Jingchuan Long Noodles

Jingchuan Long Noodles

　　Stretching all the way from ancient times to today—that’s the length of Jingchuan Long Noodles. They are the noodles rolled out by generations of Jingchuan women, joined end to end.

　　How are these long noodles made? A woman without strength can’t roll them. A woman with strength but no willingness, too delicate or clueless about the craft, can’t either. A woman with strength but no wisdom can’t make them, nor can a woman with strength and wisdom but no integrity. Even a woman with all three—strength, wisdom, and integrity—but without love, unable to love, or without love in her life, can’t make them.

　　This land is the birthplace of the Queen Mother of the West and one of the cradles of ancient Chinese culture. Civilization and culture originated here, and the ancestors who lived at the source held themselves to exceptionally high standards. It was this strict self-discipline and rigorous mentorship that gave rise to these snacks and the artisans who make them, as well as the exceptionally high and challenging standards of these delicacies. Otherwise, people all over the world would be able to make them.

　　To prepare the dough, you need flour ground three times in a stone mill. “Three times” means grinding once, sifting once with a fine sieve, and repeating the process two more times—three grinds and three sifts. Today’s premium flour won’t do; the best is flour milled from wheat with good gluten. In the past, the dough was mixed with alkaline water made from the ash of burned buckwheat stalks. Now, a small amount of alkaline water is used—just enough to provide elasticity and chewiness without the taste of alkali being noticeable. The dough must be mixed in a black ceramic basin; clay or enamel basins often crack under the force of kneading. Add the water little by little to the flour while quickly working the mixture with your hands, kneading and rubbing it. Soon, the dough forms into long, thin strands, uniformly sized. Then, roll up your sleeves high, set down the water bowl, place the basin on the bellows, and stand tall. Keep kneading the dough strands—just keep kneading. Twenty minutes pass, then knead some more. The basin is still full of dough strands, but don’t doubt—just keep going. Knead until the strands begin to clump together into doughy masses, though they can still be separated. Knead harder. Half an hour passes. Add a few drops of water and knead again. Repeat this process many times. The dough may look dry, but don’t add too much more water. Instead, press, knead, squeeze, and rub it from the outside in, as if wrapping a bun, with the opening in the center. An hour passes, and you’ve formed a block of dough—about five or six pounds. Wrap it in a damp towel and set it in a warm, draft-free spot. Then prepare the next block. One block of dough is just enough to roll out on one board. The unit of measurement for dough is “boards.” Most households roll out three boards per meal to have enough. After preparing several large blocks, let the dough rest for two or three hours before rolling it out. The rolling board is made from century-old apricot, jujube, or pear wood, four feet wide and six feet long. The person stands under the board, while a young bride might stand on a small stool. Don’t use the full-length rolling pin yet; start by kneading the dough without dusting it with dry cornmeal or millet flour (used to prevent sticking). Knead and knead until the dough becomes much softer. After twenty minutes, press it into a round cake with your fist, then use a small rolling pin to roll it out little by little, circle by circle, from the edges inward. Roll it onto the rolling pin, then unroll it forward and back, pushing and pulling while rubbing it with the heel of your palm. Apply neither too light nor too heavy pressure—light pressure won’t work, and heavy pressure will crack the dough. Then switch to the long rolling pin and roll with full-arm strength across the entire length of the board, pushing and pulling with a loud “shu—shu—” sound. Each time you pull the dough, sprinkle evenly with cornmeal to prevent sticking. Each time you roll...

　　...let the dough give a little with each roll, gradually adjusting as the rolling pin coils around it.

　　The dough and the starting point of each roll remain...

　　round. Some people end up with bubbles in their dough, splits at the edges, or cracks in the middle—that’s a sign of inexperience. The goal is to roll the entire four-by-six-foot surface to an even thickness, neither mushy nor too hard or soft. Once rolled out, sprinkle...

　　one more layer of cornmeal, then...

　　roll it onto the rolling pin, fold it back and forth...

　　layer by layer. The noodle-cutting knife is about fifteen or twenty inches long and weighs around ten pounds—it’s specially designed for cutting long noodles. You can’t swing it; you have to drag it along the board. Place one hand on top of the dough, with your fingernails curled so they’re barely visible, the second knuckle of your fingers extended. Press the knuckle tightly against the knife, and the distance the knuckle moves back with each cut determines the width of the noodles. Move the knuckle back...

　　...lift the knife, slice once, move it back, slice again. Outsiders who try to chop down with each cut will struggle to slice the noodles properly all day. These women slice with a rhythmic “clang clang,” cutting once per second. After a while, they pause, lift the dough, and reveal uniformly long noodles, none broken, with perfect widths. Fold each section in half to form a bundle. One board of dough yields four or five bundles, and they keep slicing until all four boards are done. The large black wok is already boiling with water to cook the noodles, while the back wok begins simmering the broth. First, dice less than half a pound of pork into small cubes, then pour in just a tiny bit of oil—very little—and add chopped scallions and a generous amount of chili powder to stir-fry. Add the diced pork and stir-fry again, quickly followed by diamond-shaped pieces of egg pancake, daylily buds, and thin slices of tofu. Stir-fry everything for three to five minutes, then add a bit of chicken stock. The red chili powder floats to the surface, glossy with oil. Blow gently, and you’ll see tiny holes; if you don’t blow, the chili remains suspended, covering the surface of the soup. Ladle out the broth, then mix in more chicken stock and boiling water, adding a few sprigs of green vegetables for garnish. The water in the big wok has already come to a boil. Drop in a bundle of noodles, let them cook just once, then remove them. Dunk them in a basin of cold water to chill. Lift the noodles high above your head with one hand while the lower ends still sit in the basin. Stand on your tiptoes, arms raised as high as possible. Drain the noodles, then fold them into a bowl—just a small half-bowl’s worth. Pour the broth over them three times, then add a small spoonful of rich chili-pork broth, followed by another ladle of soup. And that’s it. On the side, arrange four small saucers. Slice garlic paper-thin, toss it with salt, vinegar, pickled mustard greens, celery, and add a shredded cucumber or other small vegetable. Eat with these four side dishes, slurping the noodles noisily.

