Mianyang Mahayèzi

Mianyang Mahayèzi

　　Mahayèzi is a traditional festive snack from old Mianyang, made by mixing maltose and roasted rice. Its production process is similar to that of Xiaogan malt candy, but it lacks the refinement and fame of the latter.

　　As soon as the lunar December arrives, every household begins the preliminary preparations for making Mahayèzi. On one hand, they wash and keep the barley (wheat won’t do) at a warm temperature to sprout. The first step of sprouting is crucial, because in memory, there was once an instance where the sprouting of the barley was hindered, leading to unsuccessful Mahayèzi production that year. On the other hand, they steam glutinous rice until it dries into hard grains, then roast it into fried rice. Once both preparations are complete, the actual process of making Mahayèzi finally begins.

　　At the second crow of the rooster, family members start boiling the rice slurry (rice and malt) that was ground the night before. The vigorous fire quickly separates the malt water from the husks. At this point, they use a tofu sieve (two crossed sticks tied with a cloth bag) hanging from the house beam to begin filtering. As they shake it back and forth, the malt water gradually filters through. As dawn slowly breaks, the pure malt water that goes through a second boil in the pot starts to take effect, and soon a refreshing sugary aroma wafts into the air. The sweet smell draws adults and children alike to gather around the stove, chattering and begging to drink the malt water. The not-so-stingy grandmother, in order to protect the precious yield, scares us off by saying, “Drinking malt water will give you a stomachache so bad you’ll die!” Frightened, we quickly drop the ladle—until the rich aroma becomes too tempting, and we linger by the stove again. Only then does grandmother scoop out a small bowl for us to taste. But by then, the syrup has already started to thicken, sticking uncomfortably in the throat. When the sugar on the spatula forms icicle-like crystals, grandmother’s anxious heart finally begins to settle.

　　Once the sugar is boiled, the next task is slicing the Mahayèzi. By this time, it’s usually dark and time to light the lamps. To get more help, neighbors are invited over. My strong father removes and cleans the kitchen door to use as a cutting board. Then, a bit of malt syrup is added to the pot, and the already roasted fried rice is poured in and quickly kneaded into a lump before being placed on the board. Father flattens it little by little with a knife until it forms long strips, which are then handed out to those helping slice the Mahayèzi. With the sound of “chop, chop, chop,” pieces about two inches long and one inch wide are sliced neatly. Freshly cut Mahayèzi is soft, but once cooled, it becomes especially crispy and mouthwateringly delicious. Our generous grandmother would often send a scoop of freshly cut Mahayèzi to our neighbors, then pack the rest into tightly sealed jars prepared in advance. Aside from indulging in the treat that very day, to prevent sneaking snacks, my mother usually placed the Mahayèzi on the upper floorboards. To have a bite, one had to carry a ladder upstairs, carefully. I remember that a whole jar of Mahayèzi could last until early spring.

　　Besides this pure rice-and-sugar version of Mahayèzi, there’s also a type mixed with a little bit of sesame and tangerine peel. In better years, my mother would mix in some roasted sesame and tangerine peel, which enhanced the flavor and texture. However, in those days, although farmers grew sesame, most of it was turned over to the state, leaving little for personal use. Tangerine peel was also a rarity in those materially scarce times. Near the end of slicing the Mahayèzi, there were usually some leftover crumbs. Grandmother would use the remaining sugar to mold these crumbs into little Mahayèzi balls. Because there was more sugar, they were very sweet, and the kids loved them. But if you were greedy and forgot to wipe your mouth before sleeping, the mice might come in the middle of the night to share the sweetness with you—right from your mouth.

　　After marrying into my husband’s family, which was less than 10 kilometers away, the local customs were so similar. Making sugar at home became an essential traditional activity every New Year. Usually, during this time, my mother-in-law would wait for me to come home on holiday to work together, which gave me endless motivation and anticipation for returning home for the New Year. After the holiday, she would joyfully divide up the homemade snacks—Mahayèzi, fried dumplings, lotus leaves, and roasted rice—into several portions, sending the Mahayèzi across mountains and rivers to convey her deep love and longing for her children.

　　As my grandparents moved into the city, there was no longer space or environment at home to boil sugar and make Mahayèzi. The market, aiming to cater to people’s tastes, had already begun turning these traditional foods into workshop- and factory-produced goods. All kinds of flavored Mahayèzi could be seen everywhere. The market had efficiently done everything for us, speeding up the process and sparing us the effort. But the market also acted like an invisible hand, severing the entire traditional food-making process. The traditional foods bought nowadays, aside from monetary exchange, have nothing to do with me. The food I hold and eat carries no warmth, and there is not even the slightest emotional connection between me and the food.

　　　 When I quiet down and reflect, I also think: compared to the dazzling array of exquisite foods today, Mahayèzi is so rough and unremarkable. What makes it so memorable and unforgettable to me? Perhaps only those born in that era can truly understand this visceral feeling. Maybe it’s the lingering sweetness of the malt sugar. Or perhaps, even more so, it’s the warm memories of being around our grandparents that remain deeply etched in our hearts.

　　　 But the experience of boiling sugar and slicing Mahayèzi can only remain forever fixed in my mind, becoming an unforgettable memory of bygone days. Yes, our lives have changed forever—we can never go back.