On the 23rd day of the twelfth lunar month, a hush falls over Vietnam. In homes across the country, families gather before their kitchen altars. Incense is lit. Offerings are arranged. And then, in a moment of profound tenderness, they lift three live carp from their containers and carry them to the nearest river, lake, or pond. There, with whispered prayers and gentle hands, they release the fish into the water—and with them, they release the Kitchen Gods, sending them on their annual journey to heaven.
This is cúng Ông Công, Ông Táo—the ritual send-off of the Kitchen Gods. It is one of the most intimate, most moving ceremonies of the Tết season, a moment when the spiritual and the everyday intersect, when the family bids farewell to the spirits who have shared their lives for a full year.
The 23rd day of the last lunar month is known as Ông Công, Ông Táo—a day dedicated to the Kitchen Gods. On this day, the three spirits who have watched over the household throughout the year leave their posts and ascend to heaven. There, they will stand before the Jade Emperor and deliver their report on the family’s conduct, their testimony shaping the fortune of the year to come.
The ceremony is therefore both a farewell and a hope. The family thanks the spirits for their protection, offers them provisions for the journey, and prays that their report will be favorable. It is a moment charged with emotion—gratitude for the year past, anxiety for the year ahead, and the quiet hope that the spirits will speak well of those they have watched.
The Kitchen Gods, as every Vietnamese knows, are three—two male, one female—bound together by a legend of love, sacrifice, and transformation. They were once mortal, a husband and wife torn apart by circumstance, reunited by tragedy, and ultimately transformed by the Jade Emperor into the spirits of the hearth. Now they dwell in every kitchen, watching over every family, witnessing every moment of domestic life.
Their presence is intimate. They see the kindnesses shown and the harsh words spoken. They observe the meals shared and the meals withheld. They hear the prayers offered and the curses muttered. Nothing escapes their notice—and on the 23rd day of the last lunar month, they must report all they have seen.
In the days leading up to the ceremony, the family prepares. The kitchen is cleaned with special care—not merely for hygiene, but as a gesture of respect for the spirits who dwell there. The altar, often a simple shelf or small table near the stove, is decorated with fresh flowers and offerings.
The kitchen altar is thoroughly cleaned, removing the accumulated dust of the year. Old paper offerings are respectfully removed, to be burned and replaced.
A tray of offerings is arranged with care: fruits, sticky rice, boiled chicken, and most importantly, paper hats and robes for the spirits.
Three live carp are purchased—one for each spirit. They must be healthy, active, perfect for the journey ahead.
Some families write a formal prayer, listing the family members and asking the spirits to speak well of them. Others pray from the heart, their words simple and sincere.
The offerings placed before the kitchen altar are not symbolic; they are practical. The spirits have a long journey ahead, and they need provisions. A typical offering tray includes:
The paper hats and robes are particularly significant. After the ceremony, they are burned so that the spirits may wear them in heaven. The smoke carries the clothing to the celestial realm, where the Kitchen Gods will appear before the Jade Emperor in their finest attire.
On the morning of the 23rd, the family gathers before the kitchen altar. The eldest member, often a grandparent, lights the incense and leads the prayer. The words vary from family to family, but the essence is always the same:
“Ông Công, Ông Táo, you have watched over our family for another year. We thank you for your protection, your presence, your care. Now we send you on your journey to heaven. Speak well of us before the Jade Emperor. Tell him of our efforts, our love, our hopes. And when you return on the eve of Tết, know that you will be welcomed home.”
The incense burns, its smoke carrying the prayer toward heaven. Family members bow, each in turn, honoring the spirits who have shared their lives. Then the paper hats, robes, and ingots are burned, their smoke joining the incense, carrying the offerings to the celestial realm.
Now comes the most poignant moment of the ritual. The family carries the three live carp to the nearest body of water—a river, a lake, a pond. They gather at the edge, the fish in their containers, the water dark and waiting.
One by one, they lift the carp. They hold them for a moment, feeling their life, their energy, their readiness for the journey. Then, with a gentle movement, they release them into the water. The carp hesitate for an instant, then swim—down into the depths, toward the current, toward the sea that will carry them to heaven.
The family watches until the fish disappear. In that moment of disappearance, the Kitchen Gods depart. They are gone, riding their carp through the waters of the mortal world toward the celestial realm. The family is left standing at the water’s edge, alone now, waiting.
