Ciba is a traditional food for the Chinese New Year period in my hometown of Zhijiang. It is made of glutinous rice, round and white, about ten centimeters in diameter and about one centimeter thick. In more refined households, auspicious characters like "spring," "good fortune," "happiness," and "auspiciousness" are dyed with red rice flour on the surface of the ciba, making it a fine gift for others.
Ciba and the Spring Festival are like mooncakes and the Mid-Autumn Festival, or zongzi and the Dragon Boat Festival. Not eating ciba during the New Year period is like not eating mooncakes during the Mid-Autumn Festival, or not eating zongzi during the Dragon Boat Festival; it feels like something is missing. However, people's preference for ciba far surpasses that for mooncakes and zongzi, so ciba is kept for a long time. Often, even until March in the spring, some families still have ciba to eat.
During those years, everything was in short supply, and ciba was also rare. At that time, there was a shortage of food, and there wasn't enough surplus food to make ciba. People in the city didn't even have the tools to make ciba, and although people in the countryside had the tools, food was even scarcer there, so only families with slightly better conditions made ciba. At that time, there was also no market to sell ciba because there was no free market; buying and selling things was capitalism. People in the city could only rely on relatives and friends to give them ciba, or secretly buy them from farmers in the countryside. Our family didn't have relatives locally, so we could only occasionally eat ciba.
Yang Xianzhi was my neighbor, one year older than me. We were both students at Zhijiang Normal School and often played together. That year, I was seven years old and in first grade, while he was eight years old and in second grade. Xianzhi's father, Teacher Yang, was from Xinhong County, and they had relatives in the countryside who often brought them local specialties. Of course, there was also ciba.
Around the time of the Spring Festival, every time I went to Xianzhi's house, his father would say, "Xianzhi, Lewei is here, go get two cibas." Xianzhi would then bring out two cibas, place them on the fire tongs over the charcoal brazier, and slowly roast them. Once roasted, one side of the ciba near the fire would slowly soften. After roasting for a few minutes, they would flip the ciba over until both sides were golden brown and the entire ciba slowly expanded, causing a fragrant aroma to fill the room, making us salivate.
We would eat those hot, fragrant cibas together and feel like it was the most delicious and happiest thing in the world. In addition to glutinous rice cibas, there was also a type made from millet, golden and delicious when roasted. However, this type of millet ciba was rare. Whenever Xianzhi's family roasted millet ciba and gave me some, it would make me happy for several days.
That was an era without television or video games, so children were willing to go out and play. We liked to play by the pond behind the gymnasium. In spring, we watched tadpoles slowly turn into frogs in the pond. Sitting on the grass by the pond, we watched water droplets roll into shining pearls on lotus leaves, which was very beautiful. We also liked to take a small tile, hold it flat against the water's surface, and give it a flick. The tile would skip across the water, leaving behind a string of circles, and we competed to see whose tile left the most circles on the water's surface.
One day we went to the pond. Xianzhi suddenly asked me, "Lewei, what's three plus three?" I said, "Three plus three? Two threes should be six." Xianzhi said, "Our teacher says three plus three is nine. But my dad says that's wrong. Three plus three should be six. How could it be nine?" I was confused too. It wasn't until the next year, when I learned the multiplication tables, that I understood why three plus three was nine. I suppose Mr. Yang was asking him why three plus three wasn't six to see if he understood the concept of multiplication.
The Cultural Revolution began the year before, and Zhijiang Normal School moved from the city to Wood Oil Hill in Seven Mile Bridge, which was the former base of General Claire Lee Chennault's Flying Tigers during World War II, exchanging campuses with the original Zhijiang No. 2 School. Xianzhi's family lived on the slope near the airport, while my family lived on the slope near the riverside road, both in former dormitories of the Flying Tigers. Although we were a bit further apart, it didn't affect us playing together.
Xianzhi's father was very capable and cooked delicious meals at home. Whenever the food was ready, he would shout from the high bank next to the house, "Xianzhi, it's time to eat!" It could be heard from far away, and Xianzhi would quickly run home.
The Cultural Revolution quickly disrupted everything. When the school was filled with big-character posters everywhere, they moved away without even saying goodbye. My father was also criticized and sidelined. Originally, there were more than ten children, but one by one, they all left, leaving only me. Without children to play with and no good food to eat.
In the summer of 1968, I followed the adults to the Water Wide Commune for a large-scale criticism meeting of "ox ghosts and snake spirits" at the Zhijiang Sports Stadium. People were constantly being brought up onto the stage. I suddenly saw Xianzhi's father being brought up onto the stage amidst the slogans of "Down with the wealthy capitalist roaders like Yang Guoxing!" Then he was pushed down to kneel in front of the stage with a large sign hanging around his neck that read, "Yang Guoxing, the wealthy capitalist roader." The Red Guards announced: "Sending Yang Guoxing, the wealthy capitalist roader, back to his original hometown."
