Returning to the Land, Creating a Life of Independence | Sister Yiguo’s Little Dining Table
This is the fourth instalment of “Master One-Pot’s Little Dining Table”, which will discuss Xia Lili’s culinary experiments, Hu Xuemei’s farming experiments, and a teacher’s experiment in natural aesthetic education. In their respective passive circumstances, these women have used natural food and farming to continuously create friendly lives and new types of relationships as a means of self-actualisation. How exactly do they think and act?
I. A “Shock” Inside the Vegetable Blind Box
Perhaps because my door and radio are always open, or perhaps because it is simply rare to find someone who lives right next to the Yulin market yet buys vegetables online, the delivery driver became familiar with my routine after a few visits. He now delivers the vegetables before 9:00 am every Monday, knowing full well that once 9:00 strikes, I begin my fixed writing routine and often ignore my phone.
Hu Xuemei’s vegetable parcels are a bit like “blind boxes”; the varieties of vegetables sent are chosen at random by her. For a cook like me, who has long been dedicated to “having everything under control”, this is something of a challenge. Yet, I remained confident that I could handle any home-cooking task with ease, and I wanted to use this “passive” opportunity to stimulate my potential. Thus, every unboxing was filled with excitement and anticipation—much like a student who believes they have mastered the material and is simply waiting for the teacher to hand out the exam paper, full of a blind confidence that no matter what is sent, I can make it taste delicious.
Garlic sprouts—perfect for a stir-fry with a piece of cured pork.
Rapeseed stems—half for a fried egg soup, and the rest blanched to line the bottom of a dumpling bowl, creating the most popular “vegetable-rich” version of the dish.
Moso bamboo shoots—peeled and cut into irregular chunks, then stewed with a piece of Chuxiong ham left over from the New Year and fresh pork ribs, a refined version of the traditional *Yan Du Xian* soup.
Ice plant—a bit unusual, but why should it be difficult? Wash it, drain it, and mix in a dipping sauce or drizzle over a sour and spicy dressing for a Chinese-style salad.
Garlic scapes—too precious. Such a small handful that stir-frying it with shredded meat would make it taste like braised pork. I had an idea: I went to the market to buy Chaozhou hand-beaten beef balls and some of Xiao Zhao’s rustic pork ham sausages, paired them with oyster mushrooms and chanterelles to make a mixed medley, and tossed in the cut garlic scapes just before taking it off the heat.
However, even for someone like me who can make do with whatever is available and improvise on the fly, there have been moments over the last few months where I’ve been left scratching my head in frustration. Once, I opened Hu Xuemei’s vegetable parcel to find a very large kohlrabi tucked inside. I froze instantly—good heavens! I hadn’t eaten kohlrabi for at least thirty years.
II. Rewriting the Memory of Kohlrabi
Recalling the last time I ate kohlrabi, my mother, my younger brother, and I were still living in a dark, damp old house in the residential area of the Qingcheng Paper Mill.
My father had passed away not long before, and my mother’s employment hadn’t been properly settled yet. The wages she received as a family employee were meagre, and when spring arrived, we often ate kohlrabi.
Kohlrabi has a thick skin and stores well; vendors often sold them by the heap. By the time the market was closing, they were sold off even more cheaply in bulk, and she would buy a whole pile every time.
More terrifying than the days of eating kohlrabi for every single meal was that every single meal was prepared the same way. Consequently, when I later read in a book that kohlrabi is also called “Wujing”, I could never connect the “jing” in the phrase “discard the dross and keep the essence” (*qu wu cun jing*) with the slices of kohlrabi my mother stir-fried.
“Jing” refers to the finest part of a thing, but whenever I think of that stir-fried kohlrabi, only the nauseating smell of rotten radish rushes into my nostrils, and it feels as though my stomach is churning.
Ugh, it truly is a memory too painful to recall.
Alas, what a tragedy: a person who hasn’t eaten kohlrabi in thirty years has actually found this long-absent (or rather, deliberately avoided) vegetable in a vegetable “blind box” they paid a premium to order. It feels like being hit by a boomerang. But what can be done?
Throughout the long years of living alone, I have gradually acquired a skill: a willingness to accept all the explicit and implicit signs of fate. No matter what I encounter, I face it first.
Since I have now received kohlrabi, I will treat it as an opportunity to rewrite the memories associated with it in my life.
