resources. He had little money to spend on expensive ingredients and no access to rare materials or specialized knowledge. As the deadline approached, he felt increasingly discouraged.

One evening, while sitting in the family kitchen, Nghia’s grandmother found him looking despondent.

“Why do you look so sad, dear boy?” she asked gently.

“Grandmother,” Nghia replied, “I want to show Father how much I love our family, but I don’t have the wealth of eldest brother or the education of middle brother. How can I create something meaningful with nothing but simple ingredients?”

His grandmother smiled and patted his hand. “Child, the most meaningful gifts come not from what we spend, but from what we put of ourselves into the giving. Think about what your father truly values, and you will find your answer.”

That night, Nghia walked through the village market, looking at the simple, everyday foods that ordinary families bought—plain rice, common vegetables, modest portions of pork and beans. Suddenly, he had an inspiration.

“These are the foods that have nourished our family for generations,” he realized. “These simple ingredients represent the foundation of our life together.”

With his small savings, Nghia bought glutinous rice, mung beans, and a little pork. Working late into the night in the family kitchen, he carefully prepared bánh tét—simple glutinous rice balls wrapped in banana leaves. There was nothing exotic about his ingredients, nothing rare or expensive about his preparation. But as he worked, Nghia put all of his love and devotion into every step of the process.

He selected each grain of rice by hand, ensuring that only the best went into his dish. He cooked the mung beans slowly and carefully, stirring them with patience and attention. He seasoned the pork with herbs from the family garden that he had tended himself.

As he wrapped each rice ball in banana leaves—leaves he had carefully chosen and cleaned—Nghia thought about all the family meals they had shared, all the times these simple foods had brought them together in gratitude and contentment.

When the month was complete, Master Duc called his sons to present their creations.

Minh proudly displayed his jade watermelon, explaining its precious materials and perfect craftsmanship. The carved fruit was indeed magnificent, catching the light like captured sunbeams and drawing gasps of admiration from everyone who saw it.

“This represents the permanence of my love,” Minh declared. “It will never decay or lose its beauty, just as my devotion to our family will never fade.”

Tai presented his elaborate bánh chưng, describing each exotic ingredient and explaining the historical significance of the recipe he had researched. The cake was a masterpiece of culinary artistry, fragrant with rare spices and beautiful to behold.

“This represents the depth of my understanding,” Tai announced. “It shows my appreciation for our cultural heritage and my commitment to honoring our traditions with knowledge and sophistication.”

Finally, Nghia stepped forward with his simple banana leaf packages, feeling quite humble beside his brothers’ impressive creations.

“Father,” he said quietly, “I have made bánh tét from simple ingredients—glutinous rice, mung beans, and pork. These are the same foods that have fed our family for generations, prepared in the traditional way that Grandmother taught me.”

Master Duc carefully examined each of the gifts. He admired the beauty of the jade watermelon and praised Minh’s success in commissioning such fine craftsmanship. He tasted Tai’s elaborate cake and complimented the sophistication of its preparation and the extent of research it represented.

Then he unwrapped one of Nghia’s simple rice balls and took a thoughtful bite.

As he chewed slowly, tears began to form in the old man’s eyes.

“My sons,” he said finally, “each of you has shown love in your own way. Minh, your jade watermelon is beautiful and valuable, showing your success in the world. Tai, your sophisticated cake demonstrates your education and cultural knowledge.”

He paused, holding up Nghia’s simple rice ball.

“But Nghia’s gift speaks to my heart in a different way. This simple food tastes exactly like the rice balls my own grandmother made for me when I was a child. It tastes like the meals we have shared as a family, like the comfort of home and the warmth of being together.”

The old merchant looked at each of his sons with deep affection.

“Minh, your jade watermelon is beautiful, but it cannot nourish anyone. It can be admired but not shared. Tai, your elaborate cake shows great learning, but it is so complex that it distances itself from the simple joys of family life.”

He took another bite of Nghia’s rice ball.

“But this humble food connects me to our ancestors, to our shared memories, and to the simple truth that the greatest wealth is not in what we possess, but in what we give of ourselves to others.”

Master Duc smiled at his youngest son. “Nghia, your gift shows that you understand the true foundation of our family’s prosperity. It is not built on expensive things or impressive knowledge, but on the daily acts of love and care that bind us together.”

He turned to address all three sons.

“I am proud of each of you, and each of you will have a role in our family business. But Nghia will inherit the leadership, because he has shown that he understands what makes a family truly wealthy—not the accumulation of treasures, but the cultivation of love, humility, and connection to our roots.”

Minh and Tai were initially disappointed, but as they reflected on their father’s words, they began to understand his wisdom. They realized that in trying to impress with expensive and elaborate gifts, they had lost sight of the simple, heartfelt devotion that Nghia had expressed.

From that day forward, the three brothers worked together harmoniously. Minh contributed his business acumen and connections, Tai provided his education and cultural knowledge, and Nghia led with wisdom, humility, and a deep understanding of what truly mattered to their family and community.

The story of the three brothers and their gifts became a beloved tale in the village, told especially during Tet celebrations when families gather to share traditional foods and remember their ancestors.

“Remember,” parents would tell their children as they prepared bánh chưng and bánh tét for the New Year, “the most precious gifts are not the most expensive ones, but those that carry the love and traditions of our families.”

And to this day, during Vietnamese New Year celebrations, families prepare these simple traditional foods—sticky rice cakes and glutinous rice balls—not because they are exotic or expensive, but because they represent the enduring bonds of family love and the wisdom that true wealth lies in sharing simple joys with those we hold dear.

The jade watermelon, beautiful as it was, eventually became just another decorative object. The elaborate cake, sophisticated as it was, was eaten and forgotten. But the simple recipe that Nghia used, passed down through generations, continues to nourish families and remind them that the most meaningful traditions are often the simplest ones, made precious not by their cost but by the love with which they are prepared and shared.