Chaoshan Childhood Foods: Pig’s Trotter Rings, Jigong Pills, and Wang Wang Snow Cakes on the Altar
Epigraph
As my electric bike turned a slight bend by the basketball court, preparing to pull into the market, I caught a faint sound drifting from the distance. Fearing I had misheard, I swung the bike around. This time, I not only clearly heard the cry of “tapioca-coated tofu” but also spotted its source—a loudspeaker bolted to a motorcycle—happily repeating its call without pause. The sound was so distant, yet so familiar. It felt like waking from a dream, instantly transporting me back to the roadside stalls of my childhood, to the oil fryers crackling with that familiar sizzle.
I. Fried Tapioca-Coated Tofu Outside the School Gate
The corner shop diagonally across from the school sometimes sold it. Occasionally, a hawker would pitch up near the bicycle repair shop just past the corner store, setting up a portable stove to sell various fried treats. The hot oil would bubble and crackle, surrounded by a ring of fine, crab-eye-sized bubbles, while the sweet potato starch ‘tofu’ pieces floated and bobbed freely like seasoned swimmers in the fryer. It made my mouth water. If I felt a few coins jingling in my pocket, I’d press forward to buy some, eager to eat them while still piping hot.
More often, I’d head straight home, get my mother’s permission, and borrow some money from her. Before you could blink, I’d be back, carrying a piping-hot bag to share with the family. Divided among us, it never seemed like enough, and my mother always ate the smallest portion. Though she ate little, she had the most to say: “Leaving you wanting more is best; it keeps it tasting wonderful. If you gorge yourself on it once, you’ll grow tired of it, and it won’t taste as good next time.” She’d also insist that filling up on rice was what truly mattered, and these snacks were fine for an occasional treat. All in all, my mother always had a theory for everything.
That said, when she was in a good mood, she’d sometimes pick up some uncooked sweet potato starch ‘tofu’ on her way back from the morning market and fry it up for us herself. When Mother took charge of the kitchen herself, she didn’t hold back—we were allowed to eat until we were properly stuffed.In those moments, she’d say very little, watching us enjoy ourselves with what looked like quiet contentment.
In truth, this sweet potato starch ‘tofu’ has nothing to do with soy tofu. It’s made primarily from sweet potato starch and water, borrowing the name simply because it’s cut into similar blocks. For the older generation in Chaoshan, sweet potatoes were also a staple. My mother has told me that during the People’s Commune era, when food was scarce, we ate sweet potato congee meal after meal until we could barely stand it—quite unlike today, when rice is the norm. Our Chaoshan ancestors used their ingenuity to transform rice into a wealth of savoury delicacies like rice noodle rolls, flat rice noodles, and savoury rice noodle soups. So it was only natural that they would craft something as delightful as sweet potato starch ‘tofu’ from the humble sweet potato.
II. Ten-Cent Ice Lollies and Skewered Treats
The shop was roughly divided into thirds: one section for school supplies, another for toys, and the final third crammed with an assortment of treats. Much of it came in rudimentary packaging: large clear plastic sacks filled with snacks threaded on bamboo sticks. The tops were left wide open, inviting you to simply reach in and grab whatever caught your eye. You could help yourself to as many as you liked. They tasted sweet, spicy, or a combination of both. The shop also stocked all sorts of confectionery – chewing gum, lollipops, popping candy, and the like. The only rule was to remember to pay, with plenty of watchful eyes keeping track from the sidelines.
There was also a freezer unit housing ten-cent ice lollies, the undisputed favourites among children during the summer months. Children back then had a knack for play. At school, we’d spend our time jumping rope or playing ‘Eagle Catches Chicks’, running and leaping ourselves into a lather until we were drenched in sweat. That was our cue to dash off for a cup of bubble tea or an ice lolly. Sometimes, with a ten-cent ice lolly melting in my mouth, I’d reach the banyan tree near my house and feel compelled to stop. I’d quickly chew it up and swallow, then lick my lips clean with the furtive satisfaction of a young thief before heading home.
