The Beginning of Winter

The Pleasure on a Windy Day： Poetry and People in the Twenty-Four Solar Terms

Wen Zhen

Yilin Press

November 2022

78.00 （CNY）

Wen Zhen

Wen Zhen， a young writer.

Harvesting is for autumn and storing for winter. The Beginning of Winter is the beginning for every living thing hiding from the cold. In my understanding， it is the process of heaven and earth decaying from abundance and everything slowly returning to nothingness， eventually ending up with nothing but emptiness and a great void， and then starting from zero， re-entering the next cycle of the four seasons.

But in most parts of China， the snow has not yet fallen at the Beginning of Winter. There are even twenty or so warm days left by late autumn in the south， so the cold is coming， but it’s still warm. Such warmth is unreliable， like a line of love words， and short， like the illusion of being loved forever — the temperature will eventually come down slowly.

The subtraction of seasons is beginning.

Zheng Banqiao， one of the Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou， had a famous couplet hanging in his study， “Cut redundancies and hold to simplicity， as painting late autumn trees. Be revolutionary and create the unique， as drawing early spring flowers.” It means that sometimes fewer brushstrokes can be beneficial， and can have its own style. The third month of autumn can more or less be seen as winter; it is the time of the fading of leaves around the Beginning of Winter. But Wang Guowei， also a famous scholar of the Qing Dynasty， took it too hard， “Among all the things that shall fade， there are two you can never to return， the youth of a pretty face， and the blossoms on a waving branch.” The Qing Dynasty was far gone and never be back. To those sad people with great expectations， any loss may become the last straw that breaks the camel’s back， and they can no longer hold on to the next spring.

Speaking of winter， most of the most beautiful scenes in A Dream of Red Mansions are in winter. For example， in the fiftieth chapter， there are plots of sisters composing linked verses， Bao Yu requesting red plum blossom， and Bao Qin standing in the snow. Also， in late autumn and early winter， Bao Chai let her family’s pawnshop deliver the crab to Grand View Garden to please Grandmother Jia at the cassia-viewing party. The sisters also made poems on this. Among all the poems in the book， Questioning the Chrysanthemum by Dai Yu is my favorite. But Mr. Cao arranged for Bao Chai’s crab poem to win the top spot， probably implying that she knew best about the traditional code of conduct， “a straightforward breed you are certainly not， and the goodness inside you has all gone to pot —” Dai Yu dared not eat very much because of her delicate health， and after consuming a little of the claw-meat， excused herself from the table. Foodie as I am， I can’t help but think about how much meat is in the claw every time I read it. Certainly， the meat was not from a crab leg， for it is hard to imagine someone as delicate as Dai Yu would bother to crack open the crab shell to get a sliver of meat.

In A Dream of Red Mansions， they didn’t have dumplings at the turn of autumn and winter. The word “dumpling” in Chinese is pronounced as “jiaozi，” which means the intersection of two years. In the north， people eat dumplings at every festival， not only at the Beginning of Winter but also on Winter Solstice， and most of all during Spring Festival， as well as the Lantern Festival after the New Year. Thus， the book is about Nanjing， not Beijing， where it seemed convenient and easy to fish fresh crabs out of the lake， pick out the particularly large ones， and send them to the Jia Mansion in a few baskets. The fresh food logistics in ancient times were not as convenient as today， and there would not be “Yangchenghu Lake Hairy Crabs for Sale” all year round in the streets. In recent years， we all know that we can’t eat the real Yangcheng hu Lake hairy crabs， so Xinghua crabs and Panjin crabs are gradually becoming popular. Speaking of which， Zheng Banqiao was from Xinghua. I went to Xinghua one autumn to eat crabs and on the way visited the Banqiao Memorial Hall， where I enjoyed the unique bamboo painting and calligraphy， which carried a firm and tenacious character like bamboo for a long time.

Anyway， in this new era， crabs need to be professionally fished and delivered to reach the tables of millions of families. This is， of course， the advancement of the times and a boon for foodies. Even the hairdresser at the barber store where I often visit， because his hometown is in northern Jiangsu， also works part-time in this business， always selling thousands of pounds of crabs in one autumn. It’s the Beginning of Winter right now， so I’d like to say a few more words about the crab. The ancient people seemed to be particularly concerned about the Beginning of Winter. There used to custom to greet winter in the early days， probably because it was not easy to survive the cold days， so they had to be in full spirit to deal with it. We are well familiar with greeting spring， but never did we think that winter is also to be greeted — bad weather is supposed to be prepared for more seriously. From the Jin to the Han Dynasty， the emperor would order all the civil and military officials to wear a “warm cap” on this day， with a cotton-padded jacket — a warm cap was probably a kind of official hat that officials wore in winter， similar to the winter uniform. The old saying goes： in the seventh lunar month， Antares moves to the western sky; in the ninth lunar month， winter clothes are made; in the tenth lunar month， the winter begins. Li Yu of the late Ming Dynasty referred to the entire tenth lunar month as “Crab Autumn，” and the Beginning of Winter always seems to be attached to the fishy aroma of crabs. Just imagine the scene of hundreds of officials munching on crabs in the Hall. It would be really spectacular.

Eating crab has been an elegant thing for the literati since ancient times. Zhang Dai wrote The Night Boat and A Dream of Taoan and wrote articles specifically about eating crabs. Liang Shiqiu of the Republic of China also wrote a famous article， “Eating Crabs.” Not to mention that every year as soon as summer started， Li Yu began to save his spending money， which would all be spent on buying crabs， for he regarded eating crabs as his life. Li Yu devoted his life to opera， but he preferred to call himself the “Crab Fairy，” and his Leisure Occassional Mails contained a wonderful text： “I will never dislike crab for a day in my life， and I cannot describe how wonderful and unforgettable the taste of crab is even in a million words.” According to him， that was the only pleasure in his life， and compared with crab， wealth and glory were all but smoke and clouds.

Nowadays， it is said that crawfish are very suitable for parties because instead of playing with your smartphone， you have to busy your hands by peeling the shells， which allows you to chat with others. Compared with crawfish， eating crab is a little more leisurely because your hands won’t be covered in grease while peeling them — everyone knows that crabs are best served steamed， and spicy crabs？ Not a good taste. It is said that the highest level of crab-eating is to spend a whole afternoon carefully dismantling a crab， not with the help of a crab-eating tool kit， but only by using the crab legs to disassemble the crab chelas. After eating the last bit of meat， you can still assemble the shells back into a whole crab; that’s true skill.

I didn’t eat many crabs when I was a kid， but after growing up， my best friend from graduate school was from Jiangsu and introduced me to the “crab-eating religion.” Since then， I couldn’t resist and had to eat crabs several times every autumn and winter. Later， when I raised two small Sesarmas for fun， I quit eating crabs. My friend was so angry about it， stressing again and again， “The two you raise are so small — I can pickle them in a moment.” Which was to pickle them with wine to make liquor-saturated crabs. What can I say？ My friend is truly one of those Jiangnan people who are enemies of the aquatic. But the reason I can’t explain easily to others at the dinner table is like what Montaigne said， “Human beings are often accustomed to setting up their own barriers.” I played the game Plants vs. Zombies a long time ago. There was a level where many tombstones would emerge from the ground like mushrooms. Gradually， there were more and more tombstones and less open space for planting plants to defend against zombies. At this moment， when I think about it， it is somehow like life. There are more and more inexplicable and unspeakable things. And those words that were not said at the time and never had the chance to be said afterward are all secrets， which will be well hidden.