Northern Sichuan Sweet Fermented Rice

Northern Sichuan Sweet Fermented Rice

　　　"First time you're unfamiliar, second time you get the hang of it, third and fourth times you come back for more grain!" The sweet fermented rice from my hometown in Northern Sichuan doesn’t get you drunk while eating it, but leaves you blissfully intoxicated afterward.

　　This classic hometown, apart from producing beautiful women and romantic stories, also captivates people with its aromatic and intoxicating sweet fermented rice.

　　It has a delicious taste, a unique flavor, refined production methods, and exquisite craftsmanship. The regular type is stored in clay jars, covered with a bright red oil-paper and tied tightly with a red silk ribbon, then sealed—strikingly similar to the large red wine vats labeled “wine” in the movie *Red Sorghum*. There’s also a transparent glass bottle version, which looks as amiable and generous as the laughing Buddha, filled with soft, crumbly, snow-white sweet fermented rice that floats visibly inside. The gift-grade version, which is more expensive, comes in blue-and-white ceramic jars or crocks adorned with auspicious dragons, phoenixes, or floral patterns—classic yet understated, making you wonder if they’re precious Jingdezhen porcelain. When you open the jar, you find only fragrant sweet fermented rice inside. Scoop out a spoonful and enjoy its sweetness, coolness, thirst-quenching quality, refreshing effect, fragrance, and tenderness—all filling the room with aroma.

　　The most common way to eat sweet fermented rice is to boil it with a little well water, crack in one or two eggs or add a few glutinous rice dumplings, simmer briefly, then serve. The sweet fermented rice from my hometown, thanks to its unique fermentation starter formula and the basin-like climate, tastes fragrant, soft, and smooth right out of the jar—melts in your mouth, sweet but not cloying, refreshingly delicious, leaving an unforgettable aftertaste.

　　As a child, during holidays or when visiting relatives, I would tag along behind my parents like a “loyal little follower.” Upon arriving at relatives’ homes, I’d wash my face with hot water, be served a cup of mint tea, and then be treated to a steaming bowl of sweet fermented rice—fragrant, hot, steam rising, with wisps of mist curling up. Host families would first serve sweet fermented rice to guests as a sign of respect and to showcase the hostess’s thoughtfulness. It could satisfy hunger, the sweet liquid quench thirst, drive away the chill from the journey, and relieve travel fatigue, highlighting familial warmth and affection. "Water doesn’t get muddy without stirring, and people don’t grow close without visiting." A pack of white or rock sugar weighing less than a pound, a handful of old flour, could actually be shared among several households—the gift may have been light, but the sentiment was deep. Before lunch, drinking sweet fermented rice was called “having a pre-meal snack.” Adults often teased us kids, saying the steam from the sweet fermented rice mustn’t be blown on, or else when we went to fetch our brides in the future, it would rain heavily on the slippery roads, and blowing on the sweet fermented rice would cause beer-like bumps to grow on our faces, just like Old Man Deng the pharmacist at Yongxing Market, whose face was full of pits. When he yawned, it looked like an entire army was assembling... So as a naive child, even when faced with bowls of steamy sweet fermented rice at relatives’ homes, no matter how thick the mist, I never dared blow on it—just obediently slurped it down like a pig eating swill.

　　Because of its simple ingredients and easy preparation, sweet fermented rice can be made by both rich and poor families in the countryside, available all year round.

　　Back then, my wise mother often made sweet fermented rice herself: she would first soak the glutinous rice, also called “wine rice,” until swollen, steam it in a pot, then sprinkle it with cooled boiled water or cool, sweet well water to cool it down, add the fermentation starter, mix it thoroughly, and then pour it into a large washbasin at home. She would cover it with chaff, press it tightly to seal it, sometimes even adding thick layers like cotton or simply stuffing it into a quilt. After a day or night, the whole house would be filled with a fragrance as if osmanthus blossoms were blooming everywhere in August—and then everything would be successfully completed. The finished sweet fermented rice would be transferred into a ceramic jar, covered, and placed in the large stone water vat in the kitchen. Even after ten or fifteen days, the sweet fermented rice inside would still taste as fresh as ever—not the least bit sour or spoiled—its preservative effect almost as magical as a modern refrigerator.

　　If one wanted to brew liquor, more fermentation starter would be used, resulting in a stronger taste that wasn’t very palatable, but with a high alcohol yield. The liquid extracted from the sweet fermented rice was essentially rice wine—with low alcohol content, mild, fragrant, and somewhat like today’s beer. Later, when reading *Water Margin* and learning about Wu Song fighting the tiger at Jingyang Ridge, who drank eighteen bowls of liquor, I think it must have been this kind of rice wine brewed from sweet fermented rice. Had it really been the 60-proof liquor brewed in modern distilleries, he wouldn’t have fought the tiger—he wouldn’t even have had to get drunk to die on the spot, would he? As a child, I often sneaked sips of the rice wine from the big ceramic jar at home. Sometimes, greedy and overindulged, my face would turn as red as Guan Yu’s, I’d walk unsteadily, and often end up collapsing asleep beside the cabinet under the rice bin. When I woke up, I wouldn’t even know where I was.

　　In those days, on market days in my hometown town, there was always an elderly woman who traveled from Xinglongchang to Yongxingchang selling fermentation starters for sweet fermented rice. Gray-haired and walking unsteadily, she carried a small bamboo basket, hawking her wares through the streets and alleys. The starter cakes were square, snow-white, just like mahjong dice, wrapped in paper—three pieces to a pack for a dime. The sweet fermented rice made with them was deliciously sweet and tender, soft and smooth, melting in the mouth, not the least bit greasy—the taste was truly wonderful.

　　Time flies. The kind old woman who sold fermentation starters door-to-door and my wise mother are both gone now. Today, I can no longer taste the sweet fermented rice they made, and though I feel a sense of loss, the fragrance, mellowness, deliciousness, and memories associated with sweet fermented rice have long since melted into my memory and my life.

　　On many a quiet night, I often find myself involuntarily thinking of the people from my hometown—their lively smiles like the green lotus leaves and rippling waters in the hometown pond, along with the faint scent of osmanthus and the rich aroma of sweet fermented rice, easily intoxicating me.

　　When emotions run deep, one feels lonely; drunkenly reminiscing over the sweet fragrance of hometown sweet fermented rice.