Mother and Tea

I grew up in the Suichuan mountains, playing as far back as I can remember, I like to drink my mother's tea.

A few days before Qingming, farming is tight, but my mother put aside the chores, pick a sunny day, see the fog in the forest dispersed, lift the feet out, carrying a bamboo basket, quickly pick a leaf a bud, until eleven o'clock in the morning to close. A large basket of tea leaves, heavy, poured into a large dry round bamboo plaque, shaking loose, put deep in the hall to dry. My sister and I four hands, the fresh leaves picked less than half of my mother.

It was just after dark, and the leaf buds were already slightly curled, and they looked like they were dozing off. My mother went into the kitchen with a bundle of dried green bamboo leaves. After an early dinner and a hot bath, my mother changed into a sky blue ramie shirt with a row of buttons on the lapels and a small slit on the right hem. She washed her hands three times with water from the well in a large water tank. Tie up the blue cloth square headband, darker than the shirt on the body, dotted with snow white plum blossoms, and a black skirt around the waist. Patting the dust on the body, well water to wash the pot, change the wash three times, pour out is already clear water, asked me to start a small fire, fried tea green.

Mother hands together tea leaves, like the sky girl, evenly scattered to the four walls of the iron pot, steaming. When the pot rose a smoke, water vapor overflowing, forked fingers, interspersed with the heat stirring, quickly grabbed, throwing. Five or six minutes, repeatedly stirring a hundred times. Her forehead oozed beads of sweat, a layer of tight layer, and from time to time nuzzle to indicate that I take a white towel to wipe. Tea smoke, the leaf buds become soft and hot. Copy, smooth into the humpback dustpan, resting on the wooden cover of the large water tank, one end against the earthen wall. Hands together tea, the tea buds kneaded into a ball, tighten a tight, open, and then knead, back and forth kneading seven or eight minutes. Tea juice stained fingers burnt yellow, gradually darkened, tea fragrance overflowing, each leaf buds glistening wet, slightly curled, like a bath in water, again into the pot.

This is the first frying (also known as killing), the first kneading, to remove water, the first shape. When frying, fire speed to uniform, slightly vigorous, fierce fire up, hot pot scalding tea leaves, tea with a burnt bitter taste, wasted work; fire suddenly large and small, the temperature is not enough, the iron pot composted for a long time, the tea green fried dead, bubble out of the tea soup color cloudy, not fragrant; kneading green, action to fast, slightly stronger, have to sink waist, hold the air, all rely on the hand, tricky toughness.

Mother is extremely patient. I was sitting in the fire between the stoves, trying my best to be patient, watching her gestures, watching her face. The two bamboo slices up the open fire, bamboo green sweat, water overflow, the bottom of the pot sizzling, bamboo leach floating fragrance, penetrate the tea, the silk into the button, so that the tea fragrance more clear. Pine, camphor, maple, never make tea firewood, their fragrance is too strong, the tea fragrance, grease, maple smell of strange, tea tasting people suspected strange tight. Fourteen or fifteen-year-old sister, help mother gather tea green, clean dustpan, see a hand.

The second frying, faster gestures, the fire is slightly smaller, the pot has been hot. After the second kneading green, more and more careful, with skill, hands to be fast, the heart to be quiet, anxious under the deadly force, half-dry tea buds, cackle broken, can not come out of the whole child like silkworms tea shape, bubble out into a broken froth. Do not float, the hands are not force, so a forming of tea buds, loose, not tight, not good-looking, storage time is also short. Mother ten finger tip, throwing and kneading, taiji cloud hand flying, a pair of bare feet pointing to the ground, small steps without chaos, waist and body flashing and moving, breathing evenly and calmly.

A piece of leaf buds rolled solid, a silver needle like, curved tip cloaked in a layer of fine white velvet hair, glittering. The warm aroma of tea smoked mother drunk, red hot face full of smiles. Pick a grain of tea, sent to the mouth, shellfish teeth lightly bitten, crisp, fragrant, sweet. After frying three or four small pots, together again into the pot, no longer add wood to the fire, to the stove residual heat baking. Mother sitting on a low stool, leaning against the stove to rest a little. When the tea leaves are sufficiently dry, out of the pot, spread in a few small group of skips, covered with a brown beige fine kudzu cloth, put on the wooden shelves in the hall to dry. Two large basket of more than a dozen pounds of fresh buds, mother evenly divided into seven or eight times, a small pot a small pot of frying, busy until two or three o'clock the next morning. Made more than two pounds of handmade tea, to the market town on the old patrons who know the goods snatched up - the price, of course, is the highest in the market.

