Kitchen of the World

Author: Ju Qing
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-08-01
Features: There are some people who buy perfume mainly not for the scent but for how beautiful the bottle is; carrying an apple with them is not to eat it but to admire its green color and smell its fragrance; and when it comes to roast duck, it's not for the skin but for the. I belong to this type of person. Buying half a roast duck, the crispy and shiny duck skin is generously given away, and even the complimentary scallion pancakes are left untouched. The recipient often wonders: Is there something I can help with? I give him a dirty look: Not eating, I'll feed it to the dogs. Then I casually buy seven small bok choy and head home, close the door, pull the curtains, and go straight to the kitchen. I take out that half roasted duck and examine it for a while—the crisp and tender skeleton, still attached to some aromatic duck meat. It's 11 a.m. Lunch is already running through my mind. I slowly tear off the meat, purely by hand, a bit aggressively, to the point where even Grandet would seem tame in comparison. I simmer the duck in water, and soon the broth turns snow-white. I take half of the broth and blanch the hearts of seven small bok choy, adding a bit of pepper. Duck vegetable soup, paired with freshly baked Danish pastries, is simply a match made in heaven. So the Danish pastries originally intended for afternoon tea become the main course for lunch. The buttery aroma of the Danish pastries escapes from the pastry box—now, even if I had committed seven deadly sins, I would have to have it. Lunch is eaten with only a seven out of ten appetite. That way, I'll have the energy to write for the rest of the afternoon. That novel needs to be finished. The male protagonist will eventually leave. The female protagonist has always been on her guard. Pain is inevitable, so let's handle it decisively. Duck soup runs through my mind. The female protagonist comes home and finally sees the suitcase gone—she knows he's left. She opens the fridge, takes out the leftover duck from yesterday, and slowly starts simmering the soup. The soup has a faint aroma, and she barely remembers the taste of the duck skin. At the end, she must smile—a self-mocking smile. When I write about her smiling, I myself smile. I wonder if readers will also agree with this joy of breaking free from emotions. As dusk approaches, I return to the kitchen. I simmer porridge with the remaining duck soup. To warm the stomach, I add several slices of ginger. When it's almost ready, I chop the leftover bok choy and duck meat together and add them in. Hey! Bok choy and duck meat porridge for dinner. With a little pickled mustard greens, this dinner is perfect. It has meat, vegetables, and a side dish. After dinner, I shouldn't write anymore. I'll just browse aimlessly online. I like shopping on websites where I can actually buy things. I don't buy, just look. Then I judge in my mind: What an idiot, selling it so expensive—there are cheaper places everywhere. If everyone is as smart as me, no one would buy his stuff. It's almost midnight. The person who ate the duck skin calls me: We all agree that you just can't grasp the essence of life. Are you upset? I don't know how to answer. I just pause for a long time and stammer: But, but. It's always been me smelling the apple while you eat it. I remember the joy of these two meals inspired by the half roasted duck, even giving me inspiration for the novel—this isn't missing the point of life, it's called we have