Put tofu in the refrigerator and stew it slowly with Chinese cabbage. Three days later, the tofu was cut, and the middle part was sticky and gave off an unpleasant smell. Only then did I know that I had been cheated again. That's not real tofu. Although it tastes soft and thick, it lacks the unique bean flavor and the lasting taste of water. After a long time, I have lost confidence in the tofu in the city. Tofu sellers are full of market economy. If they don't earn several times more money, will they still try to make tofu that won't be shipped? However, once you eat tofu, you will always think of tofu in the countryside when you were a child.
The tofu shop in my hometown is not luxurious in the local area. It's three simple earthen houses. It used to be an earthen kiln. It was probably a long time ago. Every year, the top of the kiln is filled with heavy soil. Only then did the mud barrier at the top of the kiln be removed, leaving thick kiln legs and transforming them into bungalows. From the outside, it still looks like a cave, with semi-circular windows and a smooth old kiln top with weeds growing on it. In the rainy season, it grows wildly and its owner is a big man. The soil foundation of the back wall is faint, covered with brown-green moss and furry. Along the yellow urine stone detour in the center of the courtyard, you walk into the tofu room, and from the rafters on the roof, you will know that it is a wooden room structure. These two hollowed-out kilns are places where tofu is pressed. In the center of the field, there is a tall stove with two cauldrons on it. Behind the cauldron is a big heatable adobe sleeping platform, which is much lower and swept clean. It is covered with a cotton curtain taken from the winter gate, a dog skin mattress with worn skin, and a multi-color cloth pillow with worn skin. Under the small empty window, there is a stone tofu trough, which has been washed away by mud for a long time and polished to a bright light. There is a small doorway in the middle of the east wall, with a door frame and no wooden door. You can see the heavy stone mill with the probe. There are many grooves on the grinding edge, and there are traces of white and yellow soybean milk. The wood grinding rod tied to the donkey is similar in color to a stone mill. Under the millstone, the round grinding road stepped by the donkey is as hard as stone, smooth and dark, which is different from the ground next to it.
The owner of the tofu house is Chongshan. According to him, the name was given by his grandfather. His grandfather is a learned man. Several times, he almost won a scholar. He often said, "My grandfather said there was something wrong with the word' heavy mountain'. A thousand miles should be long, and two mountains should be the most important, but it has become a sentence, which shows that the ancients also have something unreasonable. " His grandfather's scholar didn't pass the exam, but he opened a tofu shop. Fan's tofu is famous in Shili. One pot of tofu a day, one pot of dried tofu three days, has been cooked for decades and passed on to my son. Generation after generation, he is still a tofu maker, living in poverty and unable to make a fortune. This has become a lifelong regret of Chongshan's father, and it has also become a heart disease of dying unsatisfied. From the memory of Chongshan, what my father said on his lips was: I wish I could catch up with Uncle Lin in your front yard. Lin Shen is a farmer. He often goes to Hohhot to do business in his spare time in winter. Later, he bought two hectares of land and became a rich man in the village. Dashan's father is preoccupied with his son's success. He hopes that his son will do great things and send him to a foreign church in Qian Qian Village, 20 miles away. When I came back from the winter vacation, Chongshan's mother was busy cooking New Year's Eve dinner and knocked over the oil bottle. Father Chongshan leaned against the bedroll and shouted to help the son of the oil bottle: "Never mind, did you do it?" Later, before the book was finished, my son inherited his father's business and ran the tofu house handed down from his ancestors. When his father was seriously ill, he told him: "Chongshan, look at the deep mountains and forests, and you can do whatever others do." When his father Lin Shen died, he bought ten zhangs of white cloth to break his filial piety, and Chongshan also bought ten zhangs. His father was so angry that he couldn't say anything: "this ... son." Zhuoshan is not stupid, but his father is full of passion.
I can't study in Chongshan, and I'm better at making tofu than his father, even surpassing my grandfather, the last scholar. He never left the tofu house in the village, so he fished it out. One pot in summer and two pots in autumn and winter should be fished in advance, and the weighed bean bowls should be arranged in a row on a first-come-first-served basis until they are fished out. If you can't catch it, you will still wait in line tomorrow. Unlike tofu sellers in other villages, they walk the streets, shouting and selling. In the evening, they will eat a piece at home and send more to their relatives and friends. In Shili Baxiang, Jia Fan tofu or tofu rice is very famous. Everyone who visits relatives and friends has eaten Fan's tofu, but his name is unknown. People of all ages call him tofu rice. Over time, he got used to it and obeyed. Later, Tofu House joined the society, and he also became a member of the peasant association, specializing in making tofu and earning fixed points as a breeder, earning only a little less money than a coachman.
Zhongshan likes to brag about his tofu. When making tofu, raise your hand and cast your feet. When the tofu sink stops dripping, you can slowly pick up the cube, lift the board, compare it with a ruler, and draw tofu on the surface of the tank, which is square and square, with a pot of 60 pieces. He held a piece of tofu with slender fingers, weighed it back and forth, and said slowly, "Look, this tofu was soaked in May, July and June, and it didn't rot for a week." In summer, take a piece and eat it for two days, and the taste remains the same. Every year before the Spring Festival, every household will make a pot of tofu and half a pot of dried tofu. From December to spring, tofu still tastes like that. Frozen tofu has long since disappeared. Cut it into pieces and dry it. Soak in hot water in summer and dip in some salt noodles to eat. The taste is soft, mellow and pure. Tofu just out of the pot, steamed in a cage, sprinkled with alum noodles and fried in oil pan, has golden color, moderate fluffy and mellow taste. It is not afraid of freezing or drying. It is soft and fresh when wet. Treat guests and give gifts, visit relatives and friends, and popular fried tofu.
