A flower that blooms straight from a bare branch, in the coldest days of winter, sounds like a dream. And yet, this reality has unfurled all around us in its late winter splendor here in Hangzhou.
Plum blossoms always cast a spell on me, no matter how many times I’ve witnessed their winter miracle. It’s not just the beauty of their blooms, which perk up the drab winter landscapes with their stunning colors, especially magenta and carnation pink. It’s also the way they perfume the air with their sweet, delicate fragrance that soothes your weary soul with the promise that, soon, warmer days will come.
In China, people talk of plum blossom spirit. If a flower can weather the winter cold, then surely we can endure hardship — and find ways to thrive.
At a time when we all long for winter to end, the plum blossom emerges as a much-needed seasonal friend.
These days, as I walk outside to enjoy the plum blossoms, I will remember that hope blooms, even in winter — and that some of the most beautiful things in life are willing to brave the cold.
Sparks fly when a young woman with a Ph.D. in literature has a chance encounter on the Beijing subway with a Beijing migrant who dreams of becoming an actor.
What reads like a romance novel blurb is actually reality for American Tammy Treichel, the author of the new memoir “Hutong Heartthrobs.”
Set primarily in one of Beijing’s iconic residences, the book charts the course of her unlikely romance as well as her beau’s rise from obscurity to becoming a stand-in for Jackie Chan. Anyone in a cross-cultural relationship, especially with someone Chinese, will relate to the many differences, cultural and otherwise, that emerge between the couple throughout the narrative. It also provides a fascinating inside look into breaking into the competitive world of acting in Beijing and what it takes to survive.
It’s my pleasure to introduce you to “Hutong Heartthrobs” through this interview with Tammy. Here’s Tammy’s bio from Goodreads:
Tammy (Tamara) Arehart Treichel is an American with a passion for two things: China and writing. After graduating with an award-winning PhD in English on Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, she worked as a freelancer for various China-related publications. Born in Washington DC, she found a second lease on life and true love in China, where she has lived for over a decade and is working as an English editor at a local news agency in Beijing. Tammy greatly enjoys exploring all things China with her Chinese man, a former security guard-turned-actor named Jackie. They live in an old hutong (alleyway) house in an historic part of Beijing together with three rescue cats and numerous house lizards.
You can buy “Hutong Heartthrobs” online — your purchases help support this blog!
What inspired you to write this book?
Writing is in my blood I suppose, I have been writing and creating characters since I was a child (short stories, mawkish poetry, plays, for fun). My mother is a science writer and we enjoy “talking shop.” I like to tell people that my mother focuses “on the human brain” in her books and articles, whereas I personally am more interested in the “complexities of the human heart.” I suppose we complement each other well!
I did some research and was unable to find directly competitive titles to what would eventually become my memoir, “Hutong Heartthrobs.” When I approached my publisher, Graham Earnshaw, he said he thought the idea of a book that encompasses a Chinese and “Western” point of view, namely that of my Chinese husband Jackie and myself, an American woman, in the framework of a love story could be of value to readers.
How did your husband feel about being spotlighted in your memoir?
Oh, he loves the spotlight! After all, he works in the film industry. So he wasn’t concerned about being one of the main focuses of my book. Of course, I ran everything by him first as best as I could and double-checked facts before submitting my manuscript. I conducted interviews with him about his life story for “Hutong Heartthrobs“; he was dictating to me at the computer from his notes while I typed down his answers in Chinese characters (we communicate in Chinese). I then translated and had a third party (Chinese native speaker who was highly proficient in English) ensure that my translations were correct.
As highlighted in the title of your book, you and your husband grow to love one another primarily while residing in a hutong. What did you enjoy writing about most regarding life in your hutong home?
I enjoyed writing about the ambience of our old, musty hutong house and all the quirks that came with it (electricity outages, house lizards, neighborhood cats wooing each other on the hutong house roof, the old poplar tree)…. it gave me an opportunity to give my story a bit of a poetic touch, and at times a comedic one when I wrote about what was going wrong again with the house. A lot of the drama involving the hutong house involves my reactions to its quirks; it seems at times to take on a life of its own (cf. Poe’s short story “The Fall of the House of Usher” where the house collapses…).
