Two Years of Growing Vegetables in the City: The Art of Permaculture Has Been Branded into My Very Being
[ New Born ]
It was two years ago,
when the pandemic began.
I cut back on the flowers at home,
and slowly started planting vegetables.
Everything new unfolds from that,
and that was where it all began to make sense.
To work the land, to labour — at least I did my own version of a cardio workout. Since I couldn't go anywhere, I could at least work with my hands.
I decided to stay home and write, plant vegetables, brew coffee, and cook. I'd see only those people who absolutely had to see me. To borrow Jiaming, the founder of Chaimiduo's, words: "Real earth is never flat. Only when you see the wrinkles in the land can you see people — ordinary people living in a way that's both raw and tender."
It was another utterly ordinary day. I'd just harvested from the wild patch in my yard, washing off snail slime, centipedes, and green caterpillars while sipping coffee as if it were nothing. Then I exchanged a joke with a good friend, also from an internet industry background:
"We work on platforms."
"Oh, platforms, nice and open. What sector?"
"Hahahaha!"
Things or people seemingly worlds apart always have a hidden logic when they converge. Harmony doesn't come with a "why."
Lunch was eaten on the go in the yard. I plucked the last young leaves of endive from the garden and paired them straight with cured ham. Taking advantage of the few eggs that had accidentally cracked in my stash, I made some onsen-style hot spring eggs to add in.
These past days I hadn't turned on the automatic irrigation. As the days grew warmer bit by bit, I saw the mint scorched and the basil eaten, the heat-loving bugs growing fat — and I was surprisingly happy, even praying for the heat to come faster, so the virus might naturally retreat with the rising temperatures!
When I was laying the irrigation lines, a lot of friends and followers asked me about growing vegetables. Actually, I started learning natural farming methods two years ago, and I'm grateful for all the guidance from an American agroforestry expert, a Japanese home gardening whiz, and a PhD from the agricultural science academy in Hangzhou. I've still never used any chemical fertiliser or pesticide, and my experience is limited, but I'm happy to share what I've personally tried and found useful, in case it might help someone.
Starting today, every day, I'll write a little about what I've learned.
For most home gardens or balconies, the planting space is limited. I suggest for high-density planting to really focus on adding organic fertiliser, though not the sort you might be imagining. I recommend these three types:
For larger areas:
Three jin of mixed weeds + half a jin of brown sugar + just enough water to cover the weeds. The enzyme liquid that results from this compost pile is very easily absorbed. It's a bonus that the nutrients from the weeds go back into the land — one action, two benefits. Usually after a month, once the weeds are fully decomposed, the enzyme liquid is ready. Dilute it at a 2:8 ratio of enzyme to water and water it directly around high-density vegetables.
For smaller areas:
If you drink coffee, sprinkle used coffee grounds lightly around the rim of the pot and water; just be careful never to put it directly on the plant roots or it will burn. Things like rice bran, eggshells, and small vegetable leaves can be used during the rainy season or when watering heavily — they'll ferment and decompose naturally on the soil surface, making the earth loose and strong.
For instance, the kohlrabi and broccoli that managed to survive in my yard have grown lots of leaves lately, but I worried the roots wouldn't get big due to limited soil fertility. Just then, a big batch of eggs I'd stocked up arrived, some broken. I put the whole broken eggs right in the soil — a nice treat for the wild birds that visit. The cracked shells would eventually turn into fertiliser anyway. And I even scattered the rice husk padding from the egg cartons on top of the soil. That's one more layer of nutrients.
I hope that everything in life can be for joy, not obligation.
A lot of people love reading success stories; but in this day and age, there's so much more to gain from reading about how not to succeed. Things with a high probability are the ones worth learning from. When you first start gardening, many people have wild fantasies, imagining their house will look like the Garden of Eden. Take my experience with strawberries, for instance — such an ordinary, confident fruit, and incredibly picky, hating both cold and heat. No wonder most of what we eat comes from greenhouses. I don't have a greenhouse... so my yield is measured in individual berries.
This is my third year growing strawberries. The first year I started from seed, and just when they'd finally put out blossoms, aphids ate them alive. The second year, also from seed, I used garlic to repel the bugs and ladybugs to help; a few green berries survived, only to be eaten by little birds. The third year, I've just planted the seedlings now, armed with a wealth of experience, and I have faith in April and May.
This tray of strawberries I have now is from my neighbour's garden. Sometimes doing nothing is far more important than doing something. Now I have three important tips for anyone with a real obsession for homegrown strawberries:
1. Give strawberries a bit more space, or a longer trough planter, because they trail and spread via runners. Plant a few garlic cloves in between to keep aphids away.
2. If you can, skip seeds. Without a greenhouse to manage temperature swings over a long period, just go directly for seedlings. After flowering they need plenty of water.
3. Strawberries need shallow planting; half the crown should sit above the soil — new shoots will sprout from there. If the seedling comes with any little green berries, don't let them rest on the dirt; hang them over the edge.
The pearl spirea has grown back, and I've just realised my pollen allergy has eased up a lot. I hope that everything in life can be for joy, not obligation.
