Unable to return home, the ‘North-drifters’ bring their pickled cabbage jars to Beijing
This is something I only recently realised. For many years, “fermentation” was nothing more than a strange scientific term in my mind. Later, I came to understand that the ordinary customs of my childhood—making *dajiang* (big soy paste), pickling *suancai* (sour cabbage), and wrapping sticky bean buns—were all part of what is known as fermentation culture.
*Suancai* is my favourite food, without exception. Yet, it wasn’t until last winter that I began pickling my first vat of cabbage. This shift had been brewing for a long time, but the direct catalyst was the book *Fermented Foods*.
I had intended to write a proper book review, but then I realised that for me, its greatest significance lay in the confirmation that my own state of being was indeed linked to fermentation. Fearing that my genuine feelings might be obscured by endless history and academic concepts, I decided to confide my own little story instead.
I. A Place One Cannot Return To
For the people of this place, the metaphor of the “Mother River of the Northeast” cannot fully encapsulate their impressions and emotions towards the Songhua River. Standing on the embankment under a clear sky and gazing out over the water, one would see a golden ribbon in summer and a silver one in winter. Such scenery naturally lifts the spirits, and praise flows freely. But should the rainy season arrive with heavy, dark clouds, one feels the river’s fury; torrential floods swallow everything in their path—maize, soybeans, poultry, livestock, and even the lives of flood-fighting soldiers. The embankment that encircles several dozen houses and vegetable gardens was built specifically to hold back the floods, and it was gradually raised and reinforced after 1998.
One advantage of this terrain is that the process of entering the village leaves a lasting impression. Visitors must descend a precipitous slope from the embankment, rattling and swaying with the constant fear that the vehicle might overturn. Whether on foot or by car, this steep incline is the only way in or out. In the first few years of the new century, the soybeans and maize grown in the village brought little profit—either due to flood disasters or because, despite a bumper harvest, the market prices were poor. During those years, that steep slope welcomed a few visitors from afar, but more often, it watched the children born here journey far from home.
One autumn afternoon last year, a car descended that slope and drove slowly towards the stone pillar at the eastern end of the village. For decades, the area around that pillar had been a hub of activity; in the evenings as people returned from the fields, or in the early mornings before they set out, the air was always filled with the boisterous laughter and shouting of villagers of all ages. This village once housed more than fifty families; now, only seven or eight remain, scattered across the land.
The car continued its steady progress; the once pitted dirt road had been paved with cement. Sitting in the car, my mother noticed the change, finding it novel at first. But as the car moved along the empty streets and she saw the rusted iron gates of her own home surrounded by weeds, her chest tightened. A surge of emotion—a mixture of excitement and a sense of grievance— welled up inside her, leaving a dull ache of constriction in her throat.
Pushing open the iron gate and stepping into the courtyard, I saw the old house. Uninhabited for over a decade, its interior was filled with a dim, desolate light, the result of a collapsed rear wall. My mother leaned against the window, peering inside as if the house were still intact, as if a family still lived there, eating three meals a day and going about their daily lives, and she were merely a visitor who had travelled through time. It was only when she saw that all-too-familiar blue bowl rack (cupboard), the nearby well and the sauerkraut jar, that the tears began to fall, and the lump in her throat, which had left her speechless, finally began to ease.
A sense of loss followed, as she realised she could no longer spend a night under the sky beneath which she had grown up. The relatives and neighbours she once knew had all moved away, just as she had—to Harbin, Daqing, Beijing, or further south to Hubei, Guangzhou, and Shenzhen. In short, they were simply gone. Throughout the years of striving in the big cities, this latent fear of being unable to return home had always lingered in the back of their minds. Now, this generation of wanderers can no longer pretend not to see the truth: the village is fading away.
