A Harvest Festival for One
Early autumn finally brought the first self-reliant harvest since the inception of Evil Valley. I particularly want to stress the “self-reliant” part: from transplanting the seedlings to the final harvest, I handled every step myself, taking complete charge of the whole operation single-handedly.
Having moved into Evil Valley in June 2021, I missed the spring planting, and naturally, there was no autumn harvest to speak of. Starting from scratch, the basic infrastructure consumed all my energy; I had no capacity to tend to the land, forgetting that this was the very reason I had come here in the first place.
The following year, I was brimming with ambition—farming, farming, and more farming. I even made a bet with a neighbour: from the first anniversary of my arrival at Evil Valley, I would do everything myself without hiring any outside labour… As it happened, rain coincided with a fever (I suspect I’d tested positive for COVID), and having to hire help not only cost me ten catties of Ruiyan in the bet, but more tragically, it robbed me of the experience of harvesting with my own two hands.
I. Harvesting by Hand: A Harvest Festival Like a Manchu-Han Imperial Feast
I plan to spread the reaping over three days, treating it as a leisurely pastime. Before the first cut of the sickle, I have also set aside three days specifically for preparation. Furthermore, despite my usual indifference toward photography, I made a point of taking photos to commemorate the occasion.
Villain’s Valley has two harvests a year: in spring, I am the catcher in the wheat fields; in autumn, it is the rice paddies. This year’s rice fields are truly a sight worth capturing.
Farming is a constant state of ‘work in progress’. When faced with mammoth tasks like transplanting or harvesting, it is easy to let things slip; by the time you have finished one job, another has descended into chaos. That is why I set aside dedicated time for preparation—to ensure that once the harvest is over, I can simply lie back and sip my tea in total peace.
Three days before the harvest, I tidied the surroundings. On the second day, I focused on ‘harvest food’—spending the entire day in the kitchen. In the morning, I steamed a batch of red yeast mantou and some bean and pumpkin dumplings; in the afternoon, I fired up the kiln to bake flower cakes. The final day of the countdown was for collecting seeds—not only a concluding ritual for the season’s labour, but a mark of respect for the land and a hope for the continuity of life in the year to come.
On 29 August, the first day of harvesting was met with extreme weather: torrential rain. Fortunately, my harvest plan had already accounted for the weather. I spent the morning repairing a breached embankment, and as the sky cleared in the afternoon and the grain dried in the breeze, I managed to finish the first field before the next downpour. Halfway through, I made a point of stopping for a brief respite, indulging in a rather ritualistic ‘harvest afternoon tea’—Roselle and stevia tea paired with homemade biscuits.
The following morning brought more rain. No matter; I began the threshing, feeling repeatedly grateful for my foresight in buying an electric thresher and setting up a dedicated threshing area. It turned the chore into a performance, allowing me to hum along as I worked. Once the threshing was done, the rain stopped. After lunch, I tackled the second field, completing the work just in time, narrowly avoiding another washout.
On the third day, I finished threshing the second batch of grain in the rain. Using the pulley hoist system I had installed during the house’s construction, I got all the grain out to dry. I then calmly spread the green manure and tidied up the ‘battlefield’. It was then that I made a delightful discovery: the first Roselle flower had bloomed.
I must admit, harvesting the rice by hand alone—through the cutting, transporting, threshing, and drying—was a proper test of physical endurance. Fortunately, this fifty-year-old piece of machinery managed to pass every hurdle without a hitch. Even my evening swims remained uninterrupted, though sliding into the water brought a sharp, stinging ache that wrapped around me. No matter, though; it’ll pass in a few days, and it certainly won’t stop me from casually claiming I “handled it with ease” when I’m bragging about it later.
The freshly threshed grain sits safe from the wind and rain in the drying area beneath transparent sheeting. Meanwhile, amidst the typhoon, I lounge in my hammock under the shelter, watching the rain and indulging in the cliché of sighing to myself: “Secluded in my little tower, I find my own world…”
Today is the final day of August 2023. I have been in Villain’s Valley for three years and two and a half months now. As I had hoped, I have finally shut the door on the world to live a life of my own, venturing down the path of self-sufficiency with no intention of ever looking back.
II. The Foodie Philosophy of Villain’s Valley
Eight small characters are inscribed on the door: Farming, daydreaming, and refusing visitors. Farming and daydreaming are my primary tasks here in Villain’s Valley. The reason I took the harvest so seriously was as a conscious transition. Once the harvest is complete, from 1 September 2023, my daily routine will shift from spending more time farming to spending more time daydreaming.