Inspired by the garlic-and-strawberry pairing, a follower asked yesterday if many fragrant herbs can be mixed with other plants — a very keen observer! I'll answer here: people and plants are alike; some nurture each other, and some harm each other.
Here are a few famously incompatible combinations, with no thanks needed!
1. Tomato x Potato: bad for growth
2. Eggplant x Corn: bad for growth
3. Green onion x White radish: radish roots become deformed or forked
4. Strawberry x Chinese chive: they steal each other's nutrients
5. Green pepper x Potato: bad for growth
6. Lettuce x Chinese chive: bad for growth
7. Potato x Cabbage: the cabbage won't form a head
As always, for joy, not obligation!
When I visited England, aside from antiques shops, my favourite places to browse were garden wares shops. This time, Chaimiduo sent over some gardening tools — English ash wood and the metal fittings, that kind of texture, I was smitten to my core. I was just in need of good hand trowels, hand forks, a dibber, and gloves! The gift box also came with a potted chili pepper, beetroot seeds, and planting soil. I gave the new seedlings their first watering with my own plant enzyme fertiliser. I'll transplant the beetroot once it sprouts.
Confederate jasmine is bursting with fragrance, and it's the season when pomegranates cradle red fruit. I need to pay more attention to everything in my yard. I don't know when the cucumbers last year dropped seeds, but they've now sprouted with little angel wings 👼. Broad beans, brought in by birds, have grown up among the mint and rosemary and started flowering, nearly attacked to death by bugs, but they still set pods.
No matter what, everything will get better~
The small-leaf coriander in my yard, having survived the whole winter, is about to bloom.
This woman farmer has been lost in contemplation of dried grasses and dead flowers since early morning. Luckily, the rosemary has yielded a bountiful harvest, the mint is poking through, and wild shepherd's purse has seeded itself beneath the stone slabs at the doorstep. A willow tree brought by a bird has stealthily grown as tall as my palm on the stone ground.
For lunch, a plate of Spain's 5J jamón from black-hoofed pigs fed on acorns in oak forests, accompanied by a small sip of Sauternes with freshly snipped rosemary — an instant small but sure happiness, like early spring.
Spring has come so suddenly; this woman farmer's yard is tingling with excitement. Shepherd's purse and endive have bloomed. I can see the rapeseed flowers are about to catch up... the roses must be blushing in comparison. As for the lonely cauliflower, violet, and blue coriander — they belong to the group that never froze last winter and now carry themselves with a fearless air.
The coriander, meanwhile, has completely lost all control. Alright then, salad for dinner — I'll sort it out.
Good morning, Sister Ling's shad wontons! My family's wonton soup base is simple: fresh scallion oil rendered with pork fat. Fragrant.
Let's celebrate! Celebrate what? Spring breeze greening the southern shore again, I suppose... including the pier...
Wild greens — during this spring I have a certain freedom. Besides, there are only two reasons they're hard to eat: they're either too old or too bitter. But I can endure it. Radish leaves stir-fried with Norton salt-cured pork — just use fewer leaves since they're bitter, and it's surprisingly fragrant. Hairy bittercress was a bit old; I added some malantou, blanched and finely chopped, stir-fried with egg — passable. The European mixed herbs must be because I'm lazy like them — planted together and cut without discrimination — so I just use them as spring onions...
So yes, eating wild greens really requires skill. The ancients already selected the tasty ones; I just find the roundabout path more fun. Indeed, the spring bamboo shoots and large yellow croaker sold by the roadside granny are still sweeter. Today's brunch, as always, is minimal cooking — just salt and pork fat, including in the filling of the shepherd's purse wontons. The strawberries are organic, the pomelo fell by itself. The vegetables and fruit are washed with enzyme water, fermented from weeds and brown sugar.
These coffee beans are organic too — lots of defect beans; I can't be bothered to pick them out. Let's leave a few more things to nature. We can sometimes be a bit too industrious.
The rapeseed flowers in my yard have bloomed, so the only place for flower arranging is the kitchen. And if there are leftovers from arranging, waste is not allowed!
Right now, I'm doing spring sowing in the yard, while at the same time, to prevent worse hay fever, I'm gritting my teeth and cutting back lots of the big blooms.
The leaves around the endive flowers are the most tender and delicious, but I'd spared them before — all for those pretty yellow flowers. All the flowers are dying. The beauty of spring passing — who can truly face it without a pang? The blossoms grew spoiled from all that doting, showing off with an almost aggressive flamboyance, leaving me no way out but to settle things with a plate of vegetable salad.
The tenderest endive leaves, paired with Iberian salami, pomelo, and balsamic vinegar, are so fragrant and delicious...
I spent the entire afternoon braising chickpeas with abalone. By the time I finished harvesting from the yard, they were perfectly tender and fragrant. Eating dinner alone, I decided to eat early, right by the stove.
The hawkweed and shepherd's purse were brought by birds — there wasn't much to begin with, and besides, three shepherd's purse plants at home have already gone to seed...
