No shivering necessary: the proper way to cosy up in the South | Grandma Kouzi
As I put pen to paper, it is the second day of the twelfth lunar month in the Year of the Snake—the solar term of Major Cold, and the fourth day of the ‘Fourth Nine’. There is an old saying, ‘During the third and fourth nine-day periods, one walks on ice’, implying these are the coldest days of the year.
Yet, we have had a streak of brilliant sunshine, with midday highs reaching 24 degrees; locals call this a ‘little spring’ in the heart of winter. But old wisdom warns, ‘If the Major Cold is not cold, people and horses will be restless.’ Clearly, nature takes this solar term seriously, and a sharp temperature drop has arrived. The forecast predicted a low of 1 degree Celsius. In reality, however, there was no water when I woke up; the pipes had frozen. In the villages of Fujian, many water pipes are exposed; when they freeze and the water stops, it means the temperature has dropped to at least minus 2 degrees, if not lower.
Now in my sixth winter in Fujian, I have finally discovered the correct posture for opening myself up to the winter days.
I. Generals for soldiers, and a Kang for the cold
Northern cold is like a physical attack; southern cold is like a magical attack. It is the ‘damp cold’ that gets you—a double onslaught of high humidity and low temperature. Water absorbs and conducts body heat rapidly, causing the skin to lose warmth quickly in damp air. When the temperature drops to single digits, it feels as though your skin is soaking in ice water, and frostbite becomes a common occurrence.
When Northerners face the winter, if it gets too cold, they simply huddle at home, warming themselves up on a heated Kang bed.
In Fujian, however, it often feels colder once you step inside. Outdoors, you are either exercising or working, which generates heat from within; but the moment you stop inside the house, you are in trouble.
Southern houses have almost no insulation; it is just as cold indoors as it is out. When the sun is shining, the indoors can even feel colder. The nights of a southern winter are long and damp, and it is all too easy for both the body and the mind to lose their warmth.
To combat the cold, those north of the Yellow River use central heating, while those in Yunnan and Sichuan light their hearths. But the people of Fujian are the most formidable of all. “You Northerners rely on heating to survive winter; we rely on our inner fortitude,” said a petite young woman from the post office, her uniform thin but her posture erect. And me? I was wrapped in every single piece of clothing I owned, shoulders hunched and back curved, shrunk into a tiny ball.
Although ‘huddling’ and ‘cowering’ are entirely different concepts, whenever I huddle inside my thick layers of clothing, I feel as though I’ve become somewhat shabby. Both my body and spirit were desperate to stretch out and expand.
Once I realised I could never emulate the inner fortitude of the Fujianese, I spent my second year combining a Northeastern Kang with a rocket stove, creating a rocket-stove Kang—after all, the character for ‘Kang’ (炕) naturally contains the radical for ‘fire’ (火).
Using fire to heat a bed is, without doubt, a Northern invention, and it proved perfect for tackling the southern damp cold. Once the Kang is fired up, the colder it gets outside, the warmer it feels inside. I shed my armour-like layers of clothing one by one, and my shivering soul slowly began to unfold.
I no longer feared the winter cold, nor did the most grueling ‘return of the south wind’ (Huinantian) at the end of spring feel so unbearable. During the transition from spring to summer in Fujian, the rainy season truly brings ‘endless drizzling rain for months on end’. There is so much moisture in the air that it streams down tiles and glass. When the rains come, I light the stove; the warmth dries out that damp, sticky feeling.
Though the rocket stove is wonderful, it has its awkward moments. Base temperatures in the south are higher; after a few consecutive sunny days, the thermometer can top twenty degrees at noon. Yet, the rooms remain damp and chilly, making the nights even colder. In such moments, I inevitably struggle with whether or not to light the fire.
This hesitation isn’t about saving firewood. It’s primarily that when the day is so warm and the sun so beautiful, it feels like a waste not to use it. As a frugal person, I cannot stand the waste of resources. More fundamentally, it is a question of whether my life is in sync with the local landscape and the resources at hand.