Although I had seen many such immediate arrests and deportations, seeing Xianzhi's father being sent away still shocked me. He was such a good person, kind to Xianzhi and to me, always giving me ciba whenever I visited. How could he be a bad person? Why send him back to his rural hometown?
Xianzhi's parents originally had incompatible personalities and often quarreled. His mother was young and beautiful, outgoing and active; his father was honest and silent. Later, they divorced. I heard that Xianzhi and his sister followed their mother to Longping Commune in Hexi to study, but we never met.
In the spring of 1975, I was sent to Water Wide Commune as an educated youth, a title for all graduates from high schools in China at that time without job, about 12 miles away from the city. To get from the city to the educated youth residence in the commune's tea plantation, we had to pass through Seven Mile Bridge, the site of the Japanese surrender memorial archway. However, at that time, the memorial archway had been smashed, and we were unaware. We had to cross the Wushui River there, to the opposite Square Garden, and then pass through Stone Bridge Commune to reach our educated youth residence.
Once, after returning home and heading back to the educated youth residence, I was amazed to find Xianzhi operating the ferry at the Seven Mile Bridge crossing. It had been seven or eight years since we last met, and we had grown from children to eighteen or nineteen-year-old young men, feeling a bit awkward. Plus, there were many people on the ferry, so I didn't feel comfortable asking him anything. When we parted ways, he insisted on not taking my ferry fee.
Later, on another occasion when I crossed the river, I coincidentally caught him on duty. He told me they were having braised pork for dinner in their canteen and asked me to wait for him to finish work so we could have dinner together. It was already past 4 o'clock, so I sat on the grass by the riverbank, watching the flowing river as I waited for him to finish work. Back then, we could hardly afford to eat meat even once in half a month, and braised pork was something we could only enjoy during holidays like Chinese New Year.
He bought braised pork and some side dishes from the kitchen, and we went to his room to eat. While we ate, he told me that he came here after graduating from high school. I had heard that his stepfather was the commune secretary here. Although ferrying wasn't a great job, there were hardly any job opportunities at that time, and this ferry service was also subsidized by the state. It was stable, especially during times of drought or flood, better than being a educated youth. His father had already been assigned to teach at Zhijiang Second School at the time; he said he occasionally went to visit his father.
I continued to work at the commune's tea plantation as a educated youth. Besides the educated youth, there were also a few farmers from production teams at the tea plantation. There was one we called Grandma Luo, kind-hearted and always bringing us snacks. She often invited the educated youth to her house to hang out. Her house wasn't far from the tea plantation, but I had never been there. In the middle of December, we talked about the Lunar New Year. She said they were going to make cibas at home. I got interested and asked how to make them. She explained, but since there were no physical materials, some explanations weren't clear. So she said, "Why don't you just come to my house and see how we make cibas? Once you see it, you'll understand everything." I thought, why not? I hadn't had a chance to visit her house, so I agreed. We agreed to meet on the 24th of December at her house to make cibas.
Usually, after the 23rd of December, the cibas would be soaked in water after being made to keep them fresh until spring. Before the 23rd of December, the cibas soaked in water would spoil. So, from the 23rd to the 30th of December was the time to make the cibas.
Since I was going to Grandma Luo's house to see how to make cibas, why not make some myself? So I told Grandma Luo I wanted to make some too. She agreed, and we made them together. Later, Xiao Ming, a female educated youth, heard about it and wanted to join, and Grandma Luo agreed.
I went to a production team more than twenty miles away to collect 80 catties of glutinous rice, processed it into 60 catties of glutinous rice, and brought it to the tea plantation. After finishing work on the 23rd of December, Xiao Ming and I followed Grandma Luo to her house. I carried my 60 catties of glutinous rice, while Xiao Ming, fearing she couldn't carry much, only prepared 20 catties.
After about half an hour, we arrived at Grandma Luo's house. Their house was a typical local wooden tile house with three pillars and four hanging poles, with a small courtyard in front, a large hall in the middle, a kitchen at the back, and bedrooms on both sides. It was backed by a small mountain, surrounded by green trees, and terraced fields extending into the distance along the hillside.
Grandma Luo was 58 years old at the time, her husband was in his early 60s, of average height, healthy and hospitable. Their eldest daughter was married but lived nearby, and she and her husband were also there. The youngest daughter had not yet married, a year or two older than us, resembling Grandma Luo, with a round face, big eyes, and a sturdy and cheerful demeanor.
