Fried Dough Twists

Fried Dough Twists

　　The only fried item in the New Year’s wine dishes—no one knows why it’s called “guozi” or “guoguo.” I prefer not to arbitrarily rename it with the textbook term used nationwide, and calling it by its original name makes it feel more like a local snack from Jingchuan. Like “lushi,” I’m not sure which homophone character to use for “lu.” It’s a New Year’s food. All kinds matter—lushi depends on family circumstances and hopes for good fortune in the coming year. Guozi is a step above. Lushi doesn’t require oil or wheat flour—just some soil bees in the yard and cornmeal will do, and it can be made even in the worst years. But guozi demands a good harvest and is something only well-off families can afford. Even if they have the means, if most neighbors aren’t making them, few will. Yet optimism governs every day of life in Jingchuan. Mothers try every possible way to adapt, borrowing from here and there, improvising, and still find ways to make guozi happen.

　　So, eight out of ten years, they manage to make guozi.

　　The dough is unleavened, with enough baking soda and alkaline flour. It’s mixed with cooked oil, and simmered prickly ash water is added—this gives the fried dough a reddish hue. Once the dough is ready, it’s rolled into thick sheets, cut into wide strips, then into squares, and shaped freely into cocoons, butterflies, windmills, flowers, moths, or whatever. The variety depends on the creativity of the mother, sister-in-law, or young aunt—there’s no fixed teaching, but rather a reflection of wit. There’s no need to learn from a master; inspiration comes from within. They improvise and discover on their own, using any small animal or plant shapes that can hold form and survive frying without collapsing or becoming unrecognizable. This differs from “huamo,” whose dough is soft and large, allowing for free-form decoration. Making tiny pigs, rabbits, chickens, or dogs in guozi-sized pieces (about an inch) and having them hold shape after frying is extremely difficult. It often stumps new brides or unmarried daughters, and even lazy wives who can’t cook anything else—every year, they just make cocoons for their kids because they’re the easiest. No matter their skill, during the process, they gather most of the small items from the women’s dressing tables—combs, hairbrushes, hairpins, scissors, knives, thimbles—and bring them to the table. Some work at the table under the watchful eyes of a group of children, others on the kang (heated bed). They make several large trays before heating the oil to fry. While making them, the children shout: “That looks like it!” “No, it doesn’t!” “You’re so clumsy!” “So ugly, I’m not watching.” The children critique, but the grandparents and men pay no mind. As for the women themselves—

　　—they wonder why their hands are so clumsy, as if stuck in primitive times. Truly, they can’t even pinch out the shape of an apricot.

　　The main effort goes into shaping, but also into mixing the dough. If the dough is well-mixed, the result is dry, crisp, tender, and flaky—one piece can take a long time to finish eating. If mixed poorly, it falls apart when fried and becomes too hard to bite. Frying is the easy part. Once the oil is hot, and after frying oil cakes or other dough pieces, a large batch is dropped in. After two flips, it’s scooped out with a strainer. Kids scramble to eat them, adults take a taste, and then they’re quickly stored in jars for use during the first lunar month.

　　For celebrations, if guozi are fried after lushi, it must be a major event within a hundred-mile radius. These Jingchuan snacks are largely made for New Year’s and celebrations. Eating also depends on these occasions. For New Year’s, every family and person observes it punctually and eats. For celebrations, it varies—some years are busy, some sparse. For half the year, if no neighbor has an event, people go without. If you’re hoping for a joyous occasion but instead get a funeral, it’s heartbreaking. Amid the weeping, you still eat heartily to satisfy the long-craved flavors. Funerals, in truth, are an excuse to enjoy good food under the guise of mourning. No matter how grand the funeral, its essence is to let the living eat, drink, and be merry. And ancestors are eternal optimists—though they’ve passed on, what they leave behind is a thousand things they can’t bear to part with, yet in their final moment, they’ve already let them go. No one thinks about their clothing or food anymore; everyone is busy feeding the hundred or so living guests, bustling about grinding flour, cooking dishes, serving meals, and pouring drinks.

　　When drinking, after handing out lushi to the children, it’s time for guozi. Every little boy’s pockets are stuffed full, and they hold two in their hands, munching away noisily. The New Year is all about eating guozi and lushi—

　　—without them, there’s no drinking. Elders take one and nibble on it for half an hour, slowly gnawing with their gums or soaking it in alcohol to enjoy the rich flavor. Guozi are similar to the fried twists and fried dough sticks sold in big cities, except the patterns and shapes here spark endless imagination, making the New Year feel complete without any regrets. Also, the fact that they’re made at home on the kang, fried in one’s own pot, infuses them with local flavor, family warmth, and kinship—all of which you taste. No one mourns not having crab, shrimp, turtle, snake, or frog, since those aren’t from Jingchuan nor eaten by its people. Generation after generation, there’s never been a desire or plan for them, so Jingchuan’s snack repertoire and festive menus don’t include them.