Throughout your memoir, you highlight some of the cultural differences that emerged in your relationship, in very relatable moments. Could you share with us one of your favorites?
I think in retrospect one of the funniest moments was when our night bus was “hijacked” on a Beijing highway by an elderly lady who was angry that she had missed her stop. The people involved (bus driver, security guard, my Chinese husband Jackie and myself) all reacted in different ways. Jackie reacted in a conflict-averse manner, which is typical for him, whereas I was more impatient and confrontational. He also said what he would have done to solve the problem if he had been the bus driver, and his answer pleasantly surprised me and opened up my eyes to different ways of solving the problems that life throws at us. It was, and is, refreshing to learn from him and his take on things. I wouldn’t necessarily say his is always “the Chinese point of view,” but the culture in which we are raised definitely informs our actions and reactions.
What do you hope readers come away with after reading your memoir?
I believe that Western readers will be able to learn more about life in China, both its complexities and rewards from an expat’s point of view, also about the joys and challenges of being in a cross-cultural relationship. For Chinese readers, they might be curious about how a “foreigner” regards their country and tackles life there. And of course, our love story might be a charming read for those who are romantics at heart, as I am. I initially believed that the majority of my readers would be women, but I was surprised at how many men have said they found “Hutong Heartthrobs” an entertaining read as well.
The pure pink resilience of the lotus blooms dazzled us on our late summer walks this year in Hangzhou, including by the city’s renowned West Lake.
Generations of Chinese have admired the lotus as a symbol of purity, as it emerges from the mud underwater without stain. I admire the shades of pink — from light rose to a deep flamingo — in these delicate flowers, which shine even brighter under the intense late summer sunshine, and offer some aesthetic consolation for those brave enough to endure the heat and humidity to gaze upon their beauty.
As summer draws to a close, I’m sharing a few of my favorite photos from strolls beside Hangzhou’s West Lake.
This corner of the West Lake bristles with lotus plants and their blossoms, growing upright toward the brilliant sun beside a pavillion.Up close, the lotus blossom appears as delicate as a porcelain tea cup.I couldn’t believe how tall the lotus blossoms were — some almost rivaled my height!Nature painted an almost flawless landscape that afternoon at the West Lake.The lotus plants and blossoms blanketed entire corners of the lake, with such lovely scenes to savor for both Jun and myself.
What are your favorite flowers of the summer? Where do you go to enjoy them?
COVID used to be more of a stranger in China. The virus wasn’t generally lurking next door. We didn’t worry about getting infected when we dined out or ran errands at the bank or visited a tourist spot.
But in early December, China eased restrictions to open up, and soon the virus ripped through my workplace, faster than I ever imagined.
Of the 10 people in my office, I’m one of three who didn’t get COVID. It’s a miracle, as the virus infected every person in the cubicles next to me. Some estimated 80% of the employees at work caught the COVID virus; the same may hold true for the overall population of Hangzhou.
Witnessing the rapid pace of transmission in the office stunned me. It began with a manager, whose mother-in-law was running a high fever. Then others retreated home — many as close contacts who soon came down with the virus. And then the two colleagues who sat directly beside me reported sudden fevers, which sparked fears that I was next. On that day I rushed to get free medicine and antigen tests from my employer, who was rationing Ibuprofen (only two pills per person). Outside the workplace things were worse, from hucksters hawking meds at a premium, to a shortage of antigen tests at pharmacies.
Thankfully, I dodged COVID then, but would still brace for the threat of more cases in the office, including two other people beside me who were infected. By then I was wearing N95 masks, and altering my work routines, such as having breakfast and lunch at home instead of in the office.