I picked out the large kohlrabi, washed it, and silently squatted by the kitchen bin to peel it. Then I shredded it, tossed it with salt, and seared marinated shredded pork in a wok until dry. Just before finishing, I added the squeezed-dry kohlrabi shreds. Finally, I thoughtfully finely chopped the accompanying garlic sprouts to use as a seasoning and garnish, adding fragrance and colour to the dish.
It was so crisp, so tasty! In that instant, I came to know this round little bulb anew.
The second time I received kohlrabi from Hu Xuemei’s home, I felt a surge of joy and eagerness. I took my knife and sliced it in half on the chopping board; one half was thinly sliced and tossed with a bit of salt and sesame oil with minced garlic as a cold dish, and the other half was cut into chunks and boiled in water with a pinch of salt. Both methods were unexpectedly delicious.
At this point, I am completely convinced of the wisdom of those who named kohlrabi “Wujing”. It truly is the “jing” in “discarding the dross to keep the essence”—this has been my greatest harvest of this year’s kohlrabi season.
III. The Proactive Hu Xuemei
Once Xiao Man (Small Fullness) passed and the spring harvest began, the vegetable supply finally moved past its leanest period. After Mang Zhong (Grain in Ear), the variety became even richer: cucumbers, sponge gourds, courgettes, Erjingtiao chillies, screw chillies, aubergines, maize, tomatoes, water spinach, red amaranth…
Looking at her Moments, the plumpness and freshness of the vegetables in her fields often feel as though they are about to overflow the screen, each one shouting: ‘Come and see how well Hu Xuemei has grown them!’ As a customer, I naturally find myself secretly hoping she will send my favourites.
‘Growing the land well’ and ‘managing the land well’ are the two basic operational requirements for farmer partners in CSA (Community Supported Agriculture).
Compared to ‘managing the land well’, ‘growing it well’ is somewhat easier. The farmers are rich in experience and have benefited from the development of the internet and various agricultural social organisations. They have been exposed to new concepts of ecological civilisation and seen new directions for social development. Coupled with increasing opportunities to learn agricultural techniques and exchange planting methods, they learn and practise simultaneously. As the soil improves and the ecosystem becomes more complete, the quality of the crops naturally rises.
‘Managing the land well’, however, presents many new challenges. For instance, how to use the internet to interact and communicate with consumers? Farmers spend from dawn till dusk tending to the ‘treasures’ in their soil, leaving them with almost no time for ‘online marketing’.
In this regard, Hu Xuemei is more in step with the times. She is diligent and often finds time to post on her Moments to update her customers on the state of the fields. She is also adept at seeking help, knowing that she cannot handle sales alone, so she collaborates with Tian’an Life, selling her produce through their sales network. Of course, she is also very passionate about community development, actively participating in the Chengdu Life Market and other promotional events to meet customers face-to-face and acquire new ones.
She sends whatever is in the field, I cook whatever she sends, and my dining buddies eat whatever I cook—is such a life perhaps a bit too passive?
The farm does not take orders, making me as a cook ‘passive’; but ‘creating’ in the kitchen after receiving the ingredients is where I, as the cook, am ‘active’.
The cook does not take orders from the dining buddies, which is passive for them; but for the dining buddies to choose to eat and learn to enrich their understanding of food is active.
Facing the broader external environment shaped by nature, politics, and economics, farmers often have no choice but to passively accept and adapt. Yet, choosing to understand and learn ecological planting techniques, eschewing chemical fertilisers, pesticides, and herbicides, making homemade compost and improving soil according to local conditions, diversifying crops, implementing meticulous management, and establishing wide social connections—being responsible for oneself, others, and the environment—these are active choices a farmer can make.
So, for Hu Xuemei, was embarking on the path of ecological agriculture a passive or an active choice?
IV. Turning Farmland into an Autonomous Paradise of Life
On another occasion, I co-hosted a reading group called “I Want to Know My Food” with Tian’an Life. For that session, we were reading *The Omnivore’s Dilemma*. She travelled over an hour by metro from Pixian to join us, and during the sharing session, she told us with great sincerity that her interest in soil and food, and her commitment to ecological farming, stemmed from her belief that it was not only better for her own health and family, but for the health and families of her customers as well.
It was this simple, honest understanding that sustained her as she worked the land in Pidu, producing a diverse range of crops with meticulous care on her small plot. I found it truly admirable, and I deeply respected her.