For the local ground pork stir-fried with wild greens, I just picked whatever young shoots I could find — even a small amount of pigweed and coriander — otherwise there'd be no way to make a full dish. The hawkweed is a bit bitter, so I added slightly sweet Xiaoshan dried radish to balance it.
I came home saturated with green, having picked the most delicious vegetables from the spring yard. The tender tips of spearmint — so many people don't know how wonderful they are paired with thick-cut beef, a mysterious soft fragrance.
I blanched them in boiling water and topped with pure sesame paste and XO sauce, not a single grain of salt — tender, fresh, and silky. I love the flavour of things with nothing added. Good, natural things — everyone understands and falls in love instantly.
To eat while listening to birds sing — that's an extraordinary thing in an ordinary breakfast. The spring onions from Aba in Sichuan, which grow as slender scallions back there, have turned into full-grown onions now that they're down from the plateau. One of the Japanese endive plants has set seeds; the other few have tender leaves I have to enjoy properly.
🥗 For the first-harvest laver seaweed salad, I just used dried baby shrimp and cured ham for saltiness, plus a tiny bit of organic vinegar and sesame oil. The egg was a gift from the elderly mother who sells bamboo shoots. I rarely eat hard-boiled eggs, but this was good.
Afraid of my allergies, I went back to the yard to cut flowers again... The spirea is especially rampant in the snowflake flower season; though wild, with all the white blossoms bursting open together, it almost overwhelms the senses.
Unawares, I discovered there are actually six giant nepeta plants in my yard, madly spraying out purple flowers — this strapping plant isn't even in the Flora of China; they say the Beijing Institute of Botany has a similar specimen. I don't dare cut any more...
With this temperature, humidity, and that coffee oil richness — feels like it's the perfect season for natural fermented bread again. I added "Six Giant Nepeta" to my coffee — it reduced swelling super fast; not sure if it reduces plumpness fast too...
Before sneezing and rhinitis set in, I hurriedly gathered an armful of coriander back to the kitchen. For the ground pork, I pick the fattiest cut I can find at the nearest source; you take what you can get. And so, a plate of self-oiled coriander and ground pork, with a few drops of an old Hong Kong brand chili sauce to cut the greasiness — mellow and fragrant. Chef Tam, the most affable and respected master of Macanese cuisine, recommended it.
Whether you find what's unique or what's common, finding something you can appreciate — that's the wild, wild joy.
Eating this angel hair pasta with stinky salted cabbage and fresh amaranth, topped with a bit of bonito furikake, this morning really felt like wandering between angels and demons.
Wisteria season. My lunch was spinach seedlings that I sowed last autumn and that only grew this spring, paired with pork tongue braised in sake lees.
Lunch: assorted homegrown vegetable wraps + new bamboo shoots with fish roe and fish maw + Longjing tea.
Dinner is celtuce stems — clear, sweet, crisp, the leaves snap at a touch, as tender as spring breeze. Don't argue with me about whether to pick the leaves or how thick to peel the skin; I'm afraid I might eat the whole thing root and all.
These days I've been working non-stop: sowing, transplanting, applying enzyme fertiliser. I can see my hands getting so much rougher. But every time I eat what my yard produces, I still feel joyful.
Today's lunch is lamb noodle soup, cold crucian carp, celtuce, and seaweed soup. Simple, ordinary things, really, but ones I'm willing to love blindly. Others rush to bring in laundry when it rains; I dash out in a downpour to cut spring onions — the spring onions in my yard smell so good... Even before the pandemic, the thing I treasured most at home was my spring onion patch.
Compared to edible crops, ornamental gardening is honestly so hard for me. This woman farmer, because of allergies, has sheared the roses almost bare; the leaves are all yellow, but one single forgotten bud has still bloomed. I won't cut any more. I'll get better. The good news is that the Japanese heartleaf fig miraculously survived a withered winter and has sprung back to life. From now on, every leaf it grows will be heart-shaped. Keep going!
The herbs at home miraculously survived; I turned the old leaves back into the soil as fertiliser. This is destined to be a special spring that surges with life after treading on the body of winter, making me treasure each day even more. I'd originally thought I'd casually grab a handful of herbs to scramble with eggs. But how can someone like me let eggs that can be eaten raw go to waste? Better to make a pure-egg oyakodon, or with a bit more trouble, a half-cooked cheesecake or something. The free-range eggs at home have a slightly lower microbiological load; for now, I'll just scramble them.
Feeling a bit tired, I remembered to open a bottle of Barossa Semillon — that alluring stone fruit flavour, mixed with cream and honey, as full-bodied as sunshine. But I hadn't chilled it in advance, so I had to wait another half hour. So I took the portion of shepherd's purse I'd painstakingly cleaned this morning and tossed it into three goat cheese tarts and one blue cheese tart. It reminded me of long, long ago, when I sat on the back steps of Tate Museum, sunbathing with many others, eating French-style goat cheese and wild greens tart. So many days of eating wild greens — gone forever. At least I can cherish this little, quiet afternoon before me.
Having breakfast in the morning dew as the sun rises — appetite is naturally better. The only reason mornings are more efficient is that I wake up with nothing else to do.