I want to live in perfect harmony with the present—eating what this land produces and eating it well, living by the rhythms of the four seasons, and doing so comfortably. Specifically, that means being comfortable and untroubled by the heat in summer, and expansive and untroubled by the cold in winter. A pavilion over the water greatly improved my summer comfort, and the rocket-stove Kang saved me from huddling. If I could just resolve that inner conflict, it would be perfect. That was until the greenhouse granary became my sunny ‘Winter Palace’, and the ultimate end to my hesitation.
II. Upcycling: Turning a Granary into Treasure
The fundamental reason for building the greenhouse was simple greed—I wanted to be able to eat my own bananas, papayas, and passion fruit even in winter. In my greenhouse, I’ve not only planted various winter vegetables and fruits but also installed a granary.
I have a great love for traditional local granaries. These traditional grain storage facilities are roughly two metres square, constructed from interlocking thick slabs of cedar. With a volume of seven or eight cubic metres, they can store thousands of kilograms of grain.
Nowadays, almost no one stores grain at home, so these discarded granaries are either burned or sold. I bought several old ones, converting them into my store-room and my rocket-Kang cottage; I even plan to make a granary tea room in the greenhouse.
At first, everyone opposed the idea, saying granaries have no light or ventilation and are cold in winter and hot in summer. It is said that in the old days, if someone caught a thief, they would lock them in the granary—while air could get in, there was no light, making it a veritable ‘dark dungeon’.
Fortunately, there is a treasure trove near Villain’s Valley: a scrap yard. The yard dismantles recycled goods collected from the streets and sells them off by category. Some glass doors from freezers and display cabinets were rejected for second-hand recycling—the scrap of all scraps that nobody wanted. I bought them for ten yuan each; four freezer doors combined were just about the same width as the granary, and the four doors could be slid open in pairs. By combining two types of waste, two negatives made a positive. The pitch-black granary not only gained natural light but also achieved ventilation.
By using a transparent ceiling, I saved a few of the original roof boards. I used these planks to build a low bed and added a tatami mat to create a tea room. Throw a duvet over it, and it becomes a bed. On sunny days, a wave of heat washes over you the moment you open the door.
Since the greenhouse is naturally warm, the ‘bright top’ makes the grain bin a sanctuary of warmth. I have to strip layers off as soon as I enter; by midday, I’m down to just a T-shirt. There is something incredibly liberating about sweating in the depths of winter; it feels as though my shrunken, shivering soul is finally stretching out.
The greenhouse bin solved my winter dilemma. On bleak, freezing days, I light the *kang*; whenever the sun is out, I sleep in the bin. The sun makes the bedding warm and soft. It is cozy, relaxing, and energy-efficient—I’m practically humming with happiness.
III. Winter, After All, Calls for Something Hot to Drink
Daily life comes down to food, clothing, shelter, and transport. Simply staying warm isn’t enough; the southern winter is like a relentless ‘magic attack’—it gets you wherever you go. As for clothing, as long as it’s thick and warm, it all does the same job. But as a foodie, my real focus is the food. In a damp, chilly winter, eating and drinking well is essential.
When the cold hits, you crave something hot. Winter is the perfect time for a ginger, radish, and red date soup.
The old saying goes: ‘Eat radish in winter and ginger in summer, and you won’t need a doctor’s prescription.’ In truth, ginger is just as important as radish in the winter months.
I’ve long been self-sufficient with ginger, and this year’s radish crop is really coming along.
The local variety is white radish. While they look similar, there are actually many different cultivars, with growing periods ranging from 60 to 120 days.
I’ve recently adopted a new planting method—actually an old local technique. You mix seeds with different growing periods together, placing a few in each hole. The early varieties can be harvested and eaten after about fifty days; pulling these out creates the necessary space for the later varieties to grow. With this method, one planting lasts three months, providing fresh, tender radishes every day. By timing the next batch correctly, the harvest period can be extended even further.
Home-grown radishes are sweet and crisp, perfect for eating raw. However, you can only eat so many raw, and in winter, I crave warmth. Since I have a surplus of radishes, I’ve developed a way to consume them quickly and in large quantities.
Once warmed through from the inside out, I have the fortitude to brave the cold. I can step outside without hunching my shoulders or tucking in my chin, leisurely carrying the radish greens I’ve snapped off to the coop to feed the chickens and, while I’m at it, collect the eggs.
