In contrast to the majority of water chestnuts, which typically grow in riverways, river lotus roots predominantly thrive in ponds. Upon closer examination, these ponds, with their limited openness and flow compared to rivers, actually create a more favorable environment for the growth of river lotus. These lotus ponds bear a name rich in poetic resonance: "Lotus Ponds." The famous essay Moonlight Over the Lotus Pond by Zhu Ziqing, included in secondary school literature textbooks, is well known. Zhu begins with, "These past few days, my mind has been quite unsettled," and after strolling by the lotus pond, his mood changes significantly: "One can think of everything, or think of nothing, and thus feel free." This sentiment might offer some insight for us, ordinary people living in today's restless times. Beyond the literary world, a few years ago, a musical duo named Phoenix Legend released a song with the same title. The tune, with its lighthearted melody, conveyed a subtle sense of melancholy that resonated with many listeners. The song quickly spread across the country, enjoying a wave of popularity. But let's return to the lotus pond I write about. In those days, the lotus ponds in my hometown were a sea of green. The round lotus leaves, some lying flat on the water's surface and others stretching above it, were so lush that they filled the entire pond. Occasionally, a drop or two of water would fall onto the leaves, rolling around in bright, sparkling orbs, either sliding off into the pond or resting quietly at the center of the leaf. Here and there, a lotus flower would emerge unexpectedly. Its soft pink petals unfurled delicately, making it stand out amid the vast greenery, a striking and beautiful sight. Following the stalk of the lotus leaf downward, into the water, into the mud, is where one would find the lotus roots. Harvesting lotus roots from the pond requires skill. "Kneading" the roots out of the mud relies entirely on the strength and dexterity of the legs, similar to the method used for harvesting water caltrops or water chestnuts, but more challenging. The pond water is often stagnant, which over time develops a distinct odor, and the mud becomes thick and foul. It is from this foul mud that the lotus flower emerges, earning its celebrated reputation for being "unstained by the mud." The Song dynasty scholar Zhou Dunyi famously expressed his admiration for the lotus in On the Love of the Lotus: "I love the lotus because it emerges unsullied from the mud, washed by clear ripples but not seductive, hollow inside but upright outside, not creeping or branching, its fragrance spreading far and wide, standing tall and clean, to be admired from afar but not to be played with lightly." In reality, the lotus has long emerged above the water, untouched by its impurities, so it's no wonder that it remains clean. What truly evokes a sense of awe is the sight of the lotus roots, pulled from the foul mud, segment by segment—plump, white, like a baby's arm, truly heartwarming. An ancient poem once described this image: "Jade-like arms rest on fragrant cheeks, where lotus blooms above the roots." This metaphor of "jade-like arms" brings to mind an anecdote from the literary world—during the chaos of war, the writer Yu Dafu sought refuge in a place called Huagu Dike in Hanshou, Hunan, with his wife and children. It was the season when lotus roots were fragrant, and the entire two-li stretch of Huagu Dike was filled with lotus plants, their fragrance permeating the air. Inspired, the talented Yu recited a poem by Cao Yin, the grandfather of Cao Xueqin, titled The Lotus Flower.

    A cloud of autumn, touched with twilight’s hue,  

    The leaves fall down, yet blossoms linger true.  

    By the lake, with doors unbarred, they sleep,  

    Where fragrant breezes through the night shall sweep.

    As Yu Dafu recited the poem, he turned to Yi Junzuo, the local scholar who had invited him, and said, "If only I could live here at Huagu Dike, breathing in these deep, fragrant breaths, I wouldn't feel guilty for enjoying such pure beauty and poetry." While they conversed, they noticed two young girls by the dike, washing freshly harvested lotus roots that had just been dug up from the pond by local farmers. The girls were both wearing floral headscarves and blue, printed, cross-collared blouses. Their large, expressive eyes were bright and full of life. What stood out the most were their arms, tender and white, resembling the freshly washed lotus roots—white as snow, pristine. Yu Dafu, having never encountered such a scene before, was so captivated by the natural, healthy beauty emanating from the girls that he momentarily forgot his wife and child were present. He was completely mesmerized, unable to distinguish between the lotus roots and the girls' arms. "This must be the legendary 'jade-arm lotus root'!" Yi Junzuo whispered playfully to him. Noticing the two scholars in long robes watching them wash the roots with such fascination, the two girls began singing a traditional song for harvesting lotus roots: "What do those in long robes know of the hardships of short-clad folk? Bored and idle, they prattle about lotus roots." The impromptu song sparked Yu Dafu's poetic inspiration, and he quickly responded, "It's only because I don't know the true taste, that I've come to this treasured place to ask Huagu." When the girls realized that they were conversing with a renowned literary figure, they shyly invited Yu Dafu and his companions to their home to taste the fresh lotus roots. As the young girls presented the newly harvested roots, Yu Dafu found himself staring at the tender, long segments, so similar to the girls' arms, unable to bring himself to take a bite. "Mr. Dafu, are you reluctant to eat these delicate treasures from the mud?" Yi Junzuo teased. With no way out, Yu Dafu had to take a bite. As he did, long, unbroken threads of lotus root fibers trailed from the corner of his mouth, refusing to snap. Caught between continuing to eat or stopping, he was left in an awkward situation, with lotus root juice dribbling from the corners of his mouth. The two girls, seeing the great literary figure in such a predicament, could only cover their faces and giggle. Holding the long, tender segments of lotus root gifted by the girls, Yu Dafu was filled with emotion at this refined and serendipitous encounter in the midst of chaotic times. The subtle fragrance of the lotus root, like the experience itself, lingered in his memory, leaving a lasting impression. In truth, it wasn't only the literati who had a special fondness for lotus roots. In folk tradition, lotus roots are also associated with beautiful love stories and the creation of auspicious marriages. In Yu Dafu's hometown, once the Mid-Autumn Festival in August arrives, river lotus roots become highly prized. But why?