Our community grocery group buying outlet soon shuttered — the neighbor in charge caught COVID. I flipped open the apps for other outlets, and couldn’t get groceries on any of the major platforms. One said delivery slots would open at 6 am, which would mean rolling out of bed at dawn to battle with hordes of desperate netizens — and no guarantees of any deliveries. Oranges, lemons and pomelos were going for two or three times the usual prices, inflated after an onslaught of panic purchasing. Jun and I took stock of our pantry and produce, including the veggies and fruits from a recent visit to his parents’ rural home, and determined we could survive for a while without buying much. For the garlic, ginger and onions I needed, we bought online from a lackluster rural supermarket, which charged more than usual and slipped us a partially rotten piece of produce. We cooked a lot of fried rice, a lot of garlic and olive oil noodles, and, thanks to an enormous pumpkin from my mother-in-law, a few pumpkin curries.
Soon the emptied streets and cubicles lent an eerie post-apocalyptic vibe to the world around. I stopped bothering with the GPS to check on traffic because there were almost no cars on the road and no more rush hours. One day, I was the only person working in the office for a morning; outside the windows, I rarely glimpsed anyone wandering the grounds. The absence of people, of vehicles, brought to mind a new twist on the title of that Simon & Garfunkel classic — that I was nearly “the only living girl in Hangzhou”.
The worst week, ironically, led up to Christmas. It was hard to embrace seasonal cheer while wearing an N95 mask that pinched my ears and getting tested daily to confirm I wasn’t positive. When I streamed holiday music, I preferred the bitter cold and austere landscapes of “In the Bleak Midwinter” to the discordant warmth and exuberance of “Wonderful Christmastime”.
Following Christmas, my workplace scrapped its free PCR testing services, in the abrupt way that real Christmas trees get tossed to the curb just after the holiday. A colleague sick with COVID hurt his back that week, but couldn’t get an ambulance to take him to the hospital due to a shortage of beds. I doubled down on my protective measures, which meant continued use of N95 masks, a lot of hand washing, and little contact with people.
In the weeks to come, I started seeing more masked people on the streets, more cars on the road, and a growing number of colleagues reappearing at work. Soon groceries could be bought on major online platforms throughout the day, without an early rise. A local community center promised Ibuprofen to residents free of charge — too late for most, in all likelihood. And my employer urged anyone still negative to get vaccinated as soon as possible.
So, I received a booster shot, together with Jun, in a community vaccination site with a skeleton crew and nobody else waiting. The staff at the entrance reminded us that you can’t get a shot if you’ve just had COVID. “You’ll have to wait six months.” The COVID surge had, among other things, cleared the queue for vaccination.
Now, as the two of us still remain negative in China, we’re the strangers in this post-pandemic world — the few who haven’t gotten COVID.
According to stories in the media, we’ve passed the peak of infections here, though we may have to brace for more waves ahead, including during and after Chinese New Year. But if this pandemic has taught us anything in the past few years, nothing is certain with COVID. So we will continue to keep calm, carry on and wear N95 masks, while hoping for better times.
I listened to the dialogue, in Chinese, between my husband Jun and the hairdresser trimming my chestnut brown tresses. But even though I was fluent in Mandarin and could easily have responded to every question, I remained silent, resting in my chair while wearing a shy smile.
It was easy to appear abashed because I genuinely felt that way, wondering, What if they all really knew the truth? And every now and then Jun and I swapped knowing grins, in recognition of the success of our “performance” that very evening.
Once again, we played “foreigner and translator” for a captive audience — and nailed it.
“Foreigner and translator” are the roles my husband and I adopt for certain public situations in China, where I pretend to be just another outsider who can’t speak Chinese, and my husband the local providing language assistance.
While it might seem strange to engage in this subterfuge in a public place, like a hair salon, it has its benefits.
First of all, if people know we’re a couple, it immediately piques their curiosity, because they probably never saw a Western woman married to a Chinese man before. The surprise triggers a cascade of questions, including some that get intrusive — and which we’d rather avoid. “Foreigner and translator” helps us to sidestep a lot of awkwardness.
Plus, sometimes I just want to unwind — to savor the scalp massage and stylist’s work — instead of getting grilled about my life. So with Jun as “translator” I can just relax and be the “foreigner” enjoying the moment.
In the end, the haircut turned out perfect — one of the best I’ve had in years.
Before we walked out the door of the salon, I couldn’t help saying “Xie xie” — thank you — in Chinese, which once again sparked awe from our small audience, remarking how “good” my Chinese was.