The shepherd's purse dumplings for lovers have been enjoyed. The hot pickled mustard green and fresh pork wontons have actually been waiting all along for the true god of malantou to break through the soil. Seeing how things are, it looks like I'll need to make yet another batch~
Two livestreams this evening, so I can't eat much. Snacks to go with drinks as dinner: Iberian sausage + homegrown coriander + homemade wine. I'm already a bit slow; I'm always afraid of being even more slow when I'm full...
A particularly satisfying day: grabbing a handful of herbs from the yard, recovering my morning spirit during meditation, and then writing a bit. When I'm tired, a cup of coffee and a small pastry. My Italian client finally managed to send wine after Easter, only for customs to notify me I need to record a video holding my ID card, plus provide the wine's selling price screenshot and my ID photo... and the files can't exceed 10MB or they'll be automatically rejected. Fortunately, I'm not someone with much of a temper.
No matter how frantic overseas deliveries get, at least good coffee beans at home never stop. I turned the Pinot Noir barrel beans into a few drip bags, originally meant for business trips (which, of course, I can't take). Now I really regret it — getting that familiar violet aroma back is hopeless; it was like drawing legs on a snake. Because good beans can't be kept. Either drink them early, or share them with someone who understands, so they find their proper place.
Now, everything is best done early. No need to think too far ahead; live each day, and each day is a gain.
Today, as always, I admire whatever I see, eat whatever there is. Nothing is more important than the flowers, grasses, melons, and fruits in my yard. They're going to accompany me into another early summer.
This time, I'll still be nervous. In front of the things you genuinely care about, experience usually counts for nothing.
Spring really is the most perfect season for baking levain bread. Spring has fresh herbs and last year's stash of dried fruits and seeds. My weed-filled yard is wild but not barren. The single lemon balm plant has actually survived two winters, poking out from the rosemary thicket — not dead, sprouting again! Just right for making lemon balm cheesecake or bread.
The weather's warming up. This woman farmer is tidying her overgrown yard. I was just about to replace the winter casualties, when I noticed the newly settled wild clover 🍀 at the roots, so tender.
Warm breeze blows the wild dandelion seeds, brushing softly against my face — all tickles. The seeds of wild bittercress burst at a touch, like a green fountain. Wild spinach shoots up through the gaps between rosemary and mint, growing so old it's already flowering by the time I notice — with a pang of sour-grape jealousy, I huff, Whatever, my pot doesn't have room anyway. The kumquat tree is thoroughly dead, but last year the tree was full of mini orange-lantern fruits; I couldn't out-compete the nimble little sparrows and never got to eat a single one. But those little cuties brought a yard full of wild, wild gifts. Today, I'm setting a flag. Five colours of tomato 🍅 going in the ground. If by year's end even the two scrappiest varieties have managed to cling to life, I'll throw a harvest hotpot party and celebrate with the little birds.
Cooking quietly by myself, using my own rosemary and basil — such unadulterated happiness. The shiso in the yard should be tall enough to cook with fish by next week; right now it's all holes, and I really hope I beat the bugs to it. A friend gifted me a natural wine from Mas Bécha in the south of France, which I used for the red sauce — only that could do justice to the pizza base made from my organic Italian farmhouse flour. Reassuring food is the most precious.
While eating my own braised beef shank, I'm smelling the very spices grown for braising beef. I mourned that the lemon basil from last year had died, its little pot empty. It seemed to have lost all interest in sprouting, not as lucky as the Indian borage, lemon balm, or Vietnamese coriander, which all revived green just as the willow catkins flew. I suddenly remembered the golden seeds sent last winter by Michelin three-star Chef Enrico Crippa of Ristorante Duomo. So I turned the dried yellow leaves back into the soil and continued waiting for the miracle of life to happen.
The golden seeds sent last winter by Michelin three-star Chef Enrico Crippa of Ristorante Duomo — after a few days, they've become like this... I'm asking the experts: what is this? And more importantly, how do I eat it?
During a livestream of lamb offal soup, I noticed the shiso I'd just planted last week has sprouted... I know you can actually put it in lamb soup too. Please, everyone, don't be in such a hurry. 😂
I suddenly craved making my own rice-bran pickles. After simplifying my life, every sincere friend I meet triggers a sense of cherishing — no exaggerations, no irony. Those faces at different temperatures, gentle or earnest or at ease — all good. Because deception and concealment are the biggest waste of life. Kind people will choose silence first, leaving everything to time. But endurance is already waste. We ought to be like children. At this very moment, I miss Japan immensely.
Growing plants purely from seed, raising them up — it really is like being a mother. When I get home from my business trip, it'll be time to repot.
Little bugs have vanished — my cape sundew has done its job well. And recently, with all the extra protein, this one got so happy it actually bloomed. 😂 Can you eat that flower?
Every day when I wake up, I go check on Gao Gao, the single outstanding cape sundew. Today Gao Gao didn't bloom. It's going to rain, see.
After the storm, this woman farmer was just comforting the battered flowers when I discovered little eyes growing out of the soil.
