The Taste of Lotus Root

The Taste of Lotus Root

When I laid the large lotus root across the cutting board, the rain outside was falling just right. It was the kind of late spring rain typical of the Jiangnan region—neither too fast nor too slow, carrying with it a natural patience, as if it wanted to soak and soften the entire world, allowing all life to grow delicate roots. The lotus root, freshly brought from the market, was still covered in a layer of the soft mud from the river. After washing it, its jade-like skin appeared, cool and heavy, like a piece of memory, carefully preserved by time. When the knife sliced through the root, there was a crisp "crack" that rang out sharply, startlingly clear, as though I had cut not through a plant, but through a tiny, full autumn.

My great-grandmother, a woman who spent her life by the Taihu Lake, was a master at preparing "water's eight immortals" (a traditional dish). She often said that the lotus root, being a product of the water, was alive with spirit. When she prepared it, she did so with a kind of ritualistic focus. She would slice the lotus root so thin, almost like a gossamer wing, transparent when held up to the light. One could see the fine threads of "lotus root, severed yet connected," as she called it—"情分" (the bond of affection). She said, "When the heart drifts apart, the bond truly breaks. But the lotus root doesn’t—though it’s cut into thousands of threads, there’s always a trace of soul left connected." I was still young then, only savoring the soft sweetness of the osmanthus-sugar lotus root, not understanding the philosophy of separation and connection that entwined in that food. Now, as my own knife pulls out those silver strands, I suddenly understand. Each thread is an invisible scale, measuring the distance between her hands and my cutting board. That distance is thirty years, the breath of one era passing to another, one lake, and countless tables nourished by that same lake—similar yet different.

I think of Shi Hongbao, a man from Hangzhou during the Qing Dynasty, who stubbornly indexed the tastes of a disappearing city in his Xiang Wei Za Yong. The "Thoughts on Water Chestnuts and Bass" he recorded weren't merely a longing for water chestnut soup and bass sashimi. It was the spirit of a person, floating in the political seas, seeking the softest and most stable roots in his homeland. The slippery texture of water chestnuts, the freshness of the bass, became the coordinates for his soul. What he wrote about was a meal, but what he fixed was the anchor of a heart. The "delicious" Hangzhou he cherished, those "snowy nights by the quilt stove" and "spring mornings on bamboo boats," those nights illuminated by wine and good food, have long since sunk into the bottom of West Lake, becoming legends in the memories of water plants and fish. His words were like lotus roots dredged from the deep waters of time, carrying the smell of mud, and though time had passed, cutting them open, the threads still connected to the Jiangnan that we can no longer return to.

The lotus root in my hands is a humble food. It can become crisp lotus root cubes dancing in a spicy oil, or it can be carefully stuffed with glutinous rice, simmered in syrup to become a sweet, amber-colored dish. At this moment, I slice it into round pieces, neither too thick nor too thin, preparing to stir-fry it with a few lotus seeds and tender water bamboo shoots. This is the everyday "eight immortals of water"—simple, yet complete. The oil in the pan is at the right temperature, and as the lotus root slices slide in, they make a joyful "sizzle," as steam and oil fragrance rise, immediately fogging up the window. The rain scene outside is blurred, transforming into a vivid ink wash painting.

Suddenly, I feel that we all, in our lives, are tracing back to the origins of a flavor. My great-grandmother traced the origin of Taihu Lake; Shi Hongbao traced the origin of his lost homeland. And I, at this moment, standing in this small kitchen surrounded by the warmth of cooking, whose origin am I tracing? I am replicating the flavors in my memory, interpreting the homesickness in old books. But in the end, what I create is only my own version of "Jiangnan," one that belongs to my time. This Jiangnan is no longer just a region on a map; it is the taste of a dish, the echo of a poem, the sound of rain, the sound of a knife, and the subtle tremor when the lotus root threads are cut apart.

The dish is ready. The white lotus root slices, tender water bamboo shoots, and round lotus seeds rest peacefully on a pale blue porcelain plate. I turn off the stove, and the world suddenly quiets, leaving only the sound of the rain and the faint heat rising from the food. This is the Jiangnan I can reach at this moment. It is no longer elusive; it no longer belongs only to words and legends. It is tangible, warm, right in front of me, awaiting a simple, yet deeply meaningful taste. All the "severed yet connected," all the separations and reunions, all the history and the present, silently condense into this meal, becoming the most humble yet profound strength that sustains our lives.