Savouring winter

I. I. First Snow

It was the eleventh lunar month. A light first snow dusted the town, accompanied by a sudden drop in temperature that caught even the weather forecasters off guard. We had only just emerged from a temporary lockdown a week earlier. Though local shops and courier services were slowly reopening, city-wide PCR testing remained in force, and venue health codes were being rolled out even to the villages. I kept to my flat, ordering groceries and dry staples online during the brief window when deliveries were running. Having endured several lockdowns, sudden restrictions had become routine, and stockpiling food felt less like preparation and more like an arms race.

I was practically unhinged, on edge, and kept nagging my mother: the fridge and kitchen cupboards must never be left empty; we had to stock up for life after the New Year. Delivery boxes piled higher and higher. Though the fridge and cupboards were stuffed to the brim exactly as I’d wanted, my nerves were still frayed. What would I do if we were suddenly whisked off to an isolation centre and our belongings thoroughly disinfected?

My mother, however, showed no sign of panic. Instead, she remarked that the local green and red bird’s-eye chilies were in season and the price had dropped, so it was the perfect time to simmer a batch of chilli sauce. She has always been this way, fond of saying, “Speak the words that suit the season,” and likewise believing that each time of year calls for its own fare. With winter settling in, she would finish the chilli sauce, then move on to frying meatballs, curing pork one day and fish the next. Following the rhythm of the annual calendar, everything unfolded just as it always had, though the quantities this year were noticeably larger, perhaps intended to soothe my nerves. I gradually settled down, stopped my fretful chatter, and found myself lingering in the kitchen, watching her prepare the ingredients. All that care for family and food, that quiet reverence for the everyday, was gathered in that small space.

Frying meatballs at this time of year is practical—they are ready to eat, keep well, and carry the festive cheer of a family reunion. The cooked balls are left to steep in the seasoned oil from the wok. In the cool indoors, the oil solidifies into a pale, duck-egg-yellow fat. For breakfast porridge, you simply scoop one out of the jar and nestle it into the bowl, letting the rendered fat and savoury aroma slowly melt into the broth. Meatballs braised with pickled mustard greens are another winter staple, hearty enough for the main dining table. At the Spring Festival the year before last, when people were urged to stay put for the holiday, I remained in Beijing. My family posted a parcel of these fried meatballs to me, a small token of reunion across the miles.

This time, my mother brought home five jin of mince, but inadvertently seasoned the filling too salty. The next day, she lugged back several large blocks of fresh tofu to balance it out, reasoning that it was inexpensive and would also soften the texture. Unexpectedly, it was still too salty, so I went downstairs again and added another three jin of fresh meat. Much like the old adage—“add flour if there’s too much water, add water if there’s too much flour”—the mixture just kept growing with each adjustment. We rolled the meatballs with increasing haste, filling large pots and then smaller ones. Stepping out to take stock, I couldn’t help but mutter, “good grief”—we would certainly have enough to last well past the New Year.

In the part of Anhui north of the Yangtze, the method for making cured pork is wonderfully simple. Long strips of pork belly are left unwashed, rubbed evenly with five liang of salt for every ten jin of meat. The meat is placed in a basin, turned every three days, rinsed clean after a week, and hung to dry in the crisp, cold wind on sunny days. In about a fortnight, it is ready to eat, sliced fresh as needed. Once spring arrives and the weather warms up, the meat is prone to turning yellow and spoiling, so it is transferred to the freezer. Duck legs, chicken gizzards, silver carp, and pork trotters are all cured in exactly the same manner.

The wisdom of the seasons can indeed ease the haste of the present.

II. Warm Winter

Another week passed before my mother finally threaded the cured meats onto strings and hung them to dry. I’d portioned out some of our homemade chilli sauce into a few bottles, planning to post them to relatives and friends further afield. Then the courier rang to apologise: no more door-to-door pickups. It turned out a positive case had briefly stopped to eat on the pavement. That was enough to trigger the town’s emergency response; another lockdown was declared, and everything ground to a halt.

On 6 December, metal sheeting began to seal off the perimeter of our estate. By 7 December, the ‘New Ten’ guidelines were announced, and lockdown restrictions across the country were lifted. Then, on 8 December, the sheeting was taken down once more.

Those so-called ‘new normals’ were flung into the archives of history with astonishing speed. The world’s lack of ‘constancy’, it turned out, was always hiding within the very normality we took for common sense and routine. Slogans, barricades, and testing booths still stood everywhere in public spaces, gleaming as if brand new, yet they had already become relics. Surrounded by such vestiges, we were swept up in a fresh wave and carried headlong forward.