The release of the carp is a gesture of profound tenderness. The fish are not merely symbols; they are living creatures, carefully chosen, lovingly released. The family’s hope—that the spirits will travel safely, that their report will be favorable, that they will return—is invested in these small, darting bodies. As the carp swim away, they carry not only the Kitchen Gods but the family’s prayers, their fears, their hopes.
After the ceremony, the household enters a liminal state. The Kitchen Gods are gone. The ancestors have not yet returned. For the days between the 23rd and the eve of Tết, the family is alone, vulnerable, waiting.
This period is traditionally considered dangerous. Evil spirits, sensing the absence of the household gods, may attempt to enter. Families take precautions: they hang protective symbols, they avoid arguments, they maintain a quiet vigilance. But the waiting is also a time of reflection, of preparing the home for the ancestors’ return, of finalizing the preparations for Tết.
At Giao Thừa, the moment of transition between the old year and the new, the Kitchen Gods return. They descend from heaven, carrying with them the Jade Emperor’s judgment. They slip back into the household as quietly as they departed, resuming their posts in the kitchen, ready to begin another year of watching, witnessing, protecting.
No ceremony marks their return. But their presence is felt. The family, gathered before the ancestral altar, knows that they are no longer alone. The guardians are home. The new year can truly begin.
“The ceremony of cúng Ông Công, Ông Táo is a conversation between the family and the spirits who have shared their lives for a full year. It is a thank you, a farewell, and a hope—all expressed through the language of offerings and incense, of carp released into dark water, of prayers rising toward heaven.”
As with so many Vietnamese traditions, the ritual of sending off the Kitchen Gods varies by region. In the north, the ceremony tends to be more formal, more elaborate, with greater emphasis on the paper offerings. In the south, the ritual may be simpler, more practical, reflecting the southern character. Some families release their carp into rivers; others, far from natural water, release them into lakes or even large ponds.
But everywhere, the essence is the same. The family gathers. Incense burns. Carp are released. The Kitchen Gods depart. And the new year waits.
In contemporary Vietnam, the ceremony of Ông Công, Ông Táo has adapted to modern life. City dwellers may buy their carp from markets rather than catching them from rivers. The paper offerings are mass-produced, sold in shops alongside other Tết decorations. Some families, pressed for time, may shorten the ceremony, simplify the offerings, release their carp in whatever water they can find.
Yet the essence endures. On the 23rd day of the last lunar month, millions of Vietnamese families still gather to see off the Kitchen Gods. They still prepare offerings, light incense, release carp into water. They still whisper prayers, hoping that the report delivered to heaven will be favorable.
And in recent years, there has been growing awareness of the environmental impact of releasing carp into natural waters. Many now choose to purchase carp raised specifically for this purpose, and some release them into designated ponds where they can be later recovered. The tradition adapts, as traditions must, but its heart remains unchanged.
The ceremony of cúng Ông Công, Ông Táo teaches that the spiritual life is not separate from domestic life. The gods who watch over us are not distant and aloof; they dwell in our kitchens, witness our meals, share our daily existence. They are part of the family, and when they leave, we feel their absence.
The ritual also teaches that farewells matter. The family does not simply wait for the spirits to depart; they actively send them off, providing provisions, expressing gratitude, offering prayers. This is not superstition but relationship—a recognition that all bonds, even those with the divine, require attention and care.
And finally, the ritual teaches hope. The Kitchen Gods depart, but they will return. The family waits, prepares, hopes. And when the spirits come back on the eve of Tết, the new year can truly begin—blessed, protected, full of promise.
As the carp swim downstream toward the sea, as the incense smoke dissolves into the sky, the Kitchen Gods make their way toward heaven. They carry with them the year’s joys and sorrows, the family’s virtues and failings, the prayers of all who have shared their lives. They swim through waters both earthly and celestial, riding their faithful carp toward the Jade Emperor’s throne.
The family returns home, the kitchen quiet now, the altar empty. The days ahead will be filled with preparation, with cleaning and cooking, with final arrangements for Tết. But always, in the background, there is the awareness that the spirits are away—that the household is momentarily unprotected, that the family must rely on itself.
And then, on the eve of Tết, the Kitchen Gods return. They slip back into the kitchen as quietly as they left. The incense is lit again. The offerings are renewed. The family gathers once more, and the new year begins.
This is cúng Ông Công, Ông Táo. This is the ritual send-off. This is Vietnam’s most intimate, most tender Tết tradition—a farewell that is also a promise, a departure that ensures return, a moment of separation that makes reunion possible.