The snack market of that era wasn’t yet dominated by the monopolies we see today. Many treats were churned out by obscure, small-scale factories. I can barely recall their flavours now, except for the cloying sweetness that lingered on the tongue after finishing an ice lolly – I know better today; that was cyclamate. Children, of course, paid no mind to such details. If something looked novel or intriguingly shaped, they’d buy it and eat it, some even developing a proper habit for it. I managed to keep things in check, sampling them only out of occasional curiosity.
Looking back now, regarding these snacks—though back then we had yet to experience or learn much about food safety scandals—beneath our fascination with the food industry’s ever-changing creations, quiet doubts and underlying concerns were already taking root.
These days, even when school finishes, you won’t find those bustling crowds of children clutching snacks in hand as they once did. Long before the bell rings, the school gates are already packed with motorbikes waiting to take the children home. The moment the children emerge, they scramble onto the bikes. With a couple of revs, rider and passenger alike vanish from sight. It is a scene I never witnessed; our generation walked to and from school on our own right from kindergarten. Perhaps for this very reason, street food vendors have realised that the school gates are no longer a good spot to sell their wares.
There is another new sight. On a main road near the school, a sign sticks out from an alley mouth reading “Jicanyuan” (after-school care centre). Busy parents, or those who feel incapable of supervising their own children, will send their kids to this centre after school. There they eat their meals, and afterwards, dedicated tutors help them with their homework.
A few years ago, when I returned home for the holidays and passed that stationery shop opposite the school, it brought back memories of the owner from my childhood, a middle-aged man in his forties. Sometimes, as I handed over my money, his large hand would suddenly dart out and clamp onto mine. At other times, when making change, just as I went to take the coins back, he would snatch them away again, then look at you with a smug grin and chuckle. Later, while watching Journey to the West, I came across the fanged golden-haired beast, Jinmao Hou, who would always let out an “ah!” and leap backwards whenever he was handed the bracelet of the Goddess Jinsheng. From then on, I gave him the nickname “Jinmao Hou”.
I took a deliberate peek inside; everything still had that old familiar look. The shop was worn and aged, barely changed at all, like a faded old photograph, standing in stark contrast to the village’s earth-shattering transformation. And Jinmao Hou was still there, growing steadily older, much like the old shop he guarded. The gaunt uncle who ran the bicycle shop next door—thin as a rake—had passed away several years earlier.
III. Jigong Pills and Tang Sanzang Meat
Selling these two confections, with their ties to celestial and demonic realms, felt perfectly at home in such a quaint, slightly mysterious old shop. Among children, they were hugely popular. This was the era when television sets were just becoming household staples. Endless reruns of *Journey to the West* and *The Legend of Master Jigong* meant that the images of Tang Sanzang, Sun Wukong, and Master Jigong had already taken root in our imaginations. Conversations among both adults and children often centred on which demon had captured Tang Sanzang this time, or what bizarre feat Master Jigong had pulled off. Shrewd vendors undoubtedly caught onto the commercial potential, capitalising on the craze to quickly produce these two snacks. Character trading cards featuring figures from *Journey to the West* also became wildly popular alongside them.
Each snack came in a small bag, roughly half the size of a palm, and cost just one or two mao (10 or 20 cents), an amount easily within a child’s budget. As youngsters, we were filled with curiosity: where on earth did these Master Jigong Pills and Tang Sanzang’s Flesh actually come from? Could Tang Sanzang’s Flesh truly grant immortality? Were the Master Jigong Pills really little pellets kneaded from under the holy man’s armpit? The thought made us wince slightly, but then again, their sweet-and-sour flavour was undeniably delicious.
Once the truth behind Jigong pills and Tang Monk flesh was revealed, the spell was simply broken.
