铁锅传奇 – The Legend of the Iron Pot

tiě guō chuán qí

Lǎo Zhōu tuìxiū hòu, bǎ chúfáng dāng chéngle tā de jiānghú. Nà bǎ wūhēi de chǎoguō shì tā zuì déyì de bīngqì, měitiān qīngchén, tā dōu yào yòng zhūyóu yǎng yī biàn guō, zhídào guō miàn fàn chū yōulán de guāng. Zhēnbǎn shàng chuánlái dǔdǔ de qiēcài shēng, jiézòu jūnyún de xiàng dǎgǔ. Línjū dōu shuō, Lǎo Zhōu jiā de chúfáng lǐ zhù zhe gè jiāngjūn.

Nà tiān bàngwǎn, Lǎo Zhōu fāxiàn péibàn tā èrshí nián de chǎoguō guōdǐ lièle yī dào xì fèng. Tā lèngle hěn jiǔ, zuìzhōng bǎ guō guà zài qiáng shàng, xiàng guà qǐ yī miàn tuìyì de jūnqí. Tā huàn shàngle xīn mǎi de zhēnglóng, zhú xiāng mí màn zài chúfáng lǐ. Kě dāng tā bǎ miàntuán fàng zài zhēnbǎn shàng, ná qǐ nà gēn mó de fā liàng de gǎnmiànzhàng shí, zǒng juéde shǎole shénme. Gǎnmiànzhàng zài zhēnbǎn shàng gǔndòng, fāchū kōngdòng de huíxiǎng. Lòusháo lāo qǐ jiǎozi, shuǐzhū dīluò de shēngyīn géwài cì’ěr.

Sān gè yuè hòu de yī tiān, Lǎo Zhōu de xiǎo sūnzi zài gélóu lǐ fān chū nà bǎ jiù chǎoguō. Guōdǐ de lièfèng shàng, bùzhī héshí pámǎnle tiěxiù, xiàng lǎorén liǎn shàng de zhòuwén. Lǎo Zhōu bǎ chǎoguō fàng zài xīn mǎi de diàncílú shàng, guōdǐ jìngrán wěnwěn de xī zhùle cílì. Tā xiào le, yòng lòusháo bǎ guō lǐ de shuǐ yǎo gān, yòu ná qǐ nà gēn gǎnmiànzhàng qiāo le qiāo guō yán, shēngyīn qīngcuì rú zhōng. Cóngcǐ, nà bǎ chǎoguō chéngle chúfáng lǐ de zhuāngshì pǐn, zhēnbǎn, zhēnglóng, lòusháo, gǎnmiànzhàng dōu wéi zài tā shēnbiān, xiàng yī qún cháoshèng de xìntú. Lǎo Zhōu shuō, yǒuxiē dōngxi, lièle fǎn’ér gèng wánzhěng.

The Legend of the Iron Pot

After retirement, Lao Zhou treated the kitchen as his martial world. That black iron wok was his proudest weapon. Every morning, he would season the wok with lard until the surface glowed with a blue sheen. On the cutting board came the steady thud of chopping, rhythmic as drumming. Neighbors all said that a general lived in Lao Zhou’s kitchen.

That evening, Lao Zhou discovered a thin crack in the bottom of the wok that had accompanied him for twenty years. He was stunned for a long time, and finally hung the wok on the wall, like hanging up a retired military flag. He replaced it with a newly purchased bamboo steamer, and the fragrance of bamboo filled the kitchen. But when he placed the dough on the cutting board and picked up the polished rolling pin, he always felt something was missing. The rolling pin rolled on the cutting board, making a hollow echo. The slotted spoon scooped up dumplings, and the sound of dripping water was especially harsh.

One day three months later, Lao Zhou’s little grandson found the old iron wok in the attic. On the crack at the bottom, rust had crept in, like wrinkles on an old man’s face. Lao Zhou placed the wok on a newly bought induction stove, and the bottom firmly stuck to the magnetic field. He smiled, used the slotted spoon to scoop out the water, and then tapped the rim of the wok with the rolling pin. The sound was clear as a bell. From then on, that iron wok became a decoration in the kitchen. The cutting board, bamboo steamer, slotted spoon, and rolling pin all gathered around it, like a group of pilgrims. Lao Zhou said, some things are more complete when broken.

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