Today I'm shooting, so I made an exception and ate breakfast... The basil was homegrown, the pesto sauce homemade; good thing I didn't have to produce the caviar myself. The ten-year-aged Kaluga Queen's nutty notes pair perfectly with basil, green olive, and pine nut angel hair pasta — this is what it feels like to grow wings.
After the rain, I found the seedlings of four types of tomato 🍅 have all sprouted. I've made a pact with the little birds: if we really manage to grow them, we'll celebrate. The blueberries are almost ripe too; truly a gift from nature. The birds like them, and I'm happy too. I'm just borrowing the blossoms to offer to my followers.
A woman farmer spending the day at home writing. Stepping out for some air in the afternoon. Opened the door, originally just planning to pinch a few tender pumpkin shoots to stir-fry as a side dish — I figured, later when they all flower, I'll only be eating pumpkins. Surprise: I found the white shiso has grown almost as tall as a person! I started this from a tiny seed and then "ignored it" — two whole years of not raising it in vain. The purple shiso is still short; I'll wait until it's a bit bigger to wrap sashimi. A flower-murderer like me, yet two types of shepherd's purse, two types of spring onion, four types of tomato, N types of herbs... they've all emerged. You all should learn from the white shiso! And you, that cute little bug 🐛 from last year whose tail looked like a dachshund — here again, biting off the gardenia flowers. Naughty as ever, but I don't have time for you now. I'm going to eat my linner.
I don't need an alarm. Seven o'clock, woken up by birdsong again, probably reminding me the gardenia and roses have freshly bloomed. In that case, I'll have breakfast. I can never resist the heartfelt charm of Quyuan; I open their generously packed Yangzhou zongzi and Gaoyou double-yolk salted duck eggs, brew a cup of Biluochun, smell the delicate fragrance. I decide to eat a little more, so I can head to the yard to work. A friend from Chunxia Farm said my vegetable leaves are a bit yellow and gave me a bottle of brown sugar enzyme as emergency backup. I'll dilute it right now and water thoroughly. Watching the shiso and radish seedlings finally stand up straight — it really brings a sense of happiness. At its core, gardening and friendship are not about harvesting; every day, the nourishment grows of its own accord. Grateful 🌷
Early morning, tending the yard, and found the flowers blooming everywhere. A diary has been lying at the edge of the yard for a month; I've ignored it, waiting for someone to pick it up. Soaked by rain again and again, its owner probably won't come now. Judging by the cover, it must be a love letter inside. I didn't open it. Threw it into the bin exactly as it was. When flowers bloom, just cherish them.
Let's show our purple shiso the flowers growing on other people's shiso — to give them the courage to go on living...
Super simple lunch: a bowl of old hen soup noodles, and an eggplant leaf to soak up the chicken oil.
Coming home after a grind, I woke naturally and found my way back to myself. I remember when I was writing the story about fermentation and spices, my lemon balm was still very short. Now it's grown taller than the rosemary.
It's too bad that because I've been away on business, in the sweltering yard, the herbs were drooping from lack of water. When I touched them, my hands were covered in their alluring volatile essential oils — they were actually so dry they were sweating oil; so heartbreaking. I hurried to give everyone a drink, hoping the yard will bounce back by evening.
After the farm work, both me and the snails have our eyes on the first cucumber of the summer. One bite of crisp, sweet, prickly cucumber — simple and happy.
That bug with the dachshund tail 🐛, while I wasn't home, bit all the gardenia flowers off. Truly belonging to the year of the dog. 😂 Luckily all the edible herbs are fine. Every time I go away on business, a shock awaits among the plant pots. Have a glass of chilled plum wine while waiting for the thunderstorm; otherwise my heart would shatter.
These two days have been all about quick dishes: wholewheat calzone with tomato leaves and cheese-stuffed king prawns, red wine braised beef with spearmint, winter melon soup with wild spring onion and premium Jinhua ham... This woman farmer's homegrown wild onions, spearmint, and tomato seedlings are about to be eaten threadbare.
The rubber plant in the yard has grown a new leaf; looking at it makes me so proud. I customised some coffee for a friend, using Alpine rose to scent the beans; what you drink carries no visible sign of rose. What a coincidence, I said — that exact mouthfeel, just right, exhaled by the beans. This woman farmer is also very proud.
Rosemary and mint are growing crazily in the small courtyard after the rain. I'll start infusing herb oils tomorrow. Who knows what miracles might be encountered? Fear and complaint, in the face of surviving calamity, are both a waste.
A day of cooking. In today's recipe for fresh rosemary flavoured butter (Beurre aromatisé), my hand slipped and I added black pepper; paired with the milk-and-salt loaf it's a little heavy. I plan to have it with champagne and rosemary ham focaccia. The previously half-dead purple shiso has finally grown up happily. To celebrate, I excitedly made a purple shiso crab roe tofu for lunch — couldn't finish it — so for dinner, blasted garlic and braised it with a whole seabass...
While cooking I'm reflecting — I've reached an age where seeing a caterpillar no longer makes me scream but actually makes me happy. The spearmint in the yard, surprisingly, has also been chosen for nibbling by bugs. I'd assumed most bugs lack taste and wouldn't fancy unusual herbs.
