Winter Moments

I. I. First Snow

It was already the eleventh lunar month and the first snow had fallen on the small town, bringing a sudden chill that even the weather forecast had failed to predict. At the time, we had just emerged from a temporary lockdown a week prior; while shops and couriers were gradually resuming business, area-wide PCR testing continued, and venue codes had been extended down to the villages and townships. I remained hunkered down, taking advantage of the window when deliveries resumed to order ingredients and dry goods online. After several lockdowns, sudden closures had become the norm; stockpiling food felt like a sort of arms race.

I had become quite neurotic, my nerves frayed, incessantly nagging my mother: the fridge and cupboards must not be empty; we have to plan for after the New Year. The delivery boxes piled higher and higher, and though the fridge and cupboards were filled to capacity as I wished, my heart still raced. What would happen if there were further transport restrictions or disinfection sweeps?

My mother, however, showed no sign of panic. Instead, she remarked that the local green and red chillies were in season and the price had dropped, so it was the right time to make some chilli paste. She had always been this way, believing that “everything has its time,” and thus, every season had its own specific foods. As winter approached, after the chilli paste came the fried meat balls; today we cured meat, tomorrow we cured fish. Following the rhythms of the seasonal calendar, just as she always had—though perhaps to soothe me, the portions were unusually generous this year. I gradually calmed down and stopped nagging, preferring instead to squeeze into the kitchen and watch her arrange the ingredients. The tenderness of heart and the care for things were all gathered here in this tiny kitchen.

In winter, one must fry meat balls; they are convenient to eat, store well, and bring the auspicious feeling of “reunion” through their roundness. Once fried, the balls were preserved in the hot oil left in the pan; in the low indoor temperature, the oil congealed into a pale yellow lard. In the morning, while having porridge, I would scoop one out of the jar and bury it in the bowl, letting the fat and the aroma of the meat slowly melt away. Snow cabbage braised with meat balls was another staple, a dish worthy of the main dining table. During the Spring Festival two years ago, when we were encouraged to celebrate where we were, I stayed in Beijing, and my family sent fried meat balls to me—a distant wish for reunion.

This time, my mother bought five catties of minced meat, but accidentally seasoned the filling too salty. The next day, she brought back several large blocks of fresh tofu to balance the flavour, thinking that tofu was cheap and would also add a soft texture. To our surprise, it was still too salty, so I went downstairs and bought another three catties of fresh meat. Much like adding flour when there is too much water, or water when there is too much flour, the filling just kept growing. The rolling of the balls became more hurried; once the large pot was full, we filled a small one. When I stepped back to look, good heavens—we really would have enough to last until after the New Year.

In the Jiangbei region of Anhui, the method of curing meat is exceptionally simple. Long strips of pork belly, requiring no washing, are rubbed evenly with five liang of salt for every ten jin of meat. They are then placed in a basin and turned every three days; after a week, they are rinsed clean and hung to cure in the cold wind of sunny days. In about a fortnight, they are ready to eat, sliced as and when needed. Once spring arrives and the weather warms, the meat is prone to yellowing and spoilage, so it is moved to the freezer for storage. Duck legs, chicken gizzards, silver carp, and pig trotters are prepared in the same way.

Time-honoured wisdom can indeed soothe the restlessness of the present.

II. Warm Winter

Another week passed before my mother finally strung up the cured meats. I had bottled some of our homemade chilli sauce, intending to send it to relatives and friends in other cities. But the courier called to apologise, saying they could no longer collect the parcels. As it happened, a resident who had tested positive for COVID had eaten at a roadside stall; the town had reacted instinctively, slipping back into a ‘silent’ lockdown, and everything ground to a halt.

On the 6th of December, corrugated iron sheets began to be erected around the perimeter of our residential complex. On the 7th, the ‘New Ten Measures’ were announced, and lockdowns across the country were lifted. By the 8th, the iron sheets were being dismantled once more.

The ‘new normal’ was cast into the archives of history with startling speed. The perceived impermanence of the world was, in fact, the very nature of this ‘normalcy’. The slogans, roadblocks, and PCR testing booths still dotted the public spaces, looking brand new yet already feeling like ruins. And there we were, encircled by these relics, swept up in a new tsunami as it surged toward its peak.

