Many people have a special liking for the spring rain, and the reasons are different. Some like it if it is easy to leave, some like its poetry, some like its light footwork, and some like its moisturizing all things. Therefore, there are many graceful sentences about the spring rain—”The small building listens to the spring rain overnight, and the Ming Dynasty sells apricot flowers in the deep alleys”, “I want to wet my apricot blossoms and rain, and my face is cold and willow wind” “Heavenly street light rain” It’s as smooth as crisp, the color of the grass looks near but nothing” and so on. And I also like this spring rain very much, but the reasons are different from the above. If you really want to say something about it, then you can say that you like its moisturizing all things.
In the village, after the spring rain, a kind of game can easily breed. This wild vegetable grows between the mountains and the wild, and it has a nice name-chanterelles.
After several days of rain, the apricot blossoms in the yard fell on the ground, and finally a sign of clearing up. As a result, a bunch of clouds floated over and rain began to float. It rained, and it was another few days. It finally cleared, and the warm sunlight hit the little yellow dog who was napping. The grandfather stretched his waist while smoking a dry cigarette, then looked at the sky, with a smile of relief on his face. After that, my grandfather stretched out his voice and called me: “Ayu, go, go up—mountain—go!” As if he wanted to call someone to hear him on purpose.
Needless to ask, my grandfather’s intention couldn’t be more obvious-going up the mountain to find chanterelles. The chanterelles are the easiest to take root in the soil during the spring rain. When the spring rain is over, they will break the soil and grow. Chanterelles have a natural sense of self-protection. They generally don’t grow in particularly conspicuous places, but hide in grass or behind big trees. But the old people who have lived in the village for decades have already fully understood the hiding place of chanterelles. Therefore, the self-protection of chanterelles has become an important clue to reveal its whereabouts. Grandfather is a good hand in finding clues, and can often find chanterelles quickly and accurately in the grass on the edge of a rock cliff or behind a big tree. The chanterelles are like a simple umbrella, the canopy and a small section of the umbrella handle are on the ground, but most of the umbrella handle is rooted in the soil. This requires the picker to pry the soil loose, and then pull the umbrella handle out of the soil in a rush.
The umbrella covers of some chanterelles have just begun to open up, and look like a flower bone. Such chanterelles grandfathers generally would not pick them. Grandfather would make some grass to cover it up, and then quietly make a mark that only we can recognize. The chanterelles grow very fast. Don’t look at the ground just now, but within a few hours, it will be completely covered. Therefore, at dusk, my grandfather would take me up the mountain again to look for the chanterelles under those marks. This is a thing that cannot be waited for. If you wait until the next day, the chanterelles canopy will crack or rot.
Grandfather never came back empty-handed, and often picked a dozen or so, even if he was unlucky, he would have at least five or six. For the chanterelles picked, grandfather would string together the strips prepared in advance, then buckle the strips into a circle, put them on the hand, and look at them while going down the mountain. I followed my grandfather and yelled to get chanterelles. Grandfather would always tease me, and then put the strips on my hand with a big smile. Often the grandfather is not the only one picking chanterelles, and sometimes meets upright, but other people often harvest little, so the grandfather is always happy and happy.
Of course, it is not the elderly grandfather who is most proud of, but the young me.
The chanterelles were sent to the kitchen, and I couldn’t wait to scoop up water to clean them. Then eagerly waiting for the mother who returned from the ground, the mother would best use the chanterelles to make a variety of delicious dishes. What my mother often makes is fried chanterelles with green peppers. The preparation of this dish is very simple, and it is similar to ordinary home cooking. First, add some vegetable oil. When it’s half or half cooked, add a few peppers and a little ginger slice, then pour down the cut green peppers, stir fry until the green peppers have tiger skin, add the chanterelles, and fry for two to three minutes , Put the right amount of salt and MSG, you can start the pot. The chanterelles fried in this way are blue and yellow, bright in color, fragrant, and delicious. They are also very chewy when they are chewed in the mouth. Mother always pays special attention to one thing: She never cuts the chanterelles with a knife, but must tear them into small strips by hand. She said that if the knife-cut chanterelles are fried, it will destroy the fragrance of the mountains and wilds. In any case, as long as there are chanterelles fried by my mother, I can always eat two more bowls of rice.
Sometimes the family bought meat or killed chickens, just in time my grandfather picked some chanterelles, and he could enjoy the broth broth and chanterelles roasted chicken made by his mother. For me, these two dishes are more delicious than fried chanterelles with green peppers. Because in those barren years, it is not easy to eat meat once. Until I left the village many years later, I couldn’t eat these two dishes many times.
In a city where no chanterelle can grow no matter how lingering the spring rains are, I often miss the smell of chanterelles, and sometimes I can’t help swallowing my mouth when I think about it.
Occasionally after a spring rain, three or five farmers will carry chanterelles to the city to sell them. They carried the chanterelles in the same way as their grandfather. They strung the chanterelles on a stick, and then put the stick on their hands. Every time I meet, I always buy it without hesitation, and then fry a green pepper chanterelle, or boil a meat broth. However, no matter how I season it, I always feel that something is missing.
What is this little smell?
Perhaps, it is the atmosphere of the mountains and the wild that has been gradually faded by the city.