Turns out I worried for nothing. The yard is full of snails, centipedes, millipedes, and stink bugs. But being self-deprecating all the time isn't good either — after all, I'm the fattest bug in this household! Such is the confidence of a woman farmer.
Scorching days. I can't bear to leave the yard babies that are fruiting, sprouting, and flowering, so I can only come home and fight the drought. Just praying the heatwave passes quickly. The clivia is so ugly it refuses to be photographed. Facing the scorched and sprawling mess in the yard, I watered for half an hour, got tired, and then just picked and ate as I went. Not sure if I came home to fight the drought or to harvest. These days, I'm re-learning what is vast and what is tiny.
A muddy day. The hopeless trees at this woman farmer's house have indeed lain down flat. Picking a few broken branches for flower arrangement; this time I can be ruthless without hesitation.
The cucumber vine has been battered flat into a crawl. The black nightshade berries, as if revived by the Resurrection Stone, are all fully ripe. I got soaked picking them all, treating them as my afternoon tea snack.
One is crunchy, one bursts with juice — both clear and sweet. At the corner of my mouth, I can no longer tell sweat from rain from drool.
Someone not used to using her voice — after a recording session, I've lost it again. Seeing the homegrown tomatoes fruit but unable to cry out, I could only pitifully blow a puff of air shaped like an "ah."
Very few understand the exhaustion of a big feast; I truly just want a few bites of clean, simple dishes. The woman farmer is home. The baby bok choy and cucumbers (though a bit thicker than I expected) are ready to harvest.
Little Sister's handmade shrimp roe soy sauce has also arrived from Suzhou. I hurriedly snipped some French chives and made scallion oil noodles.
The baby bok choy, this time, skips the garlic — simply stir-fried with a few drops. Truly a bowl of all-organic goodness, wonderfully fragrant! For vegetables I grow myself, I don't pull the wild weeds. Otherwise what would the bugs eat to grow up?
I thought you were dead, but you were here all along. When crape myrtle is meant to bloom, it really doesn't need His Majesty to remember.
Today I received a custom batch of fried chicken-picked mushrooms in oil — a thick gift from the 3,300-metre highlands of Shangri-La. One spoonful is all "essential umami" for a lazy cook like me. Into the yard, snap off a newly grown eggplant; a small handful of noodles is the perfect sponge for that simplicity. I'll pair it with a Yunnan single-origin arabica; the height must at least match. To have exactly what you need, just enough — what great fortune.
Homegrown green peppers, just coming into their own; fried in chicken oil, sweet. This morning's allocation goes to an espresso — drink it, then a sip of water, also sweet.
Rain, sudden then drizzly. Through the window I watch the agastache flowers in the rain — the plant flattened by the typhoon is still alive, stubbornly. This is the season of the year when plants burst with delight. The crape myrtle is in full bloom, the roses have exploded with seven or eight buds.
Cucumber clings to the confederate jasmine trellis to grow; from the ballet flirtation it mimics, it's been well nourished by rain. I have no time to mind it; I have to get on with autumn sowing. This woman farmer has finally resolved today to cut the grass and is preparing to learn how to make grass-fermented enzyme fertiliser.
A back soaked in sweat and rain. After all the labour, I just want to eat. I harvested a batch of baby bok choy and cucumbers, and made a simple lunch with chicken broth.
Our Jiangnan figs never grow as stunning as the Yunnan figs I eat; waiting becomes a form of humble devotion. Thankfully, my classic fig and herb muffin has returned — impossible to achieve without naturally flowing, split-open, sweet figs.
Because the fruit at home was bursting, I made peach jam last night and fig jam today. Suddenly I realised how critical ripeness is to food. If you can eat it fresh, why turn it into jam?
You have to catch that exact moment when it's so ripe it's on the verge of turning mushy — that's the only time the heavens afford you the right. At that point, the red skin just starts melting away, and I'm entitled to add only the merest sugar, and the grassy tannins I wanted to remove just naturally fade. Only then is that surprised exclamation "This is what jam is meant to be!" born.
After days of heavy rain, the fig leaves at home, originally sun-scorched and bare, have delightfully grown back, full. Everything in its time.
The water hyacinth at home bloomed, only for me to be told it's pig feed. A complicated feeling. My feeling is simple: pig feed it is, then...
This mother-in-law of a woman farmer's afternoon snack today is olive oil stir-fried mixed greens. Having finally snatched some rest at home, the moment I arrived I went straight to yard work and then — got hungry.
Found yet another new cucumber quietly waiting for me; didn't feel like eating it. Spearmint died and came back to life again; didn't feel like eating it.
If I don't finish this batch of baby bok choy now, it'll go old. Eat, then. Not to mention the shepherd's purse and amaranth have popped up from who-knows-where... So half-reluctantly, half-willingly, I'm slimming down.
Spent the whole morning using tweezers to pick off ladybird beetle larvae, one by one, because I really don't want to use any chemicals. This woman farmer is slowly starting to understand "biodynamics." Growing plants can drive a person crazy — you really start to believe that the mood of the birds, the smell of the soil, the changes in the moon's phases, all of it interacts and acts upon my plants. Right now, my mental state is approaching that of a sorceress.