IV. Ah Ma’s Jasmine Tea and Pork Trotter Rings
In a primary school composition, I once wrote: “My grandma is in her eighties, yet she remains remarkably fit.” The word “fit” was likely borrowed straight from the textbooks of the day and put to immediate use. She usually wore a simple black hairband, looking neat and sprightly. What stays most vivid in my memory, however, is a sea-blue suit, which I believe her family had specially tailored for her eightieth birthday. By the time I could form memories, my grandma was already old—a woman with a full head of silver hair. She both smoked and drank, but always knew when to stop, never overindulging; it was merely a casual pleasure to pass the time.
When I visited her house in the late afternoon as a child, I would call out from the doorway, “Ah Ma!” If there was no answer, I would raise my voice and call again, until a reply finally drifted down from the rooftop terrace on the second floor. That meant she was up there tending to her flowers and plants. At that, I would scamper upstairs like a delighted little sparrow, dive into the rooftop garden, and weave through the thick greenery to find her.
Back then, people often said that those who tended to plants and stayed close to nature tended to live longer. Usually, the moment I stepped onto the stairs, a rich fragrance would greet me—tuberose, gardenia, and especially jasmine! In summer, when white jasmine blossomed in dense clusters, she would pick the flowers and drop them into a small teacup on the coffee table, so the moment we stepped inside, the room would be perfumed. Sometimes, she would add a few petals to a lidded teacup already holding tea leaves, brewing a cup of lightly fragrant jasmine tea. Looking back now, I can still recall that natural floral scent, as if I’ve been transported back to the old house, drinking tea with Ah Ma, savouring those slow, unhurried moments.
When I was in around Year 5 or 6, my father pointed out that Grandma was getting on in years—she was already in her eighties and living alone—and he wasn’t comfortable with her being by herself after dark. He spoke with my uncles, suggesting that each branch of the family send a daughter to stay with her overnight. Being the only daughter in my household, the duty naturally fell to me. And so, my two cousins and I would squeeze onto the old, crimson-painted high-footed bed on the second floor of Grandma’s house.
I’ve never understood why we didn’t set up a rota to share the responsibility properly. My cousins would frequently ask to be excused, whereas I ended up going almost every single day. More often than not, by the time I woke, she had already taken a long, leisurely stroll around the neighbourhood and returned, happily carrying a bag of pig’s trotter cakes from the market.
She’d buy them for me, I suspect, because she’d overheard me grumbling about my cousins’ frequent absences. Back then, a single cake cost about fifty cents—a considerable indulgence for a woman so accustomed to a frugal lifestyle.Here was a gentle Grandma, far removed from the strict disciplinarian of the past. And I, in turn, played the part of the dutiful granddaughter, no longer the cheeky child who would draw a sharp reprimand for failing to hold my rice bowl aloft during family meals, or for mistakenly calling out my brother’s name.
By the time I was born, my paternal grandfather, maternal grandfather, and maternal grandmother had all passed away; only my Grandma remained. I vividly remember my father sighing with pride: “It’s a blessing to have an ageing mother still around! And what a blessing that she’s still so fit and well!” I may not have fully grasped the depth of it back then, but I certainly felt a swell of pride and happiness knowing she was still with us. In my mind, she was like an ancient banyan tree that would stand forever, much like the four-hundred-year-old banyan in our village that villagers revered as a sacred tree, even building a small shrine beneath its branches.
V. Traditional Ritual Pastries and Wangwang Snow Crackers
When it came time to take them out, I would stand guard nearby, hoping that as my mother handled the rice cakes, she might spot one with a split skin or an imperfect shape and pass it to me. The more beautifully formed ones, of course, were reserved for the *Laoye* (a general term for local Teochew deities) or to be presented as offerings for the ancestors.
The vegetable cakes wrapped with Chinese chives carry a grassy, herbaceous scent; bold and bracing, they make you instinctively salivate.