For the next meal, I boil a small pot of water, drop in two poached eggs, and pour in a ladle of sweet black glutinous rice wine. I harvested twenty-odd jin of black glutinous rice this year; making a bottle of this wine every so often is the best cure for a sensitive “cold stomach” in the depths of winter.
IV. Pumpkin Dried-Snack Freedom
As a foodie, I have long coveted dried pumpkin, but in previous years, the yield was disappointing, leaving me feeling quite frustrated. This year, I have finally achieved “pumpkin freedom” and have experimented with different methods.
The first method begins as soon as the temperature drops and the fire is lit. I cut the pumpkin into thick slices, steam them until cooked, and then roast them on the rocket stove. Once dried, they go back into the pot for a second steam, followed by more roasting. These triple-steamed and triple-roasted pumpkin treats are translucent, intensely sweet, fragrant, and chewy—the perfect winter snack.
This method is wonderful, but the quantity is too small. You can’t make much at once, and since I taste them as I go, the snacks are usually gone by the time the process is finished. Completion and consumption happen almost simultaneously.
The second method requires a significant drop in temperature—specifically, once the flies have vanished.
Winters in Fujian do have their moments of brilliant sunshine. I keep a close eye on the weather forecast; when I see a stretch of clear, sunny days, it’s time for sun-dried pumpkin. I have a sufficiently large drying net; I steam one pot on the first day and another on the second. As shown in the photo, from left to right, these are the results after one, two, three, and four days. If the sun is kind, I can smile and enjoy the delicacy by the fifth day. If the sun fails me, by the third day, I am tearfully tossing them to the chickens; the pumpkin becomes sticky and unfit for human consumption.
The third method: sun-dry first, then steam.
If you steam the pumpkin immediately after slicing, the water content is too high, making the subsequent processing difficult and prone to stickiness. By sun-drying them first to dehydrate them before steaming, stickiness can be effectively prevented.
In the past, when making small batches, I would taste as I went. By the time the batch was finished, it was almost entirely eaten, so I never knew the actual yield. This time, I consciously kept count.
I chose large pumpkins and sliced twelve of them at once—over a hundred jin. I spent a whole day hanging all the pumpkin rings under the scorching sun. After about ten days, the moisture had evaporated and the volume had shrunk significantly. Just as the raw pumpkin rings reached the right stage of dryness, the temperature dropped, allowing me to light the fire and roast them.
Before going into the steamer, the pumpkin and three steaming trays weighed 6.7 kg. After processing, only two trays remained, and the total weight including the trays was 3.4 kg; I estimate the net weight to be at most 3 kg. Of course, this doesn’t mean the yield was 6%; as a foodie, I can only guarantee that the final product is delicious, not that the pumpkin slices are safe from my own appetite during the long process.
Sun-dried and then baked pumpkin is the best snack I have ever eaten in my life.
Not only is it delicious, but it is likely the most nutrient-dense way to eat pumpkin. Although pumpkin is one of my favourite treasure foods, its high water content and large volume limit how much I can eat. As a dried snack, however, the nutritional content per unit of volume is greatly increased.
This cold spell lasted five or six days—just enough time to finish a batch of triple-steamed, triple-baked pumpkin and complete this piece on wintering. It is now the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month; the folk saying goes, “the seventh and eighth of the twelfth month are cold enough to freeze your chin off.” The start of spring falls on the seventeenth of the twelfth month, but as they say, “Spring may arrive in the twelfth month, but the cold lingers.” Perhaps we have one more spell of cold days ahead.
If it stays cold, I’ll make another batch of dried pumpkin. If it warms up, I’ll head to my greenhouse barn and enjoy my “early spring.” Cold or warm, each has its own way of bringing peace and contentment.
Thoroughly dehydrated dried pumpkin keeps for a long time, allowing me to snack on it slowly. The forecast says the sun will be out tomorrow. While I bask in the sun in the greenhouse and flip through an old book, I’ll have my ultimate winter trio by my side: dried pumpkin, roasted peanuts, and a cup of Ruiyan rice tea. This is a life of true leisure.
Unless otherwise stated, all images in this article were provided by the author
Editor: Xiao Dan