The biting cold gave way to a thaw. Snow melted, the haze lifted, and the little town north of the river was treated to several days of clear skies. At last, I packed away the light autumn quilts and throws, digging out from the bottom of the cupboard the heavy winter duvets to see us through until spring. With the restrictions lifted and the sun shining, I carried the cotton quilts out to the balcony to let them dry properly. And then, after a long while, I walked down from my flat and out of the estate.

The sunlight poured down like liquid gold, and it seemed every single household had come out to dry their bedding. On doorsteps and beneath windows, by roadside trees and in garden courtyards, quilts of every pattern and hue lay spread out, looking grounded and reassuring in the warmth. With the clear weather stretching on, it became a daily ritual, house after house, as though determined to bake out all the shock and gloom of those past months.

Alongside bedding and laundry, a whole array of preserved foods and cured meats was laid out to dry: soy-marinated fish, salted pork, sausages, dried radish, pickled mustard greens, duck legs, chicken gizzards, pork skin… They formed a shared tableau with the quilts and freshly washed clothes, spilling across public parks and private gardens alike. Street by street, patch by patch, there were no boundaries, no sense of ‘yours’ and ‘mine’. Life’s most essential comforts—clothing and food, warmth and sustenance—were laid out boldly yet effortlessly in the sun. It turned out that the vibrant hum of everyday life could be so wonderfully, simply good.

On my daily walks, seeing these quiet winter scenes, I feel as though I have weathered a storm—caught between a quiet gladness and a lingering wistfulness. In this half-village, half-town fringe, families once toiled in the fields; now they work far from home. Yet for ordinary households, all that truly matters remains warmth and a full stomach. It is not merely so today; it has been thus since ancient times.

I went to the balcony to gather our quilt and buried my face in it. So soft and expansive it was, able to cradle tears and wounds, granting me a fleeting sense of reprieve.

III. Late Winter

In the turn of an eye, we entered the twelfth lunar month. My mother and I came down with symptoms in quick succession, both testing positive on antigen tests. At least we could now recover at home, well-stocked with food and medicine. With minds calm and untroubled, those few nights of drenching sweat truly seemed to drive out years of accumulated chill. As her symptoms began to ease and her appetite slowly returned, my mother could not resist her cravings. She quietly made her way to the balcony, sliced off a small piece of cured pork, cut it into thin slivers, and steamed it with the rice. The timing was perfect: the first taste of salty, savoury warmth of this winter.

By the time we could venture outside again, the world had shifted overnight. Grandma was severely infected, and I went to the hospital to look after her. Not long after, Grandfather was on his deathbed, and my mother returned to the countryside to stay by his side.

I recall late spring, when my mother and I went to the countryside to harvest wild water celery. We had only just emerged from another period of restrictions. She crouched by the reed bed, reaching further and further with her sickle, cutting swath after swath with an almost voracious enthusiasm. But the season had passed; the greens had gone to seed, their stems coarse and fibrous. She took it in her stride, dumping the entire armful of wild celery into the ditch, and sighed, “All things must age in the end.” I smiled at her clear-sightedness, even as, month after month, she still went to the trouble of dyeing her white hair black.

Grandfather let out one final, long sigh, and the yellow burial paper was drawn over his face. White roots had begun to show through my mother’s black hair. Her sobs had barely subsided before she set to work arranging the funeral. Hot banquets were served, drums and pipes played on, and the atmosphere was at once bustling and deeply still. I finally managed to return home. In the kitchen sink, a mountain of dirty dishes had piled up, not yet washed. I opened the cupboard to find a small bowl of cured pork, thick with congealed white fat, cold to the touch.

The year was drawing to a close, the twelfth lunar month nearing its end. Wheat shoots in the fields were just turning green, and the streets were bustling with New Year provisions. Firecrackers and fireworks went off day after day, marking both weddings and funerals. Out in the countryside this year, funerals were particularly frequent, and yellow burial paper had grown expensive.

The villagers say: the years may be hard, the heart may ache, but they must all be lived through. The seasons turn in endless cycles; when adversity strikes, it must be accepted. I do not understand this, nor do I have the strength to simply submit. How is one to muddle through a winter such as this?

Yet the sun remains just as bright, and the familiar bustle of pickling vegetables and sun-drying meat continues. I keep telling myself: nurture the body, lay in stores of conscience and courage. Should the long cold finally yield to spring, we shall meet again.

All images in this article are provided by the author.

Editor: Wang Hao