After having dinner cooked by Grandma Luo, their family began to prepare. They took out several large jars, put the glutinous rice into them separately, and soaked them in water. They told us that the glutinous rice for making cibas needed to soak overnight before steaming, otherwise, it would not cook well and would be difficult to pound.
Early the next morning, people from Grandma Luo's family began to steam the soaked glutinous rice. Because we had to rush back to the city, they arranged to pound ours first. After steaming, the steaming hot glutinous rice was scooped out into a large basin and poured into a large stone mortar. Two people used wooden pestles to pound it. Both the mortar and pestles needed to be greased with butter, otherwise, the glutinous rice would stick and couldn't be pounded. The butter was made by boiling vegetable oil and beeswax together, appearing yellowish.
Pounding required two people to cooperate tacitly because even with butter, the glutinous rice would still stick to the pestles, much like toffee, very difficult to separate. So when one person pulled the pestle up, the other person needed to aim at the glutinous rice dough at the bottom of the pestle and pound it down to break the pestle and the dough. Timing was crucial; too early, and the dough stuck to the pestle; too late, and the dough was brought out of the mortar by the pestle. Glutinous rice was very sticky, very laborious, and required full concentration, something only strong men could do. In the cold December weather, everyone pounding would get hot even wearing just a single layer.
I also helped with pounding the glutinous rice. At the beginning, I was a bit clumsy, but I quickly got the hang of it. After about four or five minutes, a plate of glutinous rice was pounded into a sticky mass. Together, we transferred the wooden pestle and the rice to a wooden board that had been pre-buttered, and the women, with their hands coated in butter, vigorously pulled the still-hot rice from the pestle. Xiao Ming learned from the women and joined in to help. Because the rice paste was too sticky, we needed to use hemp ropes coated with butter to tie down the rice at the bottom of the pestle and then pull hard to "cut" the rice mass. Then, we would break open the rice paste into fist-sized pieces, roll them into balls, and place them on the wooden board. Once all the rice paste was kneaded, another buttered wooden board was placed on top, followed by a large stone on top of it. After about ten minutes, the top board was removed, revealing perfectly round cibas.
After the cibas were flattened, they were left to cool naturally.
By that time, I had been in the countryside for ten months, and combined with my previous fondness for exercise, my physical strength was not bad. However, I could only pound for about ten minutes each time before getting tired. Grandma Luo's husband, her son-in-law, and a friend they invited helped out, taking turns with the pounding. But I pounded the least; one, because they took care of me, and two, because I really didn't have their physical strength.
There was no time to cook during the ciba pounding, and the pot was being used to steam the glutinous rice. When we got hungry, we would break off a chunk of freshly pounded rice paste and mix it with white sugar while it was still hot. This was a rare delicacy at the time, as white sugar was hard to come by. It must have been Grandma Luo who brought out her precious white sugar stash.
We pounded the cibas from early morning until nearly 3 p.m. Finally, our cibas were done. I and Xiao Ming carried our own cibas back home. Only then did Grandma Luo's family start making their own cibas, which touched us deeply.
When passing by the ferry crossing at Seven Mile Bridge, I wanted to give some cibas to XianZhi in gratitude for the cibas he gave me when I was young. But he wasn't there; he said he had gone back to his mother for the New Year.
Because the rice absorbs water during steaming, the 60-odd pounds of glutinous rice pounded into cibas probably became 80 or 90 pounds. After pounding cibas for most of the day and then carrying the heavy load for 12 miles, by the time I got back home, it was already dark, and I was exhausted. My family was surprised that I had brought back so many cibas and were very happy. In the past, we relied on others to give us cibas, and later when they were available for purchase, we would only buy a few dozen pounds at most. Now, we finally had our own cibas, and so many of them.
The next day, we gave some cibas to our neighbors and friends who had given us cibas before, and the rest were soaked in a water jar.
That was the year our family ate the most cibas. In addition to roasting them, they could also be fried in oil until crispy and then coated with sugar. Another way was to slice the cibas, boil them in water with some oil, salt, Chinese cabbage leaves, and green onions to make ciba soup. Or boil the ciba slices with glutinous rice wine, which was like sweet rice wine cibas.
That year, I was 18 years old. It was the first time I had eaten glutinous rice I had labored to produce and cibas I had pounded myself, and the taste was especially fragrant.
Since going to college, I rarely ate cibas. I had never eaten cibas since coming to the United States. But every New Year, the warmth of Grandma Luo's family, the hospitality of Xian Zhi and his father, along with the fragrance of cibas, formed the most beautiful image of that era in my memory.
Completed in New Jersey on 12/25/10 (Christmas), revised on 1/25/11.
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