Now let's talk about Jiaobai (also known as Zizania aquatica or Manchurian wild rice). In our hometown, we refer to it as "Gao Gua," a name that is somewhat difficult to decipher. This plant typically grows along the riverbanks, and as you paddle a small boat slowly along the river ports or lake inlets, you can see the lush green leaves of Gao Gua lining the banks and spreading across the water in clusters, thriving vigorously. When the gentle breeze blows, the leaves rustle and sway with the ripples of the water. In such a scene, there is no apparent reason to call it "Gao" (meaning tall or high). If you were to pluck the fruit from the midst of these leaf clusters, you would find it to be long and greenish-white, resembling a "gua" (melon), though this comparison is somewhat tenuous. Nevertheless, the people of my hometown call it "Gao Gua," so naturally, I follow suit. In my childhood memories, Gao Gua is always associated with a big water buffalo. In those days when fields were plowed with oxen, which farm kid didn’t have experience tending cattle? In my recollection, there was one big water buffalo that I called “The Horned General.” The Horned General had jet-black fur, jet-black eyes, and long, curved, jet-black horns. Back then, riding on the buffalo's back while tending it made me feel mighty and proud. It was the farm kid’s favorite activity after school. Tending the buffaloes was full of both joy and hardship. The biggest challenge was ensuring the cattle had full bellies. To accomplish this, just grazing them along the field ridges wouldn’t suffice. So, we kids would often combine tending cattle with cutting grass to feed them. The quickest and most abundant source was cutting the leaves of Gao Gua along the riverbanks and lake edges. The buffaloes loved it. Long, long ago, Gao Gua was actually an artificially cultivated food crop—something we kids, busy tending cattle, could never have imagined. According to historical accounts, Gao Gua was known in ancient times by its formal name: "Gu." The Book of Rites mentions it: “Eating snail sauce with Gu soup.” In the Zhou Rituals, Gu was listed alongside rice, millet, sorghum, barley, and wheat, collectively known as the “six grains.” This indicates that during the Zhou Dynasty, there was a tradition of cultivating Gu seeds as a food source. The seeds of Gu, also called Gu rice or Diao Hu, frequently appear in classical poetry under these names. Even the famous Tang Dynasty poet Li Bai mentioned it in his poem Staying at Xun Ao's House Beneath Wusong Mountain. The poem says……

    Beneath the ancient pines I rest my head,  

    In solitude, where joy and mirth have fled.  

    The toil of autumn weighs on farmers' brow,  

    While neighbor maids by night in coldness bow.

    She kneels with humble fare in moon's soft light,  

    A dish of simple grace, so pure, so white.  

    Shamed by such kindness, I decline with grief,  

    Three times I thank, but cannot find relief.

    Equally renowned is Guo Moruo, who, in his monograph Li Bai and Du Fu, offers an interpretation of the phrase "kneeling to present carved Hu rice" that borders on the absurd. Guo explains that in ancient times, people sat on the ground in a kneeling position, and "Hu sitting," which refers to the cross-legged posture, was an imported way of sitting. Since the guest was kneeling, the hostess, presenting the meal, also adopted a kneeling posture. Here, Guo mistakenly interprets "carved Hu rice" as a description of the posture used while eating, leading to a humorous misunderstanding. But it’s not just Li Bai; even Du Fu has a verse: "Slippery Hu rice, its fragrance wafting from brocade soup," referring to this same dish. In reality, "carved Hu rice" refers to rice made from Gu grains, which are the seeds of what we now commonly call Jiaobai or water bamboo. In the Tang Dynasty, "carved Hu rice" was a delicacy served to esteemed guests, known for its aromatic scent and delightful soft, sticky texture. However, the cultivation of Gu as a staple crop ended when it became infected with smut fungus, which prevented the plants from flowering and setting seeds. Interestingly, although Gu has largely disappeared from China, it still thrives in the Americas, where it is known as "wild rice" or "Indian rice," a name reflecting its consumption by Indigenous peoples. The ancient saying, "Misfortune and fortune lie interwoven," seems to hold true here. While the smut fungus hindered the plant’s ability to produce seeds, it caused the stems of some Gu plants to swell, forming spindle-shaped, edible stalks that show no signs of disease. People began to cultivate these mutated plants as a vegetable, which is what we now commonly refer to as Jiaobai. It was many years later that I learned the proper name for Gao Gua was Jiaobai. After schooling and moving to the city for work, I often heard vendors in the alleys calling out, "Jiaobai for sale…… Jiaobai for sale……" When I approached, I would see bundles of ten or so stalks, all of them Gao Gua. The vendors sold them by the bundle, but the weight of each bundle was roughly the same, prearranged for convenience. Don’t underestimate this Jiaobai, which we used to cut as fodder for cattle; now it sells for several yuan per bundle. In my memory, the lush Jiaobai leaves grew wildly along the riverbanks, embankments, and ditches. In the lakes and river inlets, they spread out in vast, endless patches. You could cut as much as you wanted, and no one would stop you. Sometimes, there were unexpected rewards—like finding a nest of wild ducks or pheasants among the leaves, with small, smooth eggs inside, which was quite a delight. Or, while cutting Jiaobai leaves, you might come across some white, tender stalks, which, when chewed, were sweet and satisfying. But more often, the Jiaobai was taken home and used in cooking. Sliced thin and stir-fried on its own, it was fresh, tender, and clean-tasting. When sliced and combined with mushrooms and black fungus in a stir-fry, it could easily substitute for bamboo shoots. Jiaobai is especially renowned in the South, where it is considered one of the three great delicacies of Jiangnan, alongside water shield and perch, indicating its esteemed status. As country kids, we were too young to understand its value and only saw it as cattle fodder, which in hindsight seems like a bit of an insult to such a noble ingredient. The famous Tang Dynasty physician and dietary scholar Meng Shen held Jiaobai in high regard, praising its ability to "clear the five internal organs of harmful energy" and its effectiveness in treating "red eyes, heat toxins, and sudden heart pain." Meng also offered dietary suggestions for Jiaobai, recommending that it be cooked with salt and vinegar. Over a century after the publication of Compendium of Materia Medica, the Qing Dynasty scholar Zhao Xueming compiled an influential supplement titled Supplement to the Compendium of Materia Medica, which provided even more detailed accounts of Jiaobai's benefits. According to Zhao, Jiaobai can "reduce heat and thirst, relieve jaundice, promote urination, stop heat-related diarrhea, and detoxify alcohol poisoning," among other things. Given today’s social obligations and frequent drinking, it might be wise to heed Zhao’s advice and regularly include Jiaobai-based dishes in our diet.