　　...the second knuckle of your fingers extended.

　　...the distance the knuckle moves back with each cut determines the width of the noodles.

　　Outsiders who try to chop down with each cut will struggle to slice the noodles properly all day.

　　...and place it in the bowl.

　　The tenderness and resilience of the noodles, the richness and lingering flavor of the broth—you’d never believe such simplicity could produce something so extraordinary.

　　There’s an art to eating long noodles. You have to use chopsticks. Can you manage them? Foreigners trying to twirl the noodles around their chopsticks often take forever to eat just three strands. Instead, pick up a small bunch, lift it high, and place it in your mouth. Hold your breath, then slurp loudly three times to draw it all in. Savor it briefly—don’t over-chew. Without the loud slurp, the flavors won’t come alive, and you’ll miss the craftsmanship of the women who made them. Eating them like rice, with heavy chewing, would be a waste of their skill.

　　During New Year’s meals, listen closely—the sound of slurping fills every home, rising and falling like waves, until the whole village seems to merge into one great slurp. It’s as if the earth and sky are drawing closer. The aroma is so enticing it makes your mouth water, and you’ll want to eat even if you weren’t hungry. But if you don’t know how to control your breath, the spicy broth might make you cough uncontrollably. Those who master the technique, however, dine with flushed cheeks, fragrant breath, and peaceful hearts. Whether they’re high-ranking officials, governors, PhDs, or farmers, everyone comes to eat these noodles. Everyone wants to. Especially dignitaries—when they visit Jingchuan, they must eat these slender noodles. They find them more satisfying than state banquets. They’ll travel across rivers and mountains to remote villages just for a bowl of Jingchuan Long Noodles. They don’t mind the long journey or the risk of being seen as indulgent, as long as they get to eat these noodles. Outside the Jingchuan region, where else can you find noodles with such distinctive style and classic quality? I can’t describe the taste and texture you experience when eating them, but everyone agrees: after growing tired of everything else, these noodles never get old. If they do, it’s because your mother or wife—or sisters—simply can’t cook, and haven’t mastered the art of making real Jingchuan Long Noodles. When nothing else appeals, these noodles are still irresistible. They’ve transcended the ordinary.

　　The artisans who roll these noodles are often in their early twenties, with girls as young as sixteen or seventeen already skilled at the craft. It’s not something only middle-aged or elderly women learn. So, the main noodle-rollers are women between eighteen and twenty-five. Some say that for centuries, Jingchuan women have sliced and rolled noodles with precision, turning Jingchuan Long Noodles into a national treasure of China. They spend their lives rolling noodles as thin and white as threads—so fine and long that you can’t tell whether you’re looking at noodles or thread, or thread or noodles. People say the noodles aren’t rolled out—they’re drawn out from dough as soft as cotton. Every Jingchuan woman knows how to roll these slender noodles. Those who can’t aren’t worthy of being called Jingchuan women. Jingchuan is one of the birthplaces of these slender noodles. Young people often say that rolling noodles is the only way Jingchuan women express love. They understand that the beauty of the cook and the beauty of the food can only be truly appreciated—and remembered deeply—through the act of sharing a meal. No matter who comes to eat, it’s as if they’ve accepted an ocean of love. The longer the noodles, the deeper the love. The more tender the noodles, the more tender the affection. The more meticulous the preparation, the more thoughtful the care. The better the flavor, the more beautiful the maker. Anyway, you’ll eat eight or ten bowls (which is common for local young men) and still want more. The noodles are endlessly appealing, leaving you longing to eat them for the rest of your life. That’s the essence of Jingchuan’s slender noodles.

　　The artisans who roll these noodles are often in their early twenties, with girls as young as sixteen or seventeen already skilled at the craft.

　　Some say that for centuries, Jingchuan women have sliced and rolled noodles with precision, turning Jingchuan Long Noodles into a national treasure of China.

　　Young people often say that rolling noodles is the only way Jingchuan women express love.

　　Jingchuan grows plenty of winter wheat, the authentic ingredient for slender noodles. Spring wheat simply won’t do. In Jingchuan, these noodles are everyday fare, but outside the region, they become a “famous dish,” a “national cuisine,” even the “ultimate delicacy.” In today’s world, as modernization replaces traditional ways of life, the culture of long noodles grows only more ancient and valuable. The spirit of Jingchuan is infused into these noodles. The well-being and civilization of Jingchuan are embodied in them. Their refined elegance is the lifeblood of the people here. Season after season, the rains and winds sing the song of Jingchuan. With every bowl of noodles, you’re not just eating—you’re tasting five thousand years of history, savoring the essence of heaven and earth.

　　Stretching all the way from ancient times to the future—that’s the length of Jingchuan Long Noodles. Generation after generation of Jingchuan women have rolled their noodles, joining them end to end.