    In the countryside, when young men and women of marriageable age consider tying the knot during the first lunar month, the groom-to-be must let the bride's family know in advance so that they can prepare. As part of this tradition, the groom sends gifts such as mooncakes and ducks to the bride's family, but one item is indispensable: river lotus roots. These gifts are delivered to the bride's family before the Mid-Autumn Festival, in a custom known as "Zhuijie" or "Following the Festival."

    The lotus roots used for the “Zhuijie” tradition are chosen with great care. The roots must have an even number of segments, and the joints should be branched and have small lotus shoots, known as “l(fā)otus guns” or, when they are slightly older, “l(fā)otus fists.” These small shoots must remain intact; breaking them is considered inauspicious. While the formal terms exist, the villagers, with their limited literacy, are not too concerned with the precise names. The saying "Lotus roots break but the threads stay connected" holds true, as we saw in Yu Dafu's experience with the lotus root. For ordinary villagers, they wouldn't be bothered by Yu Dafu’s awkwardness, nor would they care about the strands of lotus root hanging from his mouth. However, when it comes to making a common local delicacy called “Lotus Root Sandwiches,” one can truly appreciate the meaning of “the threads stay connected.” To make lotus root sandwiches, you first slice the lotus root into thin pieces. It’s at this point that you’ll notice the long strands that remain connected even after the root is cut. The slices are then dipped in a prepared batter and fried in hot oil—a crucial step in making these sandwiches. In no time at all, they are cooked to perfection in the boiling oil. Fried lotus root sandwiches are fragrant, crispy, and sweet. For those who take extra care in their cooking, adding a bit of meat filling between two slices of lotus root before frying makes them even more delicious. When it comes to cooking with river lotus roots, the most refined dish is "Lotus Root Balls." These small, round treats are filled with sesame paste and are made using lotus root powder, not the raw lotus root itself. Once you have the sesame filling and the lotus root powder ready, all you need is a pot of boiling water. The process involves gently rolling the sesame filling in the lotus root powder, ideally using a small bamboo tray to ensure an even coating. The rolling needs to be light and uniform; otherwise, the balls might fall apart or become misshapen. After the first layer is rolled, the balls are dropped into boiling water for a quick cook, then fished out to cool before being rolled again in the powder. This process is repeated until the lotus root balls are formed, layer by layer. When served as a dessert, lotus root balls easily surpass canned fruits like oranges, peaches, or pineapples. They are fragrant and sweet, and when bitten into, they are soft, tender, and silky. It’s said that during the Qianlong era, the Jiangnan scholar Yuan Mei had a natural fondness for cooked lotus roots, especially the taste of tender lotus roots that had been cooked to perfection—soft, glutinous, and fragrant, with a resilient bite. In Jiangnan, cooked lotus roots come in varieties like glutinous rice-stuffed lotus root and sweet-and-sour lotus root. Both of these dishes are documented in Yuan Mei’s The Way of Eating and Zhang Tongzhi’s Baimen Cookbook from the Republican era. Yuan Mei describes the method for making glutinous rice-stuffed lotus root as follows: “Stuff glutinous rice into the holes of the lotus root, simmer in a syrup of brown sugar, and cook with the lotus root broth; the flavor is exquisite.” Zhang Tongzhi’s method for sweet-and-sour lotus root is simple as well: “Slice the lotus root into thin pieces, cook with sugar and vinegar, and the taste remains delightful for days, still fragrant in the mouth.” In my hometown, it was common to see vendors selling cooked river lotus roots, using a large iron pot set atop a charcoal stove made from a diesel drum, stationed by the roadside. The vendor would cook and call out, “Cooked lotus roots for sale!” Children on their way to and from school loved to buy these cooked lotus roots as a snack. Those of us born in the 1960s, however, never had the chance to taste the glutinous rice-stuffed lotus roots that Yuan Mei described, nor did we see the sweet-and-sour lotus roots that Zhang Tongzhi wrote about. It was once common to see glutinous rice stuffed into the holes of lotus roots, but during the period of the “Three Years of Natural Disasters,” even wild vegetables were scarce, so where would one find glutinous rice to make such a dish? This era has long been sealed away in the memories of a generation. Nowadays, in my hometown, vendors selling “glutinous rice-stuffed lotus roots” have become more common, and children can easily buy them whenever they like. However, when I see that sweet, sticky, thick syrup, I hesitate to devour it as eagerly as the children do. Time does not spare anyone. For those of us in our sixties, sugary sweets are no longer quite suitable.