Over time, as I met Hu Xuemei more frequently, I realised that her life story was essentially the same as that of my own cousins back in my home village. Born into a rural family and being a woman, she effectively stopped her education after lower secondary school. From a young age, she left home to work as a migrant labourer with relatives or fellow villagers. When she reached marriageable age, she found a suitable partner and started a family; from then on, the centre of her world was managing the household and raising children. It was a life of ceaseless giving and hard toil.
This was the life she led until her children reached high school.
That was the year the River Research Society selected Linshi Village to develop a “resource-saving, closed-loop Western Sichuan rural ecological home” system. Cheerful and now with a bit more free time, she and several of her neighbours joined the water protection team as volunteers.
While working on water source protection, Hu Xuemei learned about ecological agriculture from the experts. Encouraged by the researchers from the Society, she attempted to use her own farmland as an experimental plot for ecological planting, learning how to make compost, how to produce enzymes, and mastering every production skill she needed…
Just as the outline of Hu Xuemei’s family farm began to take shape, the “I Want to Know My Food” reading group visited her home.
I remember that in that particular session, we were reading *Last Child in the Woods*. The core message Richard Louv sought to convey was that “professionals from all walks of life can combine their work with helping more people get close to nature”. The crucial thing, therefore, was action.
One attendee was an art teacher who had been on my WeChat for a long time, who came along with her child. As fate would have it, her family home was nearby, and she also wanted her child to build a stronger connection with the land. During the sharing session, I suggested that the art teacher utilise her expertise in art education to collaborate with Hu Xuemei, launching farming-themed art and education activities. This would meet her own needs while helping other families in similar situations.
“Louv, as a journalist, took action by writing his book; I, as a researcher and educator, take action by conducting diverse nature education practices and research; and Hu Xuemei, as a land manager and producer, takes action by farming and managing the land according to her own understanding of sustainable development.” After the sharing session ended, I asked the art teacher: “As an art teacher, if you believe the estrangement between humans and nature is a problem, and if you hope your child does not suffer from ‘nature-deficit disorder’, then what is your action?”
This conversation touched the art teacher deeply and prompted her to reflect on her child’s upbringing. She began experimenting immediately. Soon, she recruited several other families who also wanted their children to be close to nature on weekends, and together with Hu Xuemei, she launched a year-long series of farming activities.
These children spent their weekends on Hu Xuemei’s land, becoming “Children of the Fields” (the name the art teacher gave her organisation as a tribute to *Last Child in the Woods*). Hu Xuemei taught the children how to raise seedlings, plough the earth, fertilise, and harvest. After a year of continuous observation and labour, the parents’ feedback was overwhelmingly positive. The art teacher felt that this blend of art and farming in nature education had great potential, so she simply rented an old courtyard near Hu Xuemei’s home. The two families officially became business partners and weekend neighbours.
Beyond her regular nature education activities with her weekend neighbour, Hu Xuemei actively collaborated with several nature education agencies. These organisations frequently brought students to her family farm for visits and hands-on experiences. Because of this, she was able to hire her own relatives to help with the cooking during busy periods.
By “diversifying her approach”, Hu Xuemei attracted more partners interested in her farming lifestyle and generated more non-agricultural income. This further demonstrated her competence in management, and as a result, she became a Green Bud Partner funded by the Guangdong Green Bud Foundation.
As her connections with the outside world grew, Hu Xuemei expanded her home, adding a multi-functional classroom and a youth hostel with bathrooms to accommodate visiting partners and host camp activities for various organisations.
As her life became more vibrant, her status within the family grew. Her husband, Brother Li, also shifted his role and found contentment in his position, stating that his greatest contribution was “acting as the general labourer in the fields and the farm’s logistics support”.
Last winter, a group of ecological farming friends from the Northwest travelled to Chengdu to visit eco-farms. I acted as their guide and recommended Hu Xuemei’s place, wanting them to see how a family with the smallest unit and the least manpower could operate an ecological farm. Everyone was struck by it, exclaiming: “It’s truly not easy!”
When we took a group photo under the newly painted farm sign, Hu Xuemei’s face was full of pride. That same day, while chatting around a fire after dinner, I heard that her son had just received his first paycheck and had immediately bought his mother a massage chair. I was so happy I nearly burst into tears: our Sister Xuemei had finally come through the hardships.
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Editor: Xu Youyou