II. A sauerkraut jar that can be carried with you
Some things have not truly disappeared. For instance, the sauerkraut jar in the old house is something that can be ‘carried with you’. Whether in my own home, or in the homes of my maternal grandmother, my third aunt, and my second aunt, regardless of the city, every household has a sauerkraut jar. It is as if winter awakens a dormant gene within these elders, compelling them to pickle sauerkraut as soon as the season arrives. Even after moving into apartment blocks far less suited to the task, the sauerkraut jars simply appeared, as if they had grown there naturally.
The reasons are many, both great and small. A friend once vented to me that in a city as clean and polished as Beijing, finding a large stone suitable for weighting down pickled cabbage is far too much effort. As for me, I felt the smell was too pungent, and city apartments lack the openness of rural houses and courtyards.
Besides, for a long time, I relied on takeaways even for basic meals, let alone the hassle of pickling cabbage.
Perhaps a more significant reason is that in the fast-paced, high-pressure environment of city life, work has drained so much of my energy that many of my basic needs have become overly dependent on consumerism, rather than being met through domestic labour, as they were for previous generations.
Since graduating and starting work three years ago, my life has gradually morphed into a duet composed purely of labour and consumption. This state has cost me some of my basic material awareness and management skills. Along with those, I lost the capacity to bear the weight of existence; I wanted only to focus on a few things I actually enjoyed. The “intrusions” of family and friends, which should have been positive emotional exchanges, began to feel like a burden. In such a state, there were moments when the suppressed tension made me feel as though I were on the brink of collapse.
III. A Book on the History of Fermentation
At the time, however, I didn’t view fermentation as a significant element of life—until I read *Fermented Foods* by Baumgartner. While Sandor Katz’s *The Art of Fermentation* focuses more on the foods and the process itself, this book focuses on the cultural and technical history of fermented foods.
This book reveals that while humanity has many traditional methods of preparing food, the relationship between fermentation and the modern food system is perhaps the most contradictory and complex of all.
As a child, I often imagined a mysterious world existing inside the sauce crocks in the vegetable garden and the pickled cabbage jars in the kitchen. Unlike ordinary inanimate objects, they were always bubbling on the surface. I could stare at them for ages, holding my breath in concentration, until my grandmother would shout from nearby: “Careful now! Don’t go falling in!” only then would I scurry away.
We now understand that those bubbles are carbon dioxide produced by microorganisms, such as yeast, during aerobic respiration in the early stages of fermentation, which then allows the primary drivers—the lactic acid bacteria—to carry out “anaerobic metabolism”.
Humanity long ago turned fermentation from a natural phenomenon into a masterable craft, but until the 19th century, the biological mechanisms remained a mystery. Many tended to view a bubbling vat of beer or souring vegetables as products of decay, associating them with “death”. Even the chemist Justus von Liebig believed that fermentation was merely a chemical reaction rather than a biological process.
It was not until the 1860s, while searching for the reason why some fermented wines spoiled, that the scientist Pasteur finally discovered the omnipresent microbial world lurking beneath the surface of everyday life.
A while ago, when I heard a sudden sound coming from the sauerkraut bucket in my room, it came as a surprise to someone like me, whose perception of nature and the material world is rather dull: ‘How did the lactic acid bacteria get there? Microorganisms really are everywhere!’ Every little bubble was like a fragment of memory, like a poem connecting the past with the present, bringing a strange sense of joy and reassurance to me, working from home alone. In that moment, scientific knowledge did not diminish but instead amplified my perception of nature; fermentation is an interface through which we can interact with invisible microorganisms.
Anyone with a modern public health education is aware of the existence of bacteria. Tracing it back, the science of bacteriology began to permeate the general consciousness during the public health revolutions of the late 19th century in Europe and the United States. Hygienic precautions against bacteria and viruses, alongside the development of vaccines, provided humanity with the means to combat bacterial and viral diseases such as rabies, anthrax, tuberculosis, and typhoid.
This was undoubtedly a major leap forward for society. Yet, there are other facts that must be remembered:
- Our bodies are home to 39 trillion microorganisms; many of these play beneficial roles—such as bolstering the immune system, balancing blood sugar, and improving digestion—contributing to our overall health and well-being.