The struggles of the first year were simply the cost of learning. The second year began with a rib injury in early spring and ended with bruising on my chest in late autumn, forcing a stop to my work; I spent the whole year pushing myself to the limit. By the third year, from the spring of full effort to the early summer battle with agricultural chores, I finally managed to break even. Sunrise and sunset, everything seemed as it should be. But as autumn arrived, the focus of life in Villain’s Valley shifted quietly but significantly.
Hanging out in a hammock, flipping through leisure books, scrolling through a phone—isn’t that the life? Coming across a link from a year ago, I had a little ‘foodie’ surprise. Comparing the photos in an old Foodthink article, I took a few more from the same angles and realised how much the surroundings and daily life had changed. Everything is changing; the only thing that seems constant is a foodie’s philosophy of food.
The ideal for a resident of Villain’s Valley is self-sufficiency. This ideal has no ceiling; the pinnacle is ‘having whatever one wishes to eat’. There is a floor, too: ‘eating whatever one has’. Currently, I am in a mediocre state—not quite at the top, but better than the bottom.
Things are static, but people are adaptable. With hands, feet, and land, you grow what you want to eat. But if I want apples, planting them is useless. Apple trees need temperatures below -8°C to hibernate. In Villain’s Valley, the winter minimum is around 0°C, with a fluctuation of less than three degrees. The apple trees cannot sleep in winter, they do not shed their leaves, and so in spring, they cannot wake up or bud. Flowering and fruiting are, naturally, out of the question. To eat an apple, I must buy one—no matter how fanciful my imaginings, this one rule in a foodie’s philosophy remains eternal: respect nature.
III. The Food Hunter’s White Dew Meal
The ‘prey’ on the day of White Dew is as shown: a piece each of pumpkin, taro, and bottle gourd; a little maize, peanuts, and white kidney beans; a suitable amount of ginger; and some hibiscus and okra flowers, as chance allowed.
Boiling in water has its own art: pumpkin, taro, and bottle gourd are cut into chunks; apples into slices; ginger into strips. I also boil the corn silk; it’s slightly sweet and fragrant. The broth from black corn silk is slightly dark with a reddish tint, resembling the colour of red wine. Such a combination is the finest choice for a fruit and vegetable soup in this season: springy texture, natural oils, and protein—all present. It is not only nutritionally balanced but delicious. The natural texture and aroma of the food surpass all seasonings. One pot, one bowl of water, and the whole world is cooked within.
In this meal, save for the bright red apple from the supermarket, whose origins are unknown and obscure, the provenance of each of the other nine ingredients is clear.
The white kidney beans came from seeds given by a neighbour. Their vitality is incredibly robust; planted casually by the river in such barren soil, they compete with the surging, exuberant wild grass. Surviving the struggle for existence in a harsh environment, they still manage to flower and produce pods. Besides these seasonal kidney beans, the peanuts I grow myself are available year-round. As for the waxy maize, however, it’s a matter of luck—if you happen upon it, you get to eat it.
The final piece of pale green calabash felt like a poignant farewell. The seeds had been a gift from a local carpenter. While these tender calabashes are closely related to the bottle gourds found in markets, their tastes are worlds apart—they might as well be entirely different species. In Villain’s Valley, tender calabash is available in abundance; I have eaten it every day this summer. Calabashes are exquisitely sensitive to the seasons. Though Fujian remains sweltering—people still in vests and shorts, drenched in sweat at the slightest exertion—the calabash leaves turned yellow following the Start of Autumn. Despite my best efforts with water and fertiliser, they were beyond saving, and I could only watch helplessly as this delicacy slipped away. This is the final piece of the very last gourd; savouring it is the best way to remember. Of course, no sentiment is as profound as the seeds hanging to dry on the vine. Until next year, my little calabashes.
Wait until the first few ingredients have simmered until sufficiently tender before adding the flowers—hibiscus and okra. In truth, Villain’s Valley is abundant with blossoms; wild ginger flowers come in both yellow and white, alongside lotus, daylily, rose, and gardenia. However, those varieties tend to be rather woody in texture, lacking a certain silky smoothness, and their fragrances are far too overpowering for a delicate fruit and vegetable soup. They would be perfectly fine in a rich tomato soup, or even fried with eggs. Roselle, of course, is an exception—it can be added without hesitation, as it is equally smooth, soft, and neutral in taste.
Even without photographs to prove it, the description alone makes it clear: the foodie has quietly transitioned from ‘eating whatever is available’ to having the luxury of being selective; from merely ‘staying full’ to ‘eating well’.
All illustrations in this article are provided by the author
Editor: Tianle