Ah, if only you knew, I thought. If only you knew.
Sabrina, a German woman with a Chinese husband who has lived in China for eight years, appeared on a TV special on China Central Television Channel 4 to mark the Mid-Autumn Festival. In the segment, which lasts 3 minutes and 30 seconds, she makes a traditional lantern and then showcases her handiwork during an evening walk in a park, all while speaking Mandarin.
I’ve often heard that life is what happens when you’re making plans. Never have we had a more salient reminder of that reality than the COVID-19 pandemic, which has ravaged not only our lives but also our best of plans.
For American Apryl Reagan, a singer and actress in Beijing, and Ma Yinliang, that meant facing a wedding in Beijing where, due to the pandemic, Apryl’s family could not attend in person. So she decided to add a little American flair to the special day by inviting some Americans she didn’t know to join in the ceremony, according to a recent report on the Beijinger:
When asked about her decision to invite strangers, Reagan says that the choice was simple.
“Of course, a wedding is a great place to celebrate our love, but it’s also just a great place to celebrate! And judging by the amount of energy these Americans brought to our group chat, they were guaranteed to make it a party,” explains Reagan. “I also really wanted to give my new Chinese family this opportunity to see how Americans party! But even more than that, sometimes I am afraid they see me as ‘America.’ Since they have never met another American, I worry that anything I do will be seen as what ‘all Americans do.’ So, I also wanted them to be able to have a chance to be around Americans other than me, meanwhile experiencing first-hand some of the cultural differences between an American wedding and a Chinese wedding.”
Americans filled two tables at the Beijing venue — the Palace International Hotel — with many of them meeting the newlyweds for the first time as they went around to personally thank all of the attendees.
The couple’s romance amid the pandemic actually lifted the hearts of others, as the Beijinger article noted:
Despite the year’s Covid fears and border closures, however, Ma and Reagan kept their hearts open to love. At the ceremony, the maid of honor noted in her remarks that their whirlwind romance inspired many friends present who hoped to one day build a partnership on the same foundation of care and respect.
You can read the full piece and peruse the lively photos from the evening — which included dancing to the Macarena! — at the Beijinger.
An American actually asked me this very question years ago when I confessed my plans to move back to the Middle Kingdom. It didn’t matter how many good reasons I gave her – she stared at me with incredulity, as if I had just proposed rocketing straight to Mars and not a country on this very planet.
Of course, she’s not the only one guilty of being down on China. “Bad China Days” are a phenomenon for every expat who lives here, even me. In the worst moments, it can be easy to forget why we’re here or even why we love this place so much, warts and all.
But the truth is, there are actually some pretty incredible things about living in China. Things that, on balance, are better than America. Here are 7 of my favorites:
#1: Doing your entire grocery shopping online, with fast home delivery and no shipping charges
When I was back in America last year, I happened to tell my uncle about how I was doing my grocery shopping in China online, courtesy of Taobao’s Tmall online supermarket. “They deliver straight to your door the next day. You can order almost anything from them – even fresh fruits and vegetables.”
He was astonished, as if I was speaking of some magical Shangri-La of online shopping.
No, I didn’t need to be a VIP. And no, I hadn’t joined their paid premium club. All I had to do was order at least 88 RMB (~$13) worth of groceries for free one-day shipping.
Not even Amazon Prime or Walmart (which both offer two-day shipping in the US) can beat that.
And did I mention the delivery guys for Taobao’s Tmall always place the boxes inside our apartment (never leaving them tossed outside the door) and offer to take the garbage out too, for no extra charge?
#2: You don’t need to own a car to conveniently get around
As much as I love the freedom to drive around, sometimes you’d like to leave the driving to someone else.
But in America, outside the biggest cities, you don’t have a lot of options. Want to get around town without a car? Good luck catching the public bus with its limited hours and stops. Want to travel to another city or across the country? If you’re not flying, the only options are those grimy Greyhound buses (which make lots of stops at often dodgy stations) or Amtrak trains (which, apart from the East Coast, are really inconvenient and slow).
