Uncle Li’s spring onions: what makes them unbeatable? | New Book Excerpt
Foodthink Notes
After ten years of farming at the Gaia Worth Garden in the far suburbs of Beijing, they discovered that a bunch of spring onions picked up at the market could take root, flower, and set seed, accompanying them through the four seasons. The spring onions grown by Uncle Li, a master of his craft, have undergone over twenty years of selective breeding, weathering torrential rain and flooding to become seeds truly belonging to this land.
As vegetables sold via e-commerce and supermarkets become increasingly uniform, how much longer can the bond be sustained—the hands and eyes of local farmers, once a vital link in the seed transmission of a thousand-year agricultural civilisation?
The following is an excerpt from the chapter “Local Farmers, Local Vegetables” in the new book *Farming in the Satoyama*. Our thanks to the author and the publisher, Guomai, for the permission. Read on for the records of two “knowledge farmers”—
The rural market is a window into village life, always reflecting the changes of the era. I remember how the aunts and uncles used to ride their trikes to set up stalls; their own fresh produce was laid out in small heaps, each variety possessing a character as distinct as the growers themselves. There were a few trucks from out of town, selling seasonal staples like watermelons and cabbage in bulk. In recent years, many stalls have become “all-rounders”, their regional and seasonal character fading. The produce is large and handsome, cut with a uniformity that makes it feel like browsing an open-air supermarket. Among the buyers, the older generation often asks: “Do you have any local spinach? Why isn’t there any of the old-fashioned chive?” In their day, it was only natural for farmers to save their own seeds. Many old varieties of local vegetables were passed down through generations by the hands of local growers. Now, as these people dwindle and agricultural models shift, “saving seeds” is seen as inefficient and outdated. Buying “local vegetables” has gradually become a matter of sentiment, simply because local produce grown by local people still maintains a bond of trust.
At a market one May, we happened upon Uncle Li, who had once taught us how to raise seedlings. He was frantically busy at his stall, too occupied for a chat, and simply stuffed two bunches of spring onions into my arms: “Take these, and if you can’t eat them all, plant them.” Before we could even say thank you, we were swept away by the crowd. Later, those onions grew well; we plucked them as they grew, eating them until the end of the year, leaving a few in the ground. The biennial spring onions were punctual; by April of the following year, new shoots had emerged. We picked a few spring onions to fry with eggs, then, alongside the bumblebees, quietly watched that firework-like flower ball transition from plumpness to dryness. Soon, the dropped seeds sprouted into patches of new seedlings, looking like wild hair beside the old onions. Unfortunately, they were born at the wrong time; most vanished with the heat and rain of July and August, though those that remained were enough to eat.
When we met again, we told Uncle Li a few anecdotes about growing the onions. He smiled and said that our low-effort, self-cycling (or rather, hands-off) method was fine for some “small onions”, but if we truly wanted to grow thick, long, white winter storage onions, we would need to put in some work. Every year, the work at Uncle Li’s begins in March: preparing the land, sowing seeds, raking and pressing the soil, and irrigating through channels. By June, when the seedlings have grown, trenches are dug and the plants are transplanted in rows. As they grow, he mounds the soil several times, turning the trenches into high ridges while adding fertiliser. This process of “planting low and mounding high” uses soil to block light, halting chlorophyll synthesis and encouraging the growth of longer white stems—this is where the flavour of Northern spring onions lies. So, this is how the legendary “trench onions” are grown!
Uncle Li mentioned that the onions aren’t harvested until the end of October, after which some are sold and some are eaten, but a few must be selected for seed. “You still save your own seeds?” I asked, curious.
“Of course. The ancestors of this batch were bought right here at the market, over twenty years ago.” Uncle Li is a curious man; when he goes to the market, he doesn’t just sell—he browses, eager to exchange “insider info” on vegetable varieties with his peers. One year, he came across a seller of winter storage onions that were exceptionally thick and long; he was instantly smitten, unable to move his feet. He stopped selling his own produce and got straight to the point with the vendor: “Give me two bunches; I want to save the seeds for next year.” The vendor was a straightforward man and, recognising Uncle Li as a master of his craft—a case of one expert appreciating another—he climbed into the truck bed, searched through everything, and picked out the two best bunches for Uncle Li to plant.
After a trial year, the results were promising. Uncle Li then sought out another variety from a neighbouring town—one with thinner stems but longer white bulbs. Hoping to make his onions “both thick and long”, he planted the two varieties together, allowing them to cross-pollinate, effectively engaging in “breeding” while farming. Provided with the same light, heat, water, and fertiliser, those that grew taller and stronger became Uncle Li’s candidates for seed-saving. Every year before winter, he selected healthy, robust seed onions, bundled them, and stacked them in a corner of the storehouse, ready to be planted again as soon as the ground thawed in spring. He said it is best to trim the upper half of the stem and leaves before planting, which helps them flower later. No wonder, when I was learning seedling raising from him, I saw many half-cut onions sticking coldly out of the ground—they were the “seed candidates”! As they sprouted and bolted, until the flower balls matured in late May, the seeds could be clipped into bags and air-dried, after which they dropped easily. Thus, by collecting his own “elite force” to fight again the following year, Master Li’s enthusiasm only grew.
Beyond quality and yield, resilience is another key consideration for Uncle Li’s selection. One summer, the heavy rains fell relentlessly, one storm after another; every time we sowed radish seeds, they were washed away. It was worse at Uncle Li’s; due to the low-lying terrain, several patches of onions were completely drowned. The couple worked exceptionally hard that year, replanting cabbage just to recoup some losses. Yet, amidst the disaster, what worried them most was the potential break in the seed lineage. To my surprise, when I mentioned this to Uncle Li, he was optimistic. A few days ago, he discovered that the onions hadn’t been entirely wiped out; a few survivors were straightening themselves up here and there. He said, “These are treasures; I have to keep a close eye on them. Look, I even planted the cabbage around them.” In his eyes, the extreme weather had unexpectedly become a rare opportunity for selection; any onion that could survive such conditions was bound to be extraordinary! When we visited the couple at the end of the year and saw those few bunches of “survivor onions” in the corner, I thought: just as the land shapes the people, so too do the seeds. Having weathered generation after generation of local storms, they are naturally more attuned to the earth.
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In February 2026, Changjiaoling and Wenzizi will lead a winter camp to visit fishermen in Hainan (marine ecosystems) and hunters (tropical rainforest ecosystems). For more details, please see: ‹Worth Wintering: To the Island! A Life Proposal from the Mountains and Seas›
*Click the image above to purchase
This is the second book by the two “knowledge farmers”. They have written candidly about the paths they’ve explored and the pitfalls they’ve encountered over ten years of farming, while recording the small, precious moments shared with local farmers, the land, and the seeds.
About the Authors
Changjiaoling & Wenzizi | Born in the 1980s with backgrounds in biological sciences, the pair met in the town of Ås, Norway. After completing their Master’s degrees at the Norwegian University of Life Sciences, they joined the environmental NGOs Friends of the Earth (FON) and Fauna & Flora International (FFI).
In 2014, they co-founded the Gaia Worth Garden, embarking on a Satoyama lifestyle of self-sufficiency and environmental education, hoping to bring nature back into the human heart through the act of farming.
Click the image below to discover their first book—*Rustic but Refined: The Satoyama Life of Knowledge Farmers*:
