Houttuynia cordata

Houttuynia cordata

　　　It was an extremely common wild vegetable in the rural areas of northern Sichuan, my hometown. Yet, it also formed an extraordinarily unique landscape there. City folks call it “fish mint,” but folks back home prefer to call it “houtuigen.” It carries more warmth and fits better.

　　“No pain, no gain; only by chewing on the roots of vegetables can you truly appreciate their fragrance.” When I was a child, every time spring arrived, the lush mountains behind our house would burst into life, the sun would rise above the valleys, streams would babble through the woods, birds chirped cheerfully, and flowers bloomed in riotous colors. In the fresh, soft soil of March, accompanied by the clear calls of cuckoos and the gentle lowing of oxen, houtuigen would sprout from the ground like incredibly responsive mountain spirits or spring bamboo shoots after rain. They would poke out their purplish-red little umbrellas and open ripple-like smiles. “The spring breeze of willows is not cold upon the face”—yes, just like a mother’s hand gently embracing these crimson-hued sprites of our homeland in poetic tenderness.

　　Their round, purplish-red leaves and tender, fat white stems crept sparsely among clumps of weeds, looking like the round pink noses of piglets playfully pushing through the earth. That’s why local farmers fondly nicknamed houtuigen “pig nostrils.” Greedy kids like us couldn’t possibly resist the temptation of these ginseng-like, fresh and dewy houtuigen. We’d grab a small hoe, carry a tiny basket, and go barefoot along the ditches in search of them. Once we spotted a patch of purplish-red, we’d thrust our hoe down, flip up a clod of fresh soil, and begin harvesting the soil’s heartfelt gift to the roots. Only through hard work and sweat-soaked effort could one reap rewards. Back then, we kids from poor families learned these philosophies—later written in books—as early as our days of tumbling in the dirt.

　　In those years of seasonal food scarcity, this seemingly ordinary wild vegetable became the most delicious dish on our family table. We’d pick it, bring it home, scoop out a basin of clean water, and wash it meticulously. After trimming the root hairs, we’d place it in a bowl, drizzle with oil and salt, stir it repeatedly, and then chomp down. It made a slight “puchi puchi” noise as we ate, with a faint fishy smell and a fragrant, earthy aroma that sank deep into our bones and blood. Spicy, numbing, fragrant, and crispy—it was truly a rare delicacy. Sometimes, when we picked too much houtuigen and couldn’t finish it all, we’d wash it and spread it out in the large bamboo baskets used for drying pig feed at home. After a few days of blazing sunshine, we’d store it in the wooden cabinet, and when the sweltering summer heat arrived, we’d take it out to make tea that invigorated digestion, cleared heat, and detoxified.

　　The past is like smoke, time flies like an arrow. Though the years of eating wild vegetables have passed, my deep, unforgettable affection for houtuigen remains. On that barren land, they absorbed the most meager nutrients, growing tenaciously only in the corners of fields. They bloom too, but not in the sunny days of March—instead, they flower fiercely during the scorching height of summer. Amid the restless cicada songs of May, they dot the green grasslands, quietly adorning the solitude of the hills. Always that deep purplish-red, slender yet resilient stems, with pure white little flowers. Because they miss their peak blooming season, they appear even more simple and elegant.

　　Grass grows for spring. Lotus blooms for summer. Cold dew arrives for autumn. Flying snow signals winter. Life thrives and fades with the seasons. Wildfire cannot burn it all; spring breeze brings it back to life. Even in the cruelest winter when houtuigen is nowhere to be seen, I still think of you deeply. Hometown houtuigen—you are my siblings, rooted in my blood and bones. Cultivated flowers grown in air-conditioned rooms or greenhouses can never compare with your tenacity and seasoned grace, thriving between emerald mountains and waters. Without the nourishment of springs or fertilizers, without farmers loosening the soil or watering you. Even without anyone sparing you a glance, you, born into poverty, remain undeterred. Since you’ve come into this world, you’re determined to compete with those pampered flowers enjoying divine favor inside greenhouses. Even in the harshest environments, even treated unfairly in the most barren of soils, you still stubbornly bloom freely, showcasing the brilliance of life. More radiant, more magnificent—even if life is as fleeting as a dazzling firework, you wilt only for those who truly understand you, following only them.

　　Every year, when the spring breeze is mild and the sun shines brightly, I take my wife and children out joyfully to search for and gather houtuigen. We roam the boundless fields. This ordinary plant from the rural villages of northern Sichuan, this poignant landscape carrying the rich scent of my hometown’s soil, is often served on delicate little dishes, savored after meals of delicacies. Within its fragrant, earthy taste, it is this very plant that nourished and strengthened our generation, helping us grow healthy and strong. It has seen us through trials and tribulations, keeping our bodies tough and resilient, teaching us the spirit of never yielding or bowing our heads in the face of hardship, and even more, teaching us to truly understand the meaning and essence of life.

　　My hometown’s poetic and picturesque landscapes—forever young in the depths of my heart…