In China, you always have plenty of public transport options everywhere you go – even smaller cities. Public buses are frequent and convenient, and so are long distance buses too. High-speed trains can zoom you across most of China and they always leave on time (unlike flights). Bicycles you can rent with your smartphone have popped up all over major cities in China too (including Hangzhou), as well as docked bicycles you can rent out with your bus pass.
It’s gotten to the point that, when I want to visit Hangzhou’s legendary West Lake, it’s usually easier (and more fun) to bicycle or just take the bus.
#3: Authentic Chinese food
I know this is so obvious you must be wondering, why would she even bother pointing it out? Simple – if you are an aficionado of Chinese cuisine, as I am, you feel a sense of deprivation whenever you’re away from authentic food for too long.
When my husband and I used to live in America, I can’t tell you how many times we would reminisce about all of our favorite Chinese dishes that we just couldn’t find in America. Like that secret-recipe smoked tofu from Jun’s hometown, or the slender Asian eggplant deliciously stir-fried with green peppers, or even Jun’s mother’s homemade fried flatbread (it’s like Chinese pizza…mmmmm). You can’t walk up to your American “Panda Express” and find this kind of stuff among the deep fried “General Tso’s Chicken” (a dish that doesn’t even exist in China) and fortune cookies.
Even when we attempt to recreate authentic dishes from China, it never tastes the same. In America, we don’t have the fragrant rapeseed oil that my Chinese mother-in-law harvests and cold-presses herself. The soy sauce is different, too. And good luck trying to find those local ingredients like fresh bamboo shoots, winter melon, and red bean paste. (Even when we do find them, they’re often not fresh enough to justify the purchase.)
So if you’re as addicted to authentic Chinese food as I am, why live anywhere else but the country that does it best?
#4: More authentic food from other Asian countries
Whenever I visit my family back in the US, you can guarantee we’ll be going out for Thai food at least once. There’s a wonderful little spot right up the street from my parents’ home, where a dinner of pad thai and fragrant green curries makes for one delicious meal.
But as much as I love the food, I have to say it – it’s not that authentic.
I should I know. My husband and I visited Thailand years ago, where the succulent red, green, yellow and Massaman curries we had were as much of an attraction as the temples, ancient ruins, and azure blue shores. The food in Thailand is so incredible you could tell people you were traveling there just for the dining experience and they would believe it.
While I can’t travel to Thailand every time a curry craving strikes, living in China means I have the next best thing – authentic Thai restaurants. Here in Hangzhou, there’s nothing better than an evening at Sawasdee in the five-star Wyndham Hotel. You can enjoy an elegant and surprisingly affordable night out of delectable Thai curries, transporting you right back to Bangkok and the beaches.
#5: You can pay by mobile phone almost anywhere
In the US, a mobile wallet is still a dream for most consumers. And every time I’m back in America, I still have to lug around my credit cards.
But here in China, we pay almost exclusively by phone almost everywhere we go – from shopping at Wal-Mart to buying clothes at our favorite clothing retailers to going to out to eat to even getting our hair cut. It’s so ubiquitous that my husband once ran into a street peddler selling rice cakes who could offer pay by mobile phone.
I love the freedom and convenience – just grab your mobile phone and shop!
By bjornfalkevik – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=50948551
#6: It’s easy to get everyday things repaired and improved
In the community where we live, there’s a guy who goes around singing out his knife-sharpening services. For the equivalent of a few US dollars this guy can magically transform your lackluster kitchen knives, making them slice and dice like new.
There’s also a guy who sits around the gate offering to repair umbrellas, and someone else out there who repairs bicycles. Around the fresh market, there’s even someone who repairs your shoes.
In America, it’s tough to find someone who offers these simple – but very useful – repair and improvement services. If you want sharper knives, you probably have to buy a grinding tool (which, trust me, won’t do nearly the job this guy did with our knives). There’s no such thing as umbrella repair over there. And if you want someone to fix your bicycle or your shoes, you’ll have to venture out to a professional store for that (assuming such a store even exists in your town).
When I was in the hospital last year, they offered me some traditional Chinese medical treatments.