The peach-shaped cakes filled with glutinous rice, shiitake mushrooms, and shrimp offer a soft, sticky rice fragrance, tinged with the faint savoury note of mushrooms and shrimp. They gently awaken the palate, leaving you eagerly anticipating each bite.
And the zongzi for the fifth-month festival: the scent of bamboo leaves, pork belly slices marinated for days and nights in soy sauce and sugar, glutinous rice perfumed with five-spice powder… even in the early summer heat, they stir the appetite…
These freshly made local traditional foods—the vegetable cakes, peach-shaped cakes, and zongzi—crafted by my mother’s diligent and skilled hands, were always the first to be placed upon the offering altar to honour the ancestors and the local deities. The traditional trio of sacrificial meats was equally indispensable for major festivals: at least three items, typically chicken (or duck or goose), fish, and pork. Fish shares the same pronunciation as “surplus” (yú), symbolising the wish for “abundance year after year,” and hoping that life improves with each passing season.
If your gaze sweeps across the offerings on the altar, you would also spot open bottles of sparkling soda, fizzing away. In my childhood eyes, that bubbling liquid seemed magical, much like the pop rocks and Jigong candy pills of the day.
Back then, television commercials featured Eric Tsang dressed as the God of Wealth promoting Hsu Fu Chi sweets. Meanwhile, Want Want was constantly chanting “Want Want, ever prospering! May wealth flourish, may your household thrive, want want want”—as if the brand itself were a relative of the God of Wealth. Such auspicious phrases were music to the ears of Teochew folk. Consequently, Hsu Fu Chi and Want Want joined the ranks of the sodas, sharing space on the festival altar alongside the traditional cakes handmade by Teochew women.
VI. Emotional Eating and Obesity Among Our Generation
If the volume of foodstuffs churned out by the food industry in our childhood was a stream, today it is a vast ocean. Between the endlessly varied manufacturing methods and packaging, the widespread reach of live-streamed product recommendations, and the nationwide rollout of offline snack chains such as Zhao Yiming Snacks, commercial promotion has become utterly pervasive, drawing ever more people into its depths.
In the corner of the Guangzhou suburbs where I now live, a Zhao Yiming Snacks store sits right by the main road at the village entrance. It sees a steady stream of customers daily, arguably the busiest spot around after the local kindergarten; across the way, the wet market’s footfall dwindles day by day. A neighbour’s child, barely four or five, will throw a tantrum at the slightest provocation, screaming to be taken to Zhao Yiming Snacks. Yet the moment they return with a bag full of treats, their face lights up with a smile.
These shifts inevitably leave their mark on body shape and physical health. Some of my old classmates were once tall, lanky “bamboo poles”; now, barely into their thirties, they have ballooned into “balls” as though pumped full of air.
Back in the day, whenever my mother spotted overweight individuals from Western countries on television, she would invariably shake her head in wonder: “Goodness, I wonder what they’ve been eating!” Today, more than half of Chinese adults are overweight or obese. Three or four years ago, I was acquainted with a young man preparing for the IELTS exam to study overseas. Swamped by the pressure of his revision, he subsisted on takeaways for every meal, frequently opting for high-fat items like chicken wings. After each meal, he would insist on a bottle or two of cola to calm his nerves. Within a month or two, he put on nearly 10 kg. He had, in effect, developed the very ‘Western physique’ my mother used to marvel at.
Through my recent studies in counselling, I’ve learned that this is known as “emotional eating”. In practice and through observation, I have gradually come to realise that individuals carrying labels or diagnoses such as emotional eating, anorexia, and binge eating disorder are growing increasingly common. We are drifting further from the land, from nature, and from unprocessed foods, while our interpersonal bonds are likewise fracturing. Alienated by capital, fed by the food industry, these issues ultimately manifest in our relationship with food. Yet it remains a social epidemic that the public scarcely sees or acknowledges. At this juncture, food is no longer a source of love or solace, but a tangible source of harm.
