Xiao Fuxing

Xiao Fuxing is a famous Chinese writer and the winner of the Bing Xin Prose Award and the Lao She Prose Award. He has published more than 50 books and has won many national awards for outstanding literature.

When Oranges Turn Orange

Xiao Fuxing

Beijing United Publishing Co.， Ltd.

Produced by Mandarin Panorama

March 2022

48.00 （CNY）

This book contains 59 classic and well-received proses written by Xiao Fuxing， covering the author’s memories of people and events of the past， his understanding and appreciation of music， as well as what he sees and feels in his daily life and travels. The delicate words and sincere expressions lead readers into Xiao Fuxing’s inner world， at the same time feeling the most rustic emotions between people.

In the old days， ordinary people in Beijing usually loved to eat jiaozi， but rarely ate wontons. The first time I had wontons was when I was in junior high school with my classmates at a restaurant north of Zhushikou Road. The restaurant was next to the Qinghua Baths and across the street from the old Kaiming Theater， then renamed the Zhushikou Cinema. We watched a movie in the evening and went there to each have a bowl of wontons.

It was a small restaurant， serving only wontons for the evening meal. Compared to jiaozi， the wrappers of wontons were very thin but with very little filling. At that time， I thought that wontons looked good， but the taste was plain. And that jiaozi with a lot of meat filling were much more pleasant to eat.

This image was shattered when I ate the wontons made by Liang in our compound. Liang’s family was from Jiangsu， and her wontons were so famous in our compound that when I was very young， I heard the neighbors talking about Liang’s wontons， saying that the wrappers she made， with starch and eggs， were as thin as crepe and translucent when looked at against the sun or a lamp. Moreover， the wrinkles of the wonton wrappers were patterned. A small wonton is like a flower in full bloom， like a work of art， and it is so refreshing just to look at it.

Liang said that almost every family in her hometown could make such wontons， and they were called crepe wontons. I had never seen Liang’s exquisite wontons and could only imagine them based on what I heard from the neighbors. I thought that the Liang family was rich， so naturally， they would eat much better than the average family.

At that time， Liang was very young， and her daughter was only four or five years old， two years younger than me. Liang’s husband worked in a bank， while Liang did not work and stayed home to attend to the family and raise her daughter. It was said that Liang often made wontons because her husband loved wontons the most. Especially when he worked overnight， Liang’s wontons were never to miss. When her husband ate wontons， their daughter would also ask to have them. The crepe wontons became a wonderful and regular event in her family.

In the fall of my first year of high school， while working in the countryside， I suddenly had diarrhea and a burning fever. My classmates drove a donkey cart and sent me back to Beijing from the suburbs overnight. After receiving injections and medication in the hospital， I returned home， but my fever still wouldn’t go away for several days. I was so weak that I couldn’t eat anything and had no appetite at all. My mother was terrified and asked the neighbors to find a way to get me to eat. Food is the stuff of life， said my mother. How could he get better if he didn’t eat？ The neighbors were kind enough to offer many ideas.

One evening， Liang came to my house with a small steel pot full of wontons in her hand. Liang said to my mother， “Let the child try it. I deliberately added some vinegar and a few slices of tomato to the soup， that can be appetizing. Maybe the child can eat some？”

My mother thanked Liang and turned around to find a big bowl to pour the wontons into so that she could return the steel pot to her. Liang waved and said， “There is no hurry， it will get cold and won’t taste good.” With that， she gently turned and left.

My mother served a few wontons in a small bowl with some soup and handed it to me. In a daze， I ate one. Frankly speaking， it tasted really good， better than my mother’s jiaozi. I could taste the shrimp in the filling but couldn’t figure out other stuffings. Anyway， it was very fresh and fragrant. I took a sip of the soup， even fresher， which not only had vinegar but also white pepper， which was particularly appetizing. Surprisingly， I drank up the bowl of soup in a few gulps.

My mother was so happy， so she brought the pot to my bedside and served me another bowl. I took a look at the pot， the red of the tomatoes， the purple of the nori， the green of the cilantro， the white of the soup， and the pinkish color of the meat filling in the paper-thin， flower-like wontons， all intermingled to make it look like an ink painting， with color and appearance that was not to be seen in a plate full of Jiaozi.

After I got well， I still thought about Liang’s wontons and laughed at myself for being greedy. Crepe wontons， I thought to myself， what a nice name. My mother would sometimes pinch little folds in the wrappers of the jiaozi， which we named lace jiaozi or wheat head， but they never sounded as good as crepe wontons.

At that time， Liang was less than 40 years old and looked very young， and she loved to wear a cheongsam， which showed her graceful figure. Her daughter had just started her second year of junior high school， and although she and I did not go to the same school， we grew up together in the compound and were familiar with each other as friends. Now that I think about it， I feel a little sorry that I never ate Liang’s crepe wontons again.

In the summer of 1968， I went to the Great Northern Wilderness. In the winter， Liang’s daughter went to Shanxi to join the production team， and like my parents， the couple were left to live with each other.

Six years later， I was transferred from the Northern Wilderness back to Beijing to become a teacher， and I was the first to return among the group of children in our compound. Liang was a bit envious when she saw me. I knew that her daughter was still in rural Shanxi， so naturally， she would hope that she could come back sooner than later.

A year and a half after I returned to Beijing， I moved out of the compound. The afternoon before I said goodbye， I went to visit Liang and found that she had aged a lot. She should have only been a little over 50 at that time. I went there mainly to reassure her that a great many educated youths were returning to the cities， and that it was only a matter of time before her daughter returned to Beijing. She sat there， staring at me dumbly， and didn’t say anything for a long while. When I was about to leave， she suddenly stood up and said to me， “Let’s have dinner at my house tonight. I’ll make you crepe wontons.”

In the evening， she didn’t make crepe wontons.

Years later， an old neighbor told me that her daughter had been married to a local farmer in Shanxi for more than two years at that time.

June 20， 2021， in Beijing