The biting cold gave way to a thaw; the snow melted, the haze cleared, and the town north of the river enjoyed days of brilliant sunshine. I finally packed away the autumn quilts and throws, hauling the heavy winter duvets from the bottom of the wardrobe. Taking advantage of the clear, open weather, I carried the bedding onto the balcony to air in the sun. Then, for the first time in ages, I walked down from my flat and stepped outside the complex.

The sunlight was golden, and to my surprise, every single household was out airing their bedding. Before doors, beneath windows, beside roadside trees and in small garden courtyards, quilts of every pattern lay heavy and warm in the glow. With the sunshine persisting, people aired them day after day, house after house, as if trying to bleach away all the gloom and dread of the days gone by.

Alongside the bedding and laundry, there were pickled vegetables and cured meats: soy-marinated fish, salted pork, sausages, dried radish, winter cabbage, duck legs, chicken gizzards, pork rind… Together with the quilts and freshly laundered clothes, they formed a shared landscape. Whether in public parks or private yards, they filled the streets and the ground, erasing the boundaries between neighbour and stranger. The most fundamental necessities of human existence—clothing and food, warmth and satiety—lay spread out under the sun, at once grand and effortless. I realised then that the vibrancy of worldly life could be something so simple, so homely, and so wonderful.

On my daily walks, observing these simple winter vignettes, I felt a sense of survival—a mix of joy and melancholy. In this place, half-village and half-town, people once endured the hardships of the fields; now, they seek work in distant cities. For ordinary folk, the only essentials are warmth and a full stomach. It is not merely a thing of today; it has been so since time immemorial.

I went to the balcony to collect our quilts and buried my face in them. They were so soft and vast, capable of absorbing my tears and trauma, allowing me a moment of fleeting reprieve.

III. The Twelfth Lunar Month

In the blink of an eye, the twelfth lunar month arrived. My mother and I both showed symptoms in turn, and we tested positive. Fortunately, we could now recover at home; with plenty of food and medicine prepared, my mind was at peace. Truly, after several nights of breaking into hot sweats, the chill accumulated over the past few years seemed to vanish. As my mother’s symptoms eased and her appetite slowly returned, her cravings got the better of her. She slipped out to the balcony, cut a small piece of cured meat into thin slices, and steamed them with rice. The timing was perfect—the first taste of salty, savoury goodness this winter.

By the time we were able to go out again, the world had shifted. My grandmother had fallen critically ill, and I went to the hospital to care for her. Soon after, my maternal grandfather reached his final hours, and my mother returned to the village to be with him.

I remember late spring, when I went to the countryside with my mother to harvest wild water celery, just as a period of lockdown had ended. She crouched by the reed beds, her sickle reaching further and further, cutting stalk after stalk with an almost greedy intensity. Sadly, spring had passed and the celery had bolted, its stems coarse and fibrous. She seemed unfazed, dumping the full armful of celery into the ditch with a sigh: “Everything has its end.” I laughed at her clarity of mind, yet she spent every month dyeing her white hair black.

With one final long sigh, my grandfather passed; the yellow paper was laid across his face. The roots of my mother’s black hair had turned white; through her ceaseless sobbing, she began the flurry of funeral arrangements. There were lavish feasts and the clash of drums and music; the atmosphere was simultaneously boisterous and desolate. I finally returned home to find a pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, yet to be washed. Opening the cupboard, I found a small bowl of cured meat, coated in a thick layer of white fat, ice-cold to the touch.

The year was drawing to a close, the cycle complete. In the fields, the wheat shoots were turning green; in the streets, the bustle of New Year shopping was in full swing. Fireworks and crackers popped daily, marking both weddings and funerals. This year, in the countryside, funerals were particularly frequent, and the price of ritual yellow paper had soared.

The villagers say: the year is hard to endure, the heart is hard to comfort, yet we must move forward regardless. The seasons cycle on; when adversity comes, one must simply accept it. I do not understand, nor do I have the strength for such resignation. A winter like this—how is one supposed to simply scrape through?

Yet the sunlight remains so bright, and the bustle of pickling vegetables and curing meat continues. I tell myself, again and again, to look after my health and to stockpile conscience and courage. If the cold finally gives way to spring, then until we meet again.

All images in this article are provided by the author

Editor: Wang Hao