#7: Traditional Chinese medicine is always available and can be affordable
In America, traditional Chinese medicine providers are out there. But good luck finding a convenient one – or even someone affordable who accepts your insurance.
Not here in China, where you’ll find traditional Chinese medicine options at the average hospital or even your local pharmacy. I’ve often found them to be reasonably priced, by and large. And if you have insurance, traditional Chinese medicine is usually covered by the plan. How great is that?
While I’m married without children in China, many foreigners — like American Charlotte, a freelance writer in small town China who blogs at Chinese Potpourri — have chosen to start a family here. (Longtime readers might remember Charlotte from her unforgettable love story titled “I Want To Be Your Slave For The Rest of My Life”.) But as Charlotte has learned, having kids in China with your Chinese spouse involves a lot more than just “basics like a starry night themed nursery versus a jungle one.”
Would you like to share your wisdom with the readers of Speaking of China through a personal guest post? Check out the submit a post page to learn more about how to have your writing featured here.
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(Photo by Andre Laubner via Flickr.com)
Most Chinese couples want a child, if only to make their parents happy. My husband was no exception, though he was in more of a hurry than I was due to his old-by-Chinese-standards age of 32 at the time of our marriage. And he did truly want kids. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that our son was born just four days after we celebrated our first anniversary.
One thing I didn’t anticipate is all of the decisions that we’d have to make. I’m not talking basics like a starry night themed nursery versus a jungle one. That’s ridiculous, Chinese typically co-sleep with the baby. Nor am I talking about the never ending debate of breast feeding versus formula (news of the formula scandal broke when my son was less than a week old and I was glad that I’d chosen to breastfeed; for those who choose formula, please do due diligence and find a reputable brand).
No, these questions are a bit more serious than that. Once you and your Chinese husband decide to start a family, a few more things need to be discussed. In a perfect world, you’d sort out all these questions as you dated. In reality, we rarely get past the decision to have or not have children before we say “I do.” Here are six questions that are worthy of some serious talk time as you ponder the joys and challenges of parenthood:
1. Which maternity and post-partum customs will you follow?
This goes from quitting your job and not having sex once you know you’re pregnant (first and third trimesters are a “no-no” when it comes to being intimate) to wearing a radiation smock for the duration of the pregnancy and eating dumplings made from insects your mother-in-law picked out of a pile of manure from a farmer’s barnyard to improve your milk production. Nope, not kidding on that. Luckily it was my sister-in-law that got those delicacies; I’m quite the milk producer.
Sometimes it pays to insist on your traditions. But sometimes you need to know when to give in to win. I’ve finally figured out that sometimes I just have to humor my Chinese family. They don’t have as much knowledge about the world as I do and just aren’t capable of understanding some things. Like the fact that rollerskating did not cause my miscarriage. Really, they simply don’t get it. I also assured them that I will not blame them for any ailments I have in old age. Once I came to the realization that I can’t change what my mother-in-law knows and understands, life became easier.
2. Which nationality will the kids be?
I attended school with several military kids and they’d talk about their dual citizenship because they were born abroad and when they were 18 they could choose which nationality to keep. This was interesting to me, and when I found out we were expecting, I looked up the requirements of getting that for our kids. The friendly person at the American embassy informed me that China doesn’t recognize dual citizenship and that all babies born here are Chinese citizens. So these half-Chinese kids are in a sort of nationality purgatory; they can get a passport from their own country but China will still want to count them as one of their own.
3. Who and how will you name the baby?
When I taught English at a local college I always did a unit on names with the students. It was a chance for me to learn more characters and for them to explain something pretty basic in English. I was surprised to find that most students were not named by their parents. Grandparents seemed to be the most common person giving names, but fortune tellers and aunts and uncles were also named as the origin of their moniker.
Once we decided that our kids would get American citizenship, we felt it best that they had a Western sounding name as their given name, their Chinese name makes up their middle and family names. So their names are something like this: Andrew Lingfeng Wang. It helps that both sides of the family can call the kids by names that they understand, even if their Chinese birth certificates are quite a mess due to their strange names. Fortunately, when it was time to get their citizenship changed at the embassy, I wrote up an explanation of why my son’s name is partially illegible and tried to offer some reasoning as to why my daughter’s names start with lowercase letters and have periods at the end of each one and their paperwork was processed easily.
