Zongba (or simply known as zong: glutinous rice wrapped with bamboo or reed leaves)

Recipes from a Village

Huang Xiaoji

Guangxi People’s Publishing House

February 2020

48.80 （CNY）

Huang Xiaoji

Huang Xiaoji is a member of both the China Writers Association and the Chinese Institute of Prose and the winner of Sunli Prose Prize. In recent years， his work mostly presents social changes in rural areas of southern China by taking his birthplace as an example. Hundreds of thousands of words of his prose works have been published in periodicals of all levels in China. He is the author of a series of prose collections---Memory of Ba Gongfen Village， including Old Objects in Southern China Villages， Recipes from a Village， and Ba Gongfen Village Transformed.

The villagers like to soak the glutinous rice used to make zongba in lye water obtained from straw ash. Taking a small bunch of straw， you burn it to ash. After rinsing and filtering， you obtain ash water which contains lye. Glutinous rice turns light yellow after being soaked in lye water， and it is then wrapped into zong leaves once rinsed clean. After boiling the lye water zong， the reed leaves are peeled off， and the rice inside is slightly browned， moist， and lustrous in appearance， making it taste even better. Some households prefer to stuff some peanuts and cowpeas in the rice to make more distinctive peanut and pea zong， although I personally prefer the taste of plain lye water zong for its soft， glutinous， and chewy texture alongside its subtle aroma.

I always admired the dexterity of my mother’s hands when she wrapped the zong. She took one or two wet and green zong leaves and folded them into an empty triangle which she held loosely in her left hand， while she scooped the glutinous rice from the large bowl with her right hand and stuffed it tightly into the pyramid before sealing it with the leaf and twining a ramie string around it a few times. Before you knew it， a triangular and tightly packed zongba was ready to go. She was so fast that it made me think it was such an easy task until I tried it myself and found out how tricky the zong leaves were to work with. The zongba I attempted to wrap were always loosely tied and lacked the pristine pyramidal shape. My mother’s zongba were often tied tightly together into a dozen that could be held all by one string.

To cook them， introduce a large bundle of zongba into a huge iron tripod cauldron， then top up with plenty of water to completely cover them. It usually takes three or four hours to cook them through. Firewood is preferred over charcoal for better taste. The cooked zongba are left to cool naturally in the cauldron， although they’d still be lukewarm by the next day. Simply haul a string of them out and serve them on the dining table for everyone in the family to share. The taste is even more splendid if they are dipped in white sugar！

Zongba can last quite a few days without going bad， and if you boil the leftovers again， they become more oil-soaked and the flavor sinks in even more.

Fenpi （sheets of rice jelly）

In my hometown， there is a special utensil used for making fenpi called a tin pot. It is often round or squared in shape， the size of a washbasin， flat bottomed， and just over an inch high. Thus， the fenpi made with it may also be called tin pot sheet jelly. This kind of tin pot became increasingly rare by the time I was a teenager， and they were replaced by galvanized iron pots. Still， the villagers referred to them as tin pots out of habit.

Mother used to make fenpi in the winter. She first measured several pounds of sticky rice and placed it in a basin or wooden bucket to soak in well water until the rice could be ground with bare fingers. She then ground the rice into a mush using the hand mill. Fenpi is cooked by steaming， and she would put a huge pot on the stove and add water to it before placing a wooden rack on top of it. Mother would then scoop a spoonful of rice mush into the tinpot and shake it while holding the rim with both hands， making the rice mush spread into a thin layer on the flat bottom before setting it on the wooden rack and covering it with the lid. As the water boils and steams， she would remove the lid shortly after when a whopping and beautifully white sheet jelly was already in place. She would then take down the tinpot and slash around it with a chopstick to peel off the thin layer of fenpi while it was still steaming. After she had spread it onto a long bamboo cane or on a sieve， she’d let us little helpers take it out to dry on the straw shed. The elaboration of every sheet of fenpi required great effort and technique while having to work constantly under scalding heat and steam. Mother often ended up exhausted once she was done with the whole bucket of rice mush.

The large sheet of fenpi can be processed once it has been semi-dried. Mother worked magic with her dexterous hands and crafted all kinds of dishes with the product. When shredded into thin strips， the sheet became rice noodles which can either be boiled straight away or coiled up and dried in the sun for later use. Alternatively， the fenpi sheets could be cut into palm-sized squares with scissors and dried to stir-fry or deep fry. Another option was to cut up the whole sheets into four pieces with the tip of a chopstick and decorate the center and four corners with a plum-flower-shaped pattern using edible red dye， then dry them in the sun， and store them.

Pan-fried puffed fenpi is a common way of enjoying them in my hometown. Whenever we had guests over or simply just craved for it， we would grab a sieve of dried fenpi squares to stir-fry in a pan with black sand and a drizzle of tea oil. The high heat and hot sand quickly browned the fenpi and gave them a delightful aroma. As they puffed up with countless tiny bubbles on both sides， it was time to scoop them out with a wire sieve， shake off the sand to snack on a big and scrumptious pile of puffed fenpi. The puffed fenpi are slightly salted and so crispy that they crack in your mouth with every bite and chew.