Some people want to learn this unique skill. Chongshan always smiles and never spreads easily. Busy until the end of the year, the team sent two ingenious young people to help him. They studied with him for two years and learned nothing. Tofu can be made, but tofu like tofu rice can't be made. Some people say that the water is good, and the heavy mountains only use the water from the well in Xiguan, the village. That old well has high water head and clear water. During the rainy season, you bend down and drink with a spoon. Some people say it's fire, charcoal fire, and the size is moderate. Later, people noticed that the pulp pot in the corner had been handed down for three generations. That's the old pulp in 60' s and 70' s, and Yang Bailao in the model play "White-haired Girl" died of it. Old pith root is poisonous, and a large amount of it will kill tofu. If you use a small amount, it will be too tender. Tofu has no bones. Zhongshan knows how to use it. The left bowl is turned upside down, like a magic trick. No one can see clearly. He has already ordered tofu, and after one point, it is tofu brain. The old Fan family passed on for three generations, and in his generation, another son was born. Quietly, please have a look at it. It is said that the grave garden has been buried, and the small bowl has been corded, but it can be found everywhere, but there is still no one. My son loves to draw, with three strokes and two strokes. The rabbit chewed cabbage, vividly. Chongshan also wants his son to become famous and married, change his family, and never let him mix in the tofu room, let alone inherit his skills.
In the eyes of the villagers, the book of the mountain has not been read, and it is more sour than his grandfather. When he spoke, his mouth curled as if he looked down on others. Indeed, Chongshan is different from the villagers. He speaks calmly and methodically. He often laughs at the villagers: "The poor bangzi shines." Villagers like to shave their heads, which are changeable and bare in winter and summer. They wear felt hats at most. The mountains have kept their heads, and the oil cover has remained unchanged for many years. The front is three inches long, and the back is shaved into a melon shape, neat and neat. Wear the police tactical unit you hate to wear when you go out. It is lined with paper and angular. Almost all the villagers drained their cigarettes, their own tobacco leaves and a long hookah with a mouth. Chongshan is the only smoker except the village party secretary. On weekdays, I smoke a box of economic cigarettes. When I went shopping, I had only five cents left. I don't want to look for a needle, but I have to get an Albanian flat cigarette with 80 cents. Just for a few cents cheaper, talk to the salesman, and be articulate. Until I took the cigarette, smelled it, put it on my ear and left with a smile. He also said that next time I fished tofu, my uncle would earn it for you.
In his spare time, soybean milk is cooked in a pot, and he also likes to say slowly, "Our husband writes well and has a strong face." When the pen shakes, the big characters are written one by one, vigorous and powerful, and it is a famous big hand. "The villagers have never seen it, and they don't believe it. After reading his handwriting on the wall, his teacher's handwriting will be much better. In the early 1970s, Pompidou of France visited China and visited Yungang Grottoes in Datong. Chongshan showed off to the villagers more than once: "President Pompidou is the grandson of Mr. Yang, a church in our village. After his grandfather returned to China, he kept thinking about the church in Qian Qian village. The son died with regret, and the grandson realized his wish and returned to Datong. I heard that I still want to go back to the church to eat yam face to face. Premier Zhou was afraid that the dirt road would be difficult to walk, so he didn't let me go. "It is not clear whether it is true or not. The old people said that there was indeed a French missionary in Qian Qian Village Church.
Chongshan's only Miao son barely finished junior high school and dropped out of school. He can only draw rabbits and chew cabbage. I thought I was a talented person, so I asked someone to find a job in the county town, drew a rabbit that ate cabbage for a few days, and asked someone to take me home. He also sent the manuscript to Beijing, waiting for the postman at the entrance of the village every day, asking if there was any letter from Beijing and inviting him to the Chinese Painting Academy. Finally disappointed. I often curse the swift horse, and it's hard to be happy, cursing and cursing crazy. There are tears all over the mountain, so I can't say a word, and I have no intention of making tofu.
The secretary advised the good to persuade the bad, and Chongshan insisted on hoeing the ground and vowed not to make a pot of tofu in this life. No, the secretary was angry, one hand rested on her hips and the other shook her fingers. The more she scolded, the more energetic she became. A set of things: "I sold the black bean morning glory, my wife got the ball, and butcher Zhang died, so I ate a pig?" Chongshan is always silent, and you can scold him until dark. You have made up your mind, and the cow can't pull him. The next morning, there was no smoke in the chimney of the tofu room, and Chong Xana went to the ground with a hoe several feet long. The secretary thought Chongshan would come back to make tofu in a few days, but I didn't want to. Until winter, the tofu room was covered with dust, and Chongshan really didn't make another pot of tofu. Later, I heard that he also smashed the old pulp tank in the corner, fearing that his crazy son would steal the old pulp root and die.
Later, our family left the village and moved to the county seat. At first, as soon as I ate tofu, my mother complained that it was not as delicious as tofu rice. After a long time, I won't mention it again. My elderly mother wants to eat stewed tofu crumbs. I ran more than ten miles and asked for three pieces of bread crumbs from a tofu shop in a village. My mother complained again: "this is called slag." How can the dregs of tofu rice be delicate, with heavy pulp and strong bean flavor? " I just remembered Tofu Fan Lai, the tall, thin, poor and picky old man. My mother said that tofu rice had died long ago, and he didn't sell the stone mill and stone trough before he died. The crazy son lives in a shabby tofu house, looks after the dusty mill, sings, and has no lyrics or tunes. Naturally, tofu rice and his tofu in the water have really been forgotten since then.