Xiantao Sweet Potato Vermicelli

Xiantao Sweet Potato Vermicelli

　　 The land shapes its people, and I often find myself reminiscing about the snacks from my hometown.

　　 In Xiantao, where I’m from, Maozui Stir-Fried Noodles are relatively unknown elsewhere. In other places, these ordinary stir-fried noodles are just a casual snack, but in my hometown, they are the first main dish served at banquets. Xiantao Stir-Fried Noodles have a long history and are well renowned. The main ingredient of the famous Maozui Stir-Fried Noodles is typically pea starch, and locals love the flavors of chili and five-spice powder. These noodles are made with lean pork, minced ginger, garlic, scallions, sesame oil, soy sauce, and lard. The result is tender meat, chewy noodles, and delicious taste—making it a highlight of the local food culture.

　　 Vermicelli, also known as noodles or “fen,” is what Xiantao folks simply call “fen.” It’s a dried starch product made into thread-like or strip forms from rice, beans, tubers, or grains. Varieties include rice vermicelli, pea vermicelli, potato vermicelli, sweet potato (shao/tiao) vermicelli, and water bamboo vermicelli. Vermicelli production has a history of over a thousand years in China and is made across various regions. The noodles come in gray-white, yellow, or yellow-brown colors and are sold dry. Changdangkou Town in Xiantao was once a specialized market hub for vermicelli production.

　　 Sweet potatoes, which locals call “shao,” are an ordinary crop and food back home. But to me, they’re anything but ordinary. In those lean years, sweet potatoes were a cherished delicacy bestowed by the land, filling a child’s hungry memories and stirring endless emotions. Recalling sweet potatoes is like looking back on one’s life. Their home-cooked taste carries the earthy fragrance of the countryside, and the rich greenish broth nourished and enriched my childhood.

　　 In the days when melons and vegetables made up half our food supply, every farming household grew sweet potatoes in their private plots. With their high yield and tolerance to drought and flooding, they were the staple food of rural folk back then. Dried sweet potato slices, sweet potato pancakes, steamed sweet potatoes, boiled sweet potatoes, roasted sweet potatoes, and even sugar made from them—we ate sweet potatoes every day. Too much would cause acid reflux, leaving everyone sallow and gaunt. But no matter how unappetizing they were, we had to eat them to avoid starvation.

　　 Sweet potatoes reproduce asexually and can grow as long as the temperature is right. After wheat harvest, sweet potato seedlings are planted. Simply cut the vines into sections with two or three leaf nodes, stick them in the soil, and roots and sprouts will follow. Around Frost’s Descent, you’d grab a shovel and basket to dig up the sweet potatoes, let them dry, and then store them in cellars (known as “shao caves”) for winter preservation.

　　 Vermicelli workshops were a collective sideline of the production teams. Back in the 1960s and 70s, every team had its own workshop. At that time, agricultural technology was undeveloped, grain yields were low, and using grain for brewing or making vermicelli was strictly prohibited. Market supplies of grain-based noodles were scarce, so most production team workshops made sweet potato vermicelli.

　　 Our village sat on sandy slopes along the Han River, producing large, sweet sweet potatoes rich in starch. To add variety to their diet, villagers began making shao fen (sweet potato vermicelli). Running a vermicelli workshop not only boosted the team’s sideline income but also provided more pig feed from the leftover mash. In fact, our village had a vermicelli workshop even before liberation, with many skilled noodle makers. Elders say a major landlord in the village built his fortune through this trade.

　　 I remember our village’s workshop was a two-building complex attached to the production team’s pigsty, with no surrounding walls. One building housed the workshop itself—a spacious area with a mill turned by a donkey for grinding starch, plus pots, stoves, vats, and buckets. The other building stored grains and sweet potatoes, usually locked.

　　 How is sweet potato vermicelli made? First, sweet potatoes are washed one by one, chopped into chunks with a kitchen knife, and ground into a muddy paste—what we called “pushing rice.” The starch is then rinsed out with water, filtered, and left to settle until dry. After five or six days of production, enough starch accumulates for a batch. Then the real work begins.

　　 Making the noodles requires a sunny day, and you must start early—otherwise, the sun won’t dry them. The process involves multiple roles: someone boils water, another mixes the starch paste, and another uses a funnel-shaped “ladle” to “pound” the mixture. One person scoops the prepared paste into the ladle, and the noodle maker, positioned over a boiling pot, rhythmically taps the ladle’s edge with their fist. The paste oozes through holes in the bottom, forming thin strands that drop straight into the boiling water and instantly solidify into noodles. Being able to handle the ladle earns you the title of master. Others scoop the cooked noodles from the pot with long chopsticks, cool them in cold water, cut them to uniform lengths, and spread them out to dry. For drying, they’re hung on tightly stretched ropes on embankments or roadside spots without shade. Any noodles that fall are caught by grass below, staying clean. In all, it takes over a dozen handcrafted steps to produce the noodles.

　　 Once dried, the noodles are bundled with hemp twine and handed to the storage keeper. Each day, the team leader assigns laborers to carry the noodles out for barter—traded for grain, rice, or other staples—or sold for cash. Sweet potatoes weren’t accepted since households already grew their own. Back then, the team distributed noodles to members once a month.

　　 Shao fen tastes better than plain sweet potatoes because it’s mixed with a portion of rice or other grains. As a child, I loved shao fen without understanding why. My mother would trade sweet potatoes or corn from our private plot for shao fen, then cook a pot of winter melon soup and add a handful of the noodles. Whenever we ate shao fen, I’d stand on a stool, using chopsticks to scoop the last bits from the bowl. My mother always found ways to treat us—mixing the noodles with lettuce, radishes, lotus root, cucumbers, bottle gourds, or loofah. Egg-drop soup with shao fen was a luxury, as eggs were sold to buy oil and salt. In those lean times, if guests came, families might scramble a few eggs into a noodle soup. If they lacked grain-based noodles, they’d borrow from neighbors or trade scoops of peas for flour. Genuine and sincere—that’s how people were. They say Xiantao folks are “Mian Hanzis” (simpletons), but what a noble compliment—that outward simplicity hides true kindness. Xiantao people are genuine. Even if you call them “like sweet potatoes,” it somehow feels fitting.

　　 Old folks used to say that land rich in sweet potatoes wouldn’t produce famous people—but that old saying no longer holds. Our village had a man nicknamed “Shao Huo” (Sweet Potato Guy) who planted and ate sweet potatoes his whole life. After land reforms, he ran a vermicelli workshop and even peddled shao fen door-to-door. Among his children were university graduates, postgraduates, and even a U.S.-based postdoctoral researcher—something the whole village took pride in. Now he enjoys a comfortable life, all thanks to the humble sweet potato that “lifted him up.” This is all thanks to sweet potatoes, the workshop, and the vermicelli.

　　 Nowadays, making sweet potato vermicelli is no longer a traditional, manual craft. Advanced technology and equipment produce noodles endlessly, flowing into cities and landing in urban bowls.

　　 Savoring the aroma of shao fen, the warmth of human connection, and the cozy vibe of noodle soup. When you taste those long, soft, slippery strands of shao fen, the burst of sweet, sour, spicy, and savory flavors hits you instantly—the unforgettable taste lingers long after.