Forty days before and after the Qingming, the valley rain, the new tea made from cloak full of white hairs into a new green, the price also fell all the way down. After the rainy season, the rough tea left a few pounds, the family drink all year round, enough. Mother sold more than a dozen pounds of good tea (the best sold for more than five dollars a pound, then a hundred pounds of rice almost five dollars), half of the proceeds to the siblings to pay tuition, buy paper and pencil. The rest, in the summer to my sister to pull a flowered shirt, buy a pair of new sandals; sister and mother average height, when the market can not always be barefoot, wearing patched clothes - that is her usual dress after dropping out of school to follow her mother to the mountains to cut firewood. I only look forward to my sister's "new clothes", she is fast, too short. I remember my mother a sky blue slouchy shirt, the only one not patched, has been washed white, thin at the back of the shoulders transparent, make tea immediately changed, washed, dried, tomorrow morning on the market when selling tea, also wear.

Drying tea, dry it for an hour or two, that is, cool that is loaded, moisture, retaining fragrance. Carefully and gently pick up, into the black ceramic jar, the mouth of the bottle with kraft paper sealed tightly, pressed on the lid, set aside away from debris, ventilation and light on the high table in the hall. Tea is extremely delicate, very clean, if there is oil, salt, meat and the smell of the food, little by little, inhaled, long days of mixed flavors, then good tea brewed also changed the taste. Mother sometimes can not find a decent pottery jar, they find a kraft paper, wipe clean over and over again, leaving a good tea for grandfather to eat, a pound divided into four small packets, pull a hemp rope tied tightly, tied firmly, stacked up, hanging hall hall under the top beam - the house has the wind, the rain can not hit, away from all things, leisurely swing. At the end of the year, there is still a small packet left to brew a pot, burgundy tea soup, mellow and strong, into a good black tea. It is the vapor of the mountains and the cool air of the south that make the difference. A green tea made in spring, soup color like jade, clear and transparent, sweet and fragrant; fermented in time for half a year, gradually changing black tea, taste the aroma of mellow, sweet in the mouth. Black tea is conducive to eliminating food and alcohol, mild stomach pain and bloating, even drink three cups, then feel relaxed and happy. Without a hand-made tea masterpiece, not natural storage of green tea experience, it is difficult to taste the natural hand of this divine creation.

Under the hot sun, bare feet stepping on hot stones, hot sweat flowing on the face, chest burning like fire, thirsty smoke, wild we shot into the house like a loud arrow, wrenching a snow-white porcelain pot on the coffee table (pot wrapped around the red plum), open mouth to hold the mouth of the raised pot, "dong dong dong" filled with a belly of herbal tea, cool penetration into the viscera and six internal organs. From head to toe, every pore is soothed.

The hot tea in the thermos, is the adults love to drink. Half a child's belly hidden fire, winter frost and snow days to drink cold tea, cold to the bone, the heart froze a tight, grinning. A round-bellied short tin pot, a white porcelain tall pot, throw a rough tea, early in the morning rolled well water, full, let cool; the sky is not yet dark, two pots reversed mention, dripping water.

Drinking green tea after drinking, you have to be careful, drunkenness plus drunken tea, is not a joke, dizzy, two or three days difficult to wake up. I graduated from elementary school that I left the mountains, to the county, the provincial capital to study, and then assigned back to work in the township authorities. One time to see friends in the town of Tang Lake, after drinking three bowls of Hakka rice wine, thirsty, drinking a few cups of strong tea, see that the soup is clear green, the tea is tempting, greedy mouth, fell into bed all night sleep. The next day up, still full of scarlet face, trance, drunken eyes. This experience, a lifetime, usually the first time to recognize the Tang Lake hot spring mountain dog bull brain tea. At this point, I know that the original mother when she was young to do a handful of good green tea, is Suichuan Dogu brain tea. More than a decade of hard work, she made tea sold at a good price, to supplement the family top half of the sky. Two or three years later, two brothers also graduated from junior college to join the workforce, home on New Year's Day, to mother's arms stuffed with several large red envelopes.