- Bacteria have always existed, but the complex environments of the industrialised food system—such as overcrowded, filthy cowsheds, meat processing plants, and cold-chain transport systems—have encouraged the proliferation and spread of many pathogenic bacteria, including Mycobacterium tuberculosis, E. coli, and Listeria.
- Another application of germ theory, “pasteurisation”, reduced the risk of food being contaminated by microorganisms during complex processing and transport. This, in turn, consolidated the position of the industrialised food system in human society, yet new foodborne pathogens continue to emerge.
It would be an oversimplification to say that the triumph of the industrial food system was determined solely by bacteria and hygiene issues; the actual history is far more complex. However, the germ theory that originated from fermented foods and its subsequent applications certainly played a pivotal role in allowing the industrial food system to undermine the tradition of home fermentation.
Four: A Life Within One’s Grasp
Imagine, if humans had mastered microbial science while the countryside was still thriving—if people had the time and passion for cooking and did not need to rely on packaged foods for convenience or speed—how would we have approached fermentation? Would we have a greater variety of pickled vegetables, sweet fermented rice, pickled bamboo shoots, breads, and cheeses? Would our lives be more human, more creative? Perhaps answering that would require writing a science fiction novel.
I often wonder where I stand in the current of history. Where are these various shifts in material conditions and emotions leading me?
I know that although my family gradually migrated from the countryside to the city during the rapid urbanisation of the late 90s and early 2000s, the bond between us remained very tight because my elders still held onto their land. Just last National Day, I tasted corn and dipping vegetables brought to me by my aunt from hundreds of kilometres away, as well as the pickled cabbage dumplings my grandmother made for the Lunar New Year.
These are beautiful, positive things that must be remembered. Yet, I must admit that for my generation, the sense of oppression and alienation born of big-city life has truly arrived. Drifting through the metropolis, I lead a contradictory existence—sometimes filled with the vitality of constant movement, and sometimes weighed down by the despondency of loneliness.
When my mother says ‘everything is an illusion’ upon returning home, she is not only reminiscing about the past; she is lamenting that modern life has become less reliable, less trustworthy, less knowable, and less within one’s grasp—and that my former self was one of those uncontrollable factors.
For her, the past is worth longing for because the village dam, the mulberry trees, the old house, the cupboard, and the pickled cabbage jar—along with the people and emotions woven around these things—were all things she could once be a hundred per cent certain she possessed and belonged to. They were the greatest proof in the world of her unique existence, things that could never be stolen or bought.
Even when she read Jude the Obscure and Sons and Lovers, it was the detailed descriptions of the natural scenery and cultural customs of the English countryside, rather than the core plot, that brought her genuine joy.
I began to suspect that the ability to rebuild a life she felt she could grasp depended not only on reliable, trustworthy emotions, but also on the material and the natural. Before I began pickling my own sauerkraut, I asked my grandmother for advice on the fermentation process; later, this sparked a debate in the family group chat about why sauerkraut made in Beijing always turns out so “watery”. These casual conversations became a new shared language and a new shared life between us. This emotional exchange, bonded by material things and nature, felt like a small stove, and I sat beside it, bathed in its warmth.
Perhaps it was a case of too much happiness leading to sorrow; although I had a wonderful time returning home for the Lunar New Year last year, when I returned two weeks later, the first batch of suancai I had ever fermented had gone mouldy. The sight was akin to some grotesque *gu* poison-worm experiment. I was absolutely heartbroken; whenever I had a spare moment, I would gaze at the mouldy tub and lament. A friend skilled in fermentation suggested that the plastic tub I used was unclean, allowing mould to thrive; I, however, felt it was because the cabbage hadn’t been pressed down properly, leaving the parts exposed above the brine as a breeding ground for mould.
Nevertheless, I have dutifully switched to a ceramic crock. Spring has arrived in Beijing, and it is no longer the season for fermenting suancai, so I plan to use the crock for something else for the time being. When winter returns this year, I shall find a more suitable stone here in Beijing.