4. How many kids will we have?
Coming from three-child families, my husband and I knew that we wanted more than one. But there are so many questions that come up when having a second child while the one-child policy is still in place for the majority of the population. The authorities consider my son Chinese, so we went to the other hospital (only two hospitals, of a dozen, in our town have maternity departments). Technically it’s illegal, though I was told that giving birth in a foreign hospital is never a problem for couples having subsequent children in big cities like Beijing and Shanghai. Actually, any child born in China is Chinese regardless of whether one or both parents are Chinese or not.
5. Will you return to work or will one parent stay home with the child?
I returned to work when my son was 34 days old. The basic laws for foreigners don’t allow for maternity leave like our Chinese counterparts, but I have heard of foreign women successfully negotiating maternity leave into their contracts if they’re planning to have kids. Chinese women get six months to three years, depending on their job and desire to take advantage of it. I wanted to stay home, but as in many situations, we needed both incomes. My in-laws are very traditional and watched my son on days that I worked.
Since my last job ended, I’m home everyday. I frequently hear comments about how I’m lazy and don’t work or don’t care about my family enough to go find a job. That seems to be the general consensus about women in my town who don’t work: they’re lazy, they don’t care or they’re rich. It’s true I won’t move to a bigger city to find foreigner-friendly job, but they don’t see that I’m up at the crack of dawn and burning the midnight oil freelancing.
6. Where will they go to school?
I can count on one hand the number of Western families, whom I know personally or through someone, whose kids go to Chinese schools. The easiest way to explain it is that Chinese schools produce robots who aim to be number-one. Everything, starting from first grade, is about being the top student. Parents go to school on weekends to clean to earn points for their kids which puts them in better standing with the teachers. Teachers teach to the top of the class and shame the parents of kids who are at the bottom, since their salary is in jeopardy if the class scores aren’t high enough.
I’m not implying that other types of education are flawless, and the Chinese style of education does have it’s good points, but kids in Chinese school have little free time. Every weekend and holiday is packed with extra homework to “make up” for the days away from school. Overseeing nightly homework is like a part-time job.
What other questions would you add to the list?
Charlotte — a wife, mom and freelance writer in small town China — blogs about her life at Chinese Potpourri.
—– Speaking of China is always on the lookout for outstanding guest posts! If you have something you’d like us to feature, visit the submit a post page for details — and then submit yours today.
As a child growing up in Cleveland, Ohio, USA, wild edible plants — especially those we foraged for ourselves — were never on the menu. Sure, we picked blackberries on late summer hikes and a few times I tried harvesting Staghorn sumac berries to make my own tea. But otherwise, the food on our dinner table came straight out of a supermarket.
So it’s hard to believe that, these days, wild edible plants comprise at least half or more of the stir-fried dishes that leave my mother-in-law’s kitchen here in China. Even stranger to me, I’ve actually helped forage for some of these wild edible plants. To think that something I harvested actually became dinner!
Here are three amazing wild edible plants here in Zhejiang, China that have enchanted me and my Chinese family this Spring.
Fiddlehead ferns
These tender fronds have become a Spring favorite in farmers markets in the US (and among foragers who know and love them). But out here in rural Zhejiang, people have gathered fiddlehead ferns in the mountains for generations. The local variety is the bracken fern and the tender shoots spring up over the mountains in our village.
Some claim bracken fern is carcinogenic, though there’s really no absolute evidence proving that the consumption of bracken fern fiddleheads will definitely give you cancer. When I posed this “do bracken fern fiddleheads cause cancer?” question to my mother-in-law, she dismissed it as unscientific and ridiculous. “People here have been eating this for generations, even grandma, and they’re not getting cancer.” Well, even if you disagree, remember that some popular foods (red meat and hot dogs, anyone?) are considered carcinogenic. Personally, I think I’ll take the risk.