As usual, I got up early to harvest, and this time made a "bubble pour-over" to reward myself, drenched in sweat.
Fought a snail for a little cucumber; when I harvested it, it had already been "gnawed" a tiny bit. But I don't mind at all. I'd rather spend time making a tomato-flavoured soft cheese bun, and then quietly wait for the tomatoes to ripen in the yard.
Rain pounds like a waterfall; my heart is still water. A typhoon day, going nowhere — luckily coffee and eggs are still abundant. A blend of olive oil and flaxseed oil, to pan-fry some homegrown little green peppers as a side dish. This sweetness is precious.
Praise isn't enough — I want to fawn over autumn, after all now is the season for sowing new seeds. They say you should sing to your plants; it's a pity I don't have a good voice. I can only try flattering the bok choy into thinking it's rapeseed flowers. The bok choy at home has sprouted, and doing well — a shame I sowed them too densely. If this goes on they'll definitely turn yellow. I drank two flat whites back to back, and following the advice of my landscape architecture PhD friend, used the coffee grounds as nitrogen fertiliser — doing all I can to save them, hoping it's in time.
Autumn brings dryness. This morning I watered the ornamental pomegranate in the yard and snipped a few mustard greens, stir-frying them in olive oil. That fresh, heart-clearing bitterness is so comforting.
In the yard, purple shiso runs riot. The eggplant flowers have also been seduced, casting flirtatious glances downwards, quietly preparing to bear new life in autumn. Anyway, today everything smells wonderful.
Hurrying to review a cut, but eating slowly. The yard's mixed green salad and wild ginkgo nuts also need time to grow slowly.
Anyone with sharp eyes can see it's all just mixed greens, but I love it. The seedbox plant, which I'd once studied meticulously, was actually brought to my home by birds. It's the season; I'm waiting for it to open its little yellow flowers. This year's agastache flowers are blooming vigorously; the tender petals of lotus-root purple, when put in coffee, suit me better than ordinary spiced Turkish coffee — fragrant without being cloying. Speaking of which, the purple shiso flowers at home have also formed nice buds; they'll basically be in full bloom in half a month. What worries me most is the shepherd's purse — not growing, waiting for the spring breeze, I suppose. Even if I breathe hot air on it, it won't be rushed. The flower language of the seedbox explains it perfectly: "The blue bird brings no word beyond the clouds; the lilac knots in vain in the melancholy rain."
Purple shiso flowers are blooming, like little purple stars twinkling. Now that gives me one more dish at home: stir-fried shrimp with peas, the kind scattered with purple shiso flowers.
A week has passed, and my wild yard has all sorts of purple. Agastache flowers have faded and bloomed again; yet this woman farmer still hasn't had time to paint the purple nail polish she peeled off.
A day of "idle busyness" — writing, planting vegetables, home parfumage.
Autumn-sown seeds are sprouting; the woman farmer foresees promising growth. But Sichuan fire onions never grow tall at my house, because they're far too useful.
I haven't stepped out for three days, staying home with the fire onions and stone olives I brought from the market on Xinjie Street in Yibin, Sichuan. The stone olive is planted next to my dendrobium, same family — to give them a companion. Now they've both taken.
This year's second season of little eggplants is also growing up in the autumn rain. I plan to give them a light pan-fry for lunch. Just in time, the "Yuanhong broad bean paste" has arrived. Old Chengdu calls it qingyou douban, and it has to be steeped in raw rapeseed oil. A generous spoonful added to my little eggplants — mildly spicy with a fresh sweetness coming through.
In the season of pomegranates, making a simple lunch; I'm picking purple shiso flowers to flavour a steamed egg custard with shrimp.
I thought autumn, like the balding purple shiso flowers, had quietly withdrawn its banners and drums. Who knew the agastache flowers, from late summer until now, crop after crop, have never ceased blooming?
And my broccoli, purple kohlrabi, oysterleaf... are also sprouting unseasonably. Winter holds no real deterrent power over the truth of vigorous life.
In autumn, a little pink rose has quietly appeared at home, with touches of red. The ten-herb fragrance plant is in its season of mad growth; add a tiny bit of garlic and a lot, a lot of XO sauce, and you can rename it "a hundred-herb fragrance."
In the time it took to drink one cup of coffee, I polished off all the eggplants in the yard, and on top of that, quickly baked a walnut muffin.
🍜 Before a business trip, I made myself a bowl of tom yum soup noodles. Mixed greens from the yard, with local shrimp and eggs, plus a bit of angel hair pasta, brought to a boil — a bowl of pure umami.
In the morning I made an americano with Geisha SOE, sitting in the yard under the sun, eating a crisp-tender macaron. Happiness. This is the season when the leaves of confederate jasmine, the berries of nandina, and the stems of red twig dogwood all gradually turn red. And the season when my autumn-sown winter-hardy seeds sprout tiny green shoots.
