A Harvest Festival for One
Early autumn finally brought Evil Man Valley its first entirely self-reliant harvest since the community began. The emphasis on “self-reliant” is deliberate: it means handling every detail personally, from transplanting the seedlings to cutting the crop, managing the entire process single-handedly.
I moved into Evil Man Valley in June 2021. Having missed the spring planting, an autumn harvest was naturally out of the question. With everything to build from scratch, infrastructure development consumed all my energy, leaving no time to tend the soil—neglecting, in fact, the very purpose that had drawn me here in the first place.
The second year opened with ambitious plans to farm, farm, and farm. I even struck a bet with a neighbour: from the anniversary of my arrival in the valley, I would do everything myself and hire no outside labour… In the event, rain during the harvest coincided with a fever (I suspect I’d tested positive), forcing me to bring in help. Having someone else reap the crop not only meant losing ten catties of Ruiyan rice on the wager, but, most painfully, robbed me of the chance to harvest it with my own hands.
I. Harvesting by Hand: A Festival Worthy of a Grand Banquet
I’ve planned to spread the reaping over three days, leisurely enjoying the process. Before the sickle makes its first cut, I’ve set aside another three days purely for preparations. And despite my usual indifference to photography, I’ve been taking the time to capture pictures to mark the occasion.
Eren Valley yields two harvests a year: in spring, I am the watcher in the wheat fields, and in autumn, the rice paddies take centre stage. This year’s rice fields are certainly worth a photograph.
Farming is perpetually a work in progress. When tackling major undertakings such as transplanting seedlings or harvesting, it’s all too easy to attend to one task at the expense of another, leaving a disarray in your wake. That is precisely why I carve out dedicated preparation time, ensuring that once the harvest is over, I can finally sit back, unwind, and enjoy a pot of tea in tranquil comfort.
Three days before the harvest, I tidied the surrounding area. On the second day, I prepared provisions for the harvesting period, spending the entire day cooking and sampling as I went: steaming a tray of red yeast mantou and a tray of green bean and pumpkin vegetable rolls in the morning, before firing up the kiln to bake flower cakes in the afternoon. The final day of the countdown was devoted to seed collection. This served as the closing ritual for this season’s toil—a mark of respect for the soil and a quiet hope for its unending fertility in the year ahead.
29 August, and the opening day of the harvest was greeted by extreme weather: torrential rain. Fortunately, my contingency plan had already accounted for the elements. I spent the morning repairing a dam that had been washed out, and by the afternoon the skies cleared, allowing the grain heads to dry in the breeze. I managed to clear the first field just before the next downpour. Halfway through, I deliberately paused to take a breather, indulging in a suitably ceremonial harvest afternoon tea: hibiscus and stevia, paired with homemade biscuits.
Rain persisted on the morning of the second day. Never mind—I switched to threshing. I found myself repeatedly grateful for my foresight in purchasing an electric thresher and building a dedicated workspace, which transformed the labour into a kind of rhythmic pastime; I worked with a tune humming on my lips. By the time the threshing was finished, the rain had stopped. After lunch, I set about clearing the second field, wrapping up the job safely and just in time before the next shower rolled in.
On the third day, I completed threshing the second field’s grain in the rain, utilising the pulley hoist system I had pre-installed when constructing the house to haul all the grain out for drying. I then calmly scattered green manure and cleared the site. A delightful surprise awaited me: the very first hibiscus flower had broken bud.
I must admit, harvesting rice entirely by hand is a proper test of stamina, especially when you factor in cutting, carrying, threshing, and drying. Thankfully, this fifty-something-year-old frame of mine held up through every single stage. My evening swims carried on as usual, though sliding into the water always brought that delightfully bracing ache. No matter, it’ll pass in a few days. It certainly won’t stop me from casually boasting later that I “handled it with ease”.
The newly threshed grain sits safely under the transparent covering in the drying area, sheltered from wind and rain. While the typhoon rages outside, I slump into my hammock and watch the rain through the shelter, helplessly giving in to the cliché of quoting others: “retreating to a little room to carve out a world of my own…”
This is the last day of August 2023. Three years and two and a half months into my time at Evil Person Valley. Exactly as I wished, I’ve finally shut the door and am living life entirely on my own terms, forging steadily ahead on the path to self-sufficiency with no intention of turning back.
II. The Foodie Philosophy of Evil Valley
Eight small characters inscribed outside the entrance: Till the fields, space out, keep the door shut, refuse all visitors. Tilling the fields and zoning out are my main pursuits here. Treating the harvest with such seriousness was a deliberate shift in focus. Once the harvest is complete, starting from 1 September 2023, the daily balance will tip from more fieldwork to more zoning out.