We only pick the most tender fiddleheads growing in the mountains, with the fronds still curled up. These days, it’s not uncommon for my husband and me to return from a hike through the hills with a huge handful of fresh fiddleheads. I never thought a simple hike could yield so many delicious things! 😉
My mother-in-law washes them thoroughly in her kitchen and then blanches them. Some claim the process reduces the carcinogens in the fern, though my mother-in-law says this simply eliminates the unpleasant sour, “numbing” flavor of the fiddleheads. Finally, she chops them into matchstick-sized pieces and stir-fries them with fragrant garlic, ginger, pickled hot peppers, Shaoxing wine, and salt.
So tasty, you’ll forget all about the alleged cancer claims. Promise!
Spring bamboo shoots
Spring maosun found in the wild
The Chinese saying “like spring bamboo shoots after rain” (yǔhòuchūnsǔn, 雨后春笋) refers to how quickly things can suddenly happen or come up. And trust me, after the rains in late February and March settled over our region of Zhejiang, before I knew it spring bamboo shoots were sprouting all over the hills.
Notice the bamboo shoots sprouting up from the ground?
Right now, we’re seeing two varieties in the mountains. One is moso bamboo shoots or maosun (máosǔn, 毛笋); this is the largest variety of bamboo you usually see in the area. If you’ve ever watched any Chinese films that feature bamboo forests, chances are they’re moso bamboo. The other, well, I have no idea what it’s called in English — but it’s small and grows wild all across the mountains, so in the local language they call it “mountain bamboo shoots” or shansun (shānsǔn, 山笋). To harvest either variety, you simply dig up the shoots from the ground.
My mother-in-law, harvesting shansun from the mountains.
Whether maosun or shansun, you must first peel away the hard husk of the bamboo shoots to reveal the tender and edible portion.
Peeling the bamboo shoots to reveal the tender and edible part of the shoots.
These days, when it comes to wild bamboo, we’ve mainly seen wild maosun at the table. My mother-in-law usually prepares it one of two ways. For the vegetarians in the family (i.e., me!), she stir-fries it with lots of rapeseed oil, ginger, sugar, Shaoxing wine, soy sauce, pickled greens, and salt to taste.
Maosun with pickled greens
For the carnivores, she stews the maosun along with fatty pork, ginger, sugar, Shaoxing wine and salt to taste.
Maosun with pork
If you’ve only known bamboo through the lackluster canned versions sold in the West, all you need is one taste some wild bamboo shoots and I promise, you’ll never buy another can again!
Mugwort (Qingmingcao)
This past Saturday (April 5) we just celebrated Qingming Jie (qīngmíngjié, 清明节) or the Tomb-Sweeping Festival where people visit their ancestors graves and remember family and love ones who have passed away. And here in rural Zhejiang Province, there’s no wild plant more beloved during this holiday than the aromatic mugwort, also known as qingmingcao.
It’s hard to believe just how common this variety of mugwort is around here. In fact, it grows like a weed everywhere, even in the dusty pebble lanes that criss-cross the fields in the village. For nearly two weeks, I hiked these lanes, never realizing all that time that mugwort was right under my shoes!
My mother-in-law gathers wild mugwort from the hills well in advance of the holiday, because this lowly little wild green undergoes an extraordinary transformation in the kitchen. After cleaning it, she blanches it and then crushes and grinds it into a paste, infusing the kitchen with an aroma reminiscent of lavender. The paste then goes into a warm wok along with glutinous rice flour, creating a dark green dough.
That dough then gets kneaded and partitioned into small rounds, which after being flattened, become the wrappers for qingming turnovers (stuffed with chopped up bamboo shoots, tofu, and salted greens).
Making the qingming turnovers (flattening the rounds, then filling them with vegetable filling).
The finished qingming turnover up close.
For a sweet version, my mother-in-law adds sugar to taste to the green dough and then shapes the rounds in a small mold made especially for Qingming Jie.
Finally, she steams the turnovers and sweet rounds in her wok until they’re cooked through and turn a deeper shade of green.
Here’s the final product (one turnover, one sweet round) — slightly fragrant, sticky, and oh-so scrumptious. Remembering your ancestors never tasted so good!
Have you ever foraged for wild edible plants? What are your Spring favorites?
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