My mother used to patiently and earnestly urge us that it was best to stick to a plain diet of rice and congee. Consuming too many snacks does little good. At the time, I thought she was thoroughly old-fashioned, unable to keep pace with the times. Now, I am grateful to her for teaching me early in life that there are real distinctions between foods.
VII. Local Traditional Foods: Extending from the Past into the Future
Once my health began flashing warning lights, I found myself growing increasingly drawn to home-cooked food, particularly the traditional dishes of my hometown. I resolved to eat properly, and I’ve come to deeply cherish and enjoy preparing meals myself. Looking back, I used these traditional foods to heal myself and mend my life, gradually rebuilding a healthier relationship with what I eat.
Last Mid-Autumn Festival, I returned home and bought some sweet potato starch tofu from the market. That evening, my mother deep-fried them for me. Dipping a piece in salt water and taking a bite, I savoured that deeply satisfying flavour—crisp on the outside, tender within, salty yet richly aromatic—and slowly realised I hadn’t tasted it in at least ten years. My father, eating alongside me, remarked, After his military service in his youth, Uncle spent decades working and living in Guangzhou, yet sweet potato starch tofu remained his absolute favourite. Every time he returned to the hometown, he would always seek it out. He has since passed away, and it’s only now I’m hearing this. That same visit home sparked a deeper passion for exploring local cuisine, prompting me to start actively trying my hand at making these regional treats myself.
Through this process, I have come to deeply appreciate the saying that ‘the land shapes its people’. I understand now just how fiercely we love rice, much as northerners cherish wheat. The Teochew ancestors held a profound love for life and for good food. From a single ingredient—rice—worked by hand, they could conjure, almost by magic, a dazzling array of dishes: rice vermicelli, steamed rice cakes, cheung fun, rice noodle soup, red peach kueh, fermented rice cakes, and bowl-steamed rice cakes. Each pays homage to the ingredient’s true character while offering a distinct and delightful flavour.
Local traditional foods possess a vibrant, enduring life of their own. They weave intricate connections between people, allowing us to glimpse family stories, regional history, and the deities and ancestors honoured on household altars.
While learning to make noodles, my mother recalled how grain was scarce during the commune era. With food running short at home, my mother’s eldest sister—who had married into the city and secured urban rationing allocations—would bring some of her assigned noodles back to the family. They would then stretch their meagre flour supply by turning it into noodles.
When shaping the siu mai, I mentioned they should look like the neck of a beer bottle. My mother glanced over and laughed, “Those are pomegranate flowers.” Her reminder brought it back to me: the plate of pomegranate flower kueh that sat on the altar during my ‘Chuohuayuan’ ceremony—a Teochew coming-of-age ritual traditionally held at fifteen. Ours, however, had skins dyed a bright red and were stuffed with sweet glutinous rice, symbolising sweetness, joy, and good fortune.
As I prepared the rice cakes, my mother’s memories of childbirth surfaced. It was the night of the ninth day of the first lunar month. She and my second aunt (my second uncle’s wife) were busy at the stove, steaming rice vermicelli for the next day’s offerings to the deities, when her contractions began. By the latter half of the night, she had given birth to my second brother.
In years past, during the festival season, my grandmother would sometimes come over to help make local rice cakes and zongzi (sticky rice dumplings). She has passed away now, but I believe she would have loved seeing those peach-shaped rice cakes and dumplings arranged on the altar.
From my grandmother to my parents, and now to me, life continues to flow forward. From the past to the present, and into the future, we each still have choices to make. The answers lie in the wisdom our ancestors passed down and in the life experiences we have lived through. We can begin by trying our hand at preparing food ourselves, by tracing the roots of our local cuisine, to rebuild a better relationship with our bodies and our daily lives, and to foster deeper connections with the land and with one another.
Edited by: 玉阳 王昊