The first year was a steep learning curve, every stumble a tuition fee. The second began with a bruised left rib in early spring and ended with a purple bruised chest halting work by late autumn; it was a year of sheer grit. By the third year, finally, I could hold my own against the farmwork from a full-throttle spring into summer, as the sun rose and set in what seemed like an unchanging rhythm. Yet with autumn’s arrival, the centre of gravity for life in Evil Valley has quietly undergone a profound shift.
What could be better than lounging in a hammock, paging through a leisure book, and scrolling through your phone? Stumbling upon a link from a year ago gave me a mild start. I took a few photos from the exact same angles to compare with the images in an old Foodthink post, and was struck by how much the surroundings and daily routine had changed.Everything is in flux; the only constant seems to be a foodie’s philosophy on food.
The ideal for Evil Valley residents is self-sufficiency. This aspiration has no ceiling—its peak is “having whatever you crave”—but it has a floor: “eating whatever is available”. Currently, I sit comfortably in the middle: neither quite there, nor entirely lacking.
Objects are fixed, but people are adaptable; with hands, feet, and soil, you should be able to grow whatever you fancy. But if I want an apple, planting one is useless. Apple trees require temperatures below −8°C to enter winter dormancy. In Evil Valley, winter lows hover around 0°C, fluctuating by less than three degrees. Unable to hibernate or shed their leaves in winter, the trees never truly wake in spring to bud or bloom, let alone bear fruit. If I want apples, I must buy them—no matter how whimsical one’s daydreams, this rule in a foodie’s philosophy remains absolute: respect nature.
III. A White Dew Meal for the Food Hunter
On the day of White Dew, my “catch” was as pictured: a chunk of pumpkin, taro, and bottle gourd each; a handful of corn, peanuts, and white kidney beans; a reasonable amount of ginger; and hibiscus and okra flowers, taken as they came.
Even boiling has its techniques: pumpkin, taro, and gourd are cut into chunks, apples into slices, and ginger into julienne strips. I even throw in the corn silks, which lend a subtle sweetness and fragrance. The silks from black corn tint the broth a faint blackish-red, reminiscent of wine. This combination is the top choice for a seasonal vegetable and fruit soup: springy texture, natural oils, and protein, all in one bowl. It’s not only nutritionally balanced but deeply satisfying. The inherent texture and aroma of the ingredients outshine any seasoning. One pot, one bowl of water, and you can boil up the world.
In this meal, aside from the ruby-red apple bought from the supermarket—its origins a complete mystery—the provenance of the remaining nine ingredients can be traced back step by step.
The white kidney beans came from seeds gifted by a neighbour. Their vitality is remarkably fierce; tossed casually into the poor soil by the river, they competed fiercely with rampant weeds, survived the harsh conditions, and still managed to bloom, pod, and yield beans. Beyond these seasonal beans, the peanuts I grew myself are a year-round staple. But the waxy corn? That’s pure luck. If I stumble upon it, I eat it.
This pale green slice of tender gourd is the very last one, and I can hardly bring myself to finish it. The seeds were a gift from a local carpenter. Though these young gourds are botanical cousins to the bottle gourds you’d find in the market, their flavour is worlds apart; they’re practically two different species, wouldn’t you say? In Woren Valley, tender gourds are in abundance, and I’ve been eating them every single day all summer long. Gourds are exquisitely sensitive to the seasons. Though the heat in Fujian is still relentless—leaving anyone in a singlet and shorts soaked in sweat the moment they step outside—the gourd leaves have already yellowed and wilted since the Start of Autumn. Despite watering and fertilising, nothing could revive the vines, and I was left watching helplessly as the delicacy gradually faded. This is the final slice of the very last gourd. To savour it fully is the finest tribute. Of course, no memento, however poignant, can compare to the dried gourd seeds still clinging to the vine. Until next year, then, little gourds.
Once the first batch of ingredients has simmered to a tender, yielding consistency, it’s time to add the flowers—hibiscus and okra blossoms, to be precise. In truth, Woren Valley is currently overflowing with blooms. Wild ginger flowers alone come in both yellow and white, not to mention lotus, daylily, rose, and gardenia. Yet those flowers tend to be rather fibrous, lacking the desired silkiness and delicate softness. Their fragrance is also too assertive, risking the delicate balance of a light, refined fruit and vegetable soup. Had I been making a rich tomato soup, they would pose no trouble whatsoever. They’d work just as well folded into scrambled eggs. And as for withered roselle petals, they’re perfectly fine to add; they lend a similarly tender, silky mouthfeel without any harsh undertones.
Even without photographs to verify it—though, as they say, no picture, no proof—the written account alone makes it plain: the foodie has quietly graduated from making do with whatever is on hand to enjoying the quiet privilege of choice, stepping firmly from mere sustenance into the realm of truly good eating.
All illustrations in this article are provided by the author
Editor: Tianle