Ash burned by moonlight

◎ Dong correction

What can't be explained is miracles, and Grandma is

Waiting for a frost.

After the frost falls, the dish is sweet. Pickled cabbage, pickled mustard greens, pickled sherry, colored into the flavor. Pickled radish is especially wonderful. The old white radish, spindle-shaped, washed, cut into crescent shapes, and stacked together on bamboo braids, like little white ducks. At first it was crystal clear and moist, but after half a day it was faded, the corners were rolled inward, wrinkled, and gray and yellow. After another day of sun exposure and a small half-day wind, you can go down to the altar jar and pickle.

In the first few years from Hainan, after every light snow and heavy snowfall, I would send some salty goods to Li Jun, who lived in Haikou. Salted duck, salted meat, he was particularly pleased. The light cold of Hainan winter is not sharp enough, like an itch that cannot be scratched, not enough to penetrate the inside of the pickled goods, and in any case, it cannot concoct the "wax flavor" on the tip of the tongue in the memory. Using refrigerators to simulate winter in the mainland, pickling out is only a conceptual salty product. The matchstick of the sense of taste cannot ignite the memory of the grass gray snake line on the tip of the tongue. In the end, it still doesn't work.

What's missing?

My mother's pickle skills were far worse than my grandmother's. Grandma's pickled radish tassels, one by one like golden wisps, crushed garlic like crushed jade, shredded peppers like red threads. Dry chopsticks sandwich a plate, sesame oil cooked, slightly stir-fried, crispy yellow acid, suitable porridge dried rice, suitable noodles, suitable sandwich steamed buns, oligo-eating is good, but too luxurious. Grandma pickled water radish, water tender yellow raw, bite, crunchy, moist sour, sour in the middle of the night to think of not eating a piece of sleep. There was a widowed old man in the village who wanted to eat my grandmother's water radish before he died. Finally delivered, finally eaten, a long sigh before going. Grandma's pickled spiced radish is even more delicious. I had never seen anyone cut into a pod as long as hers, looking like a broad bean, delicate, almost a little flattering, like the sleeves of a green coat. At that moment, rows of such dried radishes were lined up on bamboo weaving, like beautiful Jiangnan small paddles parked by the river, gently swaying in the moonlight.

I remember it was a bright winter night, frost stained the village night, dogs barking and lonely. In the yard, dried turnips are still dried on the mats woven of reed stalks. Dew is condensing, frost is condensing, winter worms are whispering in the pharynx, and birds are murmuring in the inky black canopy. Frost is condensation, dew is liquefaction, it is always the past and present life of water, it is always dusty, dirty, and wet. Grandma smiled and said that she was not afraid, a small wind blew in the morning, and it would be good to bask in the sun for half a day - where is it dirty? She smiled at me, and the moonlight quickly illuminated her face. I was immediately stunned. Grandma burned ash with new straw, stained with white and jade glutinous rice wrapped in rice dumplings, I can eat three or five in one go, without dipping sugar. Grandma dried the green bean shell, burned it to ashes, dried it well, put a handful of boiled porridge, that incense, that sticky, I am afraid it will be difficult to relive in this life.

Grandma has been gone for many years, and my mother is seventy-three years old. Her mother had been busy all her life and had no time to focus on food, which was like gasoline for a car, just a life-sustaining energy. I made her artemisia that day, and she said it was delicious. She knows it's delicious. Grandma was miserable all her life, but she still loved life and loved life so much. What can't be explained is miracles, and Grandma is. Love is the greatest miracle.

The frost has not yet arrived, and the moon is like frost. After the frost, this year I will pickle some turnips, pickle some meat, and marinate some ducks. This year I have to send two to Li Jun. I should probably also tell him that it's not just the temperature that is involved in the taste, but also the insects, the barking of dogs, and possibly the ash burned by the moonlight.