My father finished elementary school at the age of twelve, followed by my grandfather on the road of "picking feet" - every year around the Qingming Valley Rain, a pair of round baskets lacquered with tung oil, picking up the new tea (wrapped tightly with oil paper), from the west end of the village climbing over the ridge, through the hot water, up Shimen Ling, along a stone slab Mountain Road - the ancient Hunan-Ganxi tea and salt road built in the late Qing Dynasty, through Yanling to Guidong County to sell, the return trip to bring tobacco, salt. The tobacco is produced in the mountains of Xiangdong, and the salt is the sea salt sold from Guangdong. This more than one hundred and fifty kilometers long ancient road, there are occasional tea pavilions, squatting in the sunny mountains - mostly built with cedar wood, there are also stone houses, four walls with rectangular hemp stone, the roof covered with cedar bark, barramundi grass. Keeping the tea pavilion is mostly mountain people, old bachelors; large families monthly supply of rice, oil, salt, tea, vegetables and vegetables planted in front of the house; mountain firewood rotted layer after layer, mountain springs at the foot, diligent, everything. The old man, who is used to living alone in the deep mountains, is living a simply divine life.

The "Ten Mile Pavilion", an indirect room guarded by righteous people, gives shelter and rest to the visitors who have to run around. If there are monkeys, hares, foxes, or people passing by, they are rare. Passing foot pickers, take a break from sweat, drink hot tea, blowing mountain breeze, talk about the jungle in the north and south, dispel the cold and loneliness of the mountains. Happy to stay overnight, just the right companion, fire cooking, cooking tea, together, all brothers within the four seas. Two or three people crowded a bedding, a cup of hot tea, a bite of hot rice, warm heart, warm stomach.

In this ancient road through the deep mountains and dense forests, my mother was married from Guidong, Hunan to the western mountains of Suichuan, Jiangxi, from this ancient road of tea and salt to walk. Father rested along the road mountain villages, met his mother. She was instantly impressed - can do a good job of tea people, not bad. Ignoring his small size, black face, brown skin, not to mention his temper, - the tea was originally grandfather's old craft. Father's rough hands and feet to make the tea, always the smell of burning fire.

Mother old still think about the dozens of old tea trees on the back of the mountain round adolescent. Through the path under the bamboo forest behind the old house, around the maple tree nest, climbing up to the top of the round hill. Round adolescent on more than two acres of gray and black sandy soil is soft and fertile, in the middle of a path, open two semicircular tea garden, a hundred tea trees, is the grandfather from the Tang Lake Dogu brain tea mountain back to pick tea seeds, buried soil seedlings subplanted into the forest. Every five or six years, in the winter, mother will be cut off the tea tree Qi pocket, covered with weeds and soil. The next spring, a new crop of tea, fat and tender buds, the old tea forest again and again splendid as new.

Mother is old, the old tea tree withered.

In Guangdong drifted for more than twenty years sister home, she took over the mother's tea garden, the whole back of the adolescent adolescent will be renovated, all planted with new tea seedlings. In the spring, the mother and children greeted a few back to the countryside, taking advantage of the good sun before the Qingming pick new tea, I came to the fire, mother sitting in front of the stove, eyes on, sister a move to learn to do tea. Sister grew up watching her mother make tea. A few years down the road, the new pot of tea, and the mother made a comparison, no difference.

This spring, with a few hobby photography friends to Jiangxi Pass - the core of the ancient Hunan-Ganxi tea and salt road, when 10,000 mu of alpine rhododendron blazing, such as haze like brocade. Past the boundary marker, deep into the stream valley by the ancient road, in a stone house ruins stand wandering: three partitioned hut stone walls tumbled, broken walls within the dead wood tangled with old vines, people, a few old crows startled up, G - G cries and fly away from the branches. Leaning against the moss-covered stone door, empty mountains when people are quiet, here it is appropriate to have a fox fairy, playing with the gentleman; before the eyes of tourists like weaving water flowing past, time and space deserted, I think that the father who picked the tea stretcher or had rested in this ancient tea pavilion, eighteen-year-old mother in red makeup, traveled to this also had a mouthful of hot tea; spring breeze in the turbulent, nose seems to climb a trace of tea fragrance, incessant.