Toward the end of the year， my mother was always busy cooking and preparing all kinds of festive dishes and snacks for the New Year celebrations. With fresh and sizzling tea oil in the pan， she’d pop in a handful of dried fenpi squares that would swell up almost instantly after a round of crackling and sizzling sounds. The fenpi crackers came to the surface one after the other， each of them multiplying in size and their surface becoming finely honeycombed， giving off an incredibly appetizing aroma. They need to be taken out of the pan just before they were too browed， and the next batch would go in immediately after. In the end， mother would always deep-fry a few of the large fenpi sheets that were adorned with red dye. The resulting huge， round， and snow-white fenpi cracker would puff up so big that it could cover the entire pan！

When you eat the deep-fried fenpi crackers， they leave your fingers moist with oil and they taste even more flaky and crispy than the sand-fried ones. Moreover， the large sheets of plum-flower adorned fried fenpi crackers serve as wonderful gifts to relatives and friends during the Spring Festival or weddings.

Pickled Radishes

During the long winter days in the countryside， the average country household often had nothing but greens or radishes on their dining table for all three meals of the day. I was told many times by my parents that eating radish throughout the winter was the antidote to all the inflammation accumulated in our stomachs from all the chilies we’ve eaten throughout summer and fall. At that time， the radishes grown with organic and green farmyard manure looked beautifully white and round and tasted tender and sweet in flavor， thus making them perfect for any dish. Mother often worked different tricks with the radish， and she would let us pick whether to eat them shredded， sliced， or as stewed radish cubes whenever she cut them. There was a particular shredder made of a wooden board and metal sheet with rows of sharp holes， and mother used it to shred the radishes into thin and almost transparent strands that were to be cooked in boiling water. Sliced radishes were much easier to make. Cut the radish in half， and then slice it with a sharp knife into half-moon-shaped thin slices that were also to be boiled. In comparison， the radish chunks were really hard to work. The radishes had to be trimmed， cut vertically into long strips， and then diced into cubes larger than thumbs. Cooking them required lard and plenty of red chili powder in addition to seasonings such as salt， shredded spring onions， celery， and soy sauce， which gave it an irresistibly rich aroma when steaming hot. The only time when it could get any better was when these radish cubes were cooked with pork！

As the mature radishes were harvested and younger ones sprouted one batch after the other， mother went to the field to harvest radishes almost every day， especially because hogweed was hard to find in cold winter days. She’d come back with a full basket of radishes， of which the large ones she cooked and processed into a variety of dishes， while the smaller radishes and their green leaves were chopped up and boiled together with dried sweet potato vines to make swill.

My father was particularly fond of the battered radishes made by my mother. The process was pretty complex， having to select a large number of large radishes， trim their roots and steam them whole in a big pot until they were so soft that a chopstick could go through easily. These radishes were then placed on a chopping board and pressed on really hard with a kitchen knife to get rid of the excess moisture before being baked to a semi-dry state. To cook them， they were first cut up into bulky chunks and pan-fried with lard on both sides before quick boiling with water and seasoning. When served， the battered radishes look and taste soft and mushy like tender pork belly， which make a perfect accompaniment for rice or wine.

Sweet radishes were another of my mother’s fortes. Simply select moderately sized radishes， clean， dry， and bake them until completely dry and wrinkled like an old man’s face. Lay the radishes in layers in an empty urn， sprinkling a little salt on each layer until the urn is full. Once sealed， the radishes can last a very long time without going bad. As the days went by， the radishes in the urn gradually turned moist and sweet， and they were ready to slice and cook， or simply be eaten as a snack. When my family went to the distant mountains to harvest grass and leaves for manure in the following spring， a few steamed sweet potatoes and sweet radishes would make a tasty and wholesome meal.

Pickled sour radish and salted radish were even more indispensable. Mother made two kinds of pickled radishes. The first kind consisted of soaking whole radishes in a vinegar-filled urn. The other method was to chop washed radishes into fingertip-sized tiny dices and rub on salt before pickling them in an urn. The chopped radish look crystal clear like jade， and they taste slightly sour and very juicy once they are ready， for which they are commonly known as juicy pickled radishes. This pickle can be scrambled with eggs， dried fish， shrimps， and loach， then mixed with pickled red peppers to create an aromatic and irresistibly appetizing dish. When I went to middle school， the jars I brought back to school on weekends were often filled with these juicy pickled radishes.

The practice of bake-drying radish strips went on throughout the winter. The lingering heat of the village stoves was covered up by villagers and used to bake local produce such as sweet potato skins and radish strips. As the baking went on day after day， the gleaming white radish strips piled up higher， some of which were bundled and stored to soak and cook later. For instance， they were often used to make delicious spicy and crispy stir-fry dishes with pig’s ears， snout， tongue， or pork during the Spring Festival. The remaining radishes may be marinated with pickled chili and made into red and spicy salted radish strips.

I still have memories of many freezing winter mornings， when the stove burned hot and my mother had already brewed boiling hot tea in her copper teapot. The old red lacquered extension board was inserted on the stove table to hold bowls and chopsticks， stewed sweet potatoes， pickled radish strips， and simmered fenpi. Our family sat around the table in the warm room and enjoyed drinking tea and chewing sweet potatoes， the fenpi， and the radish strips. Life was so simple back then that it all comes back to me like poetry nowadays.

Some days， my mother would scoop out a bowl of red spicy pickled radish strips， fry them in fresh tea oil before adding a sprinkle of shredded green onion or garlic leaves. The aroma of the fumes from our kitchen was so intense and spicy that they made the passers-by in the slate alley outside sneeze over and over again！