Three days of staying home writing has settled my body and mind. The only tangled thoughts are trivial worries that blow past like dust in the autumn wind. This morning I suddenly craved a double espresso, but worried about my stomach, so I just made a flat white. Pair it with scrambled? But I didn't want milk, so I used freshly ground raw soy milk instead of the usual light cream, and made a Chinese-style scrambled egg. The mixed greens in the yard have grown tall again; my stir-frying speed can hardly keep up...
Early winter drizzle. Flowers like little purple goldfish have bloomed. That's the apple mint (Six Giant Nepeta) the birds brought — it's grown up.
Light snow, staying home writing, barefoot following the light. Wherever there are imperfections, that's where warmth shines in. Ugly vegetables and young eggplants are all sweet.
Winter in Hangzhou brings fierce winds that sweep through, carrying the yellow-green of autumn as they howl. I shiver like a ginkgo leaf. Looking at the bogweed and creeping wire vine in the yard, I feel at ease. With their protection, even when the cold wind blows, the soil stays moist and warm underneath.
My newly planted Chaoshan blood-green vegetable — I hope it grows new leaves quickly; once eaten, the timing might have to be measured down to the millisecond.
Look at the new lush patch of tender greens growing in my wild vegetable yard. Even with grain stored at home, my heart still panics! From now on, every meal — you give me vegetable rice soup, plain rice, fried rice, I'm more than happy. Frost-touched mixed greens, with a sprinkle of salt, each bite crisp and sweet — this is dessert. Danger ahead; I feel like I'm going to gain weight...
Late-night meeting with a country seven time zones away — I'm afraid only a midnight snack can help. Homegrown coriander came in a bumper harvest; it really keeps you awake.
In this bleak winter, every tiny yield from the wild yard becomes more and more precious in my heart. Tonight's seafood cream pasta — I added a Spanish-style barbecue sauce, with onion and apple; in flavour profile it matches my apple mint so well. The leaves softened tenderly into the creamy soup; adding a bit of gin lifted the fishiness and enhanced the fragrance.
This season, the coriander babies in the yard are sweet, smoothly crossing over from spice to star ingredient, delicious without being the least bit excessive.
Idling is also a very important matter. Before Christmas, pour a glass of Rosa wine that can pretend to be Christmas wine, then listen through all the tracks from the Green Book soundtrack in one go. As a result, the glass of wine wasn't even half finished, but the leftover "drinking snacks" in the fridge were eaten up. Too salty. I wanted something sweet before I started writing. This year I want to make a different apple pie, flavoured with "apple mint." If the birds hadn't brought the seeds in autumn, I might never have known there's a mint in the world that took its name from a fruit. Downy, creeping close to the ground, and with a very unique fragrance — not literally apple-scented, but the aroma of traditional apple pie, with cinnamon caramel sweetness, even a touch of honey. Utterly wondrous. The photos and videos of apple mint on Baidu are all wrong; that's spearmint. Alright, this ritual of idling complete, I can finally start writing.
On New Year's Eve I still rushed home without stopping. My driver joked: people cross the New Year; you cross provincial borders. I just wanted to go home, though I'm not sure what I was longing for.
The wild yard is my top priority for protection. I was afraid that in the deep winter, watering too much would freeze and harm my darlings, so I turned off the automatic irrigation for a month. As a result the rosemary turned a dusky crimson, like dying roses in the desert; so heartbroken, I watered in a panic!
But the baby bok choy at home, on the other hand, grew absurdly robust — I had the choked laughter of having raised a pet piglet into a giant hog. The fire onions brought from the plateau last year, truly unafraid of cold or drought, are thriving beyond anything...
One month, and all that was tender has become twilight hues. I've replaced the flowers at home with red leaves from the yard. The line between nature and artifice is to me the most fascinating; the flower vessels and coffee gear must match too. Work was packed from last night to this morning... When I drink coffee, at least my eyes should get a moment to relax.
The bok choy at my house has grown too old and coarse. This woman farmer can't bear to throw them out, so they can only be made into pickles; the process was taught by fermentation expert Dr. Jinsu. Every year at this time, the woman farmer struggles. As usual, the winter-suffering plants — cannas, monstera — a batch will die off. This year the newly arrived heartleaf fig and fiddle leaf fig have also started to yellow. The Vietnamese leaf-flower drops its leaves with a crackle; the fern droops its long hair.
But, I turned over the yard and found, without knowing when, that radishes, shepherd's purse, rapeseed flowers... have all quietly grown. After farm work, I'm going to eat richly! Nourish myself into a warm, plump, and chubby state, just like the not-so-distant spring. Everything will warm up again.
The small jar of pickled greens — grown and pickled by myself — has finally, after 72 hours of fermentation, met the delicate, fatty silver pomfret.
The most precious thing about the New Year's Eve dinner is the spring rolls wrapped around freshly grown shepherd's purse from the yard, eaten together with family.
The bok choy at home has filled out again. Worrying. Is hot pot a faster way to finish it off?
If you could plant, what vegetables would you want?
"They asked what age this was, unaware there had ever been Han, let alone Wei or Jin."
— Tao Yuanming, "Peach Blossom Spring"
Food Bless You!
Advisor, China International Gastronomy Expo
Producer, "The Table of the Gods"
