Speaking of winter, tofu suddenly comes to mind. It is a "small foreign pot" (aluminum pot) boiled tofu, piping hot. The water is rolling, like many fish eyes, with small pieces of tofu inside, tender and smooth, like a white fox coat worn inside out. The pot is on a "foreign stove" (kerosene-free stove), and both the stove and the stove are smoked black, making the tofu even more white. It was night, and the house was old. Even though the "foreign lanterns" were lit, it was still dark. Sitting around the table were my father and our three brothers. The "yang stove" was too high, and my father often had to stand up, tilt his face slightly, squinting his eyes, put his chopsticks into the hot air, pick up the tofu, and put them one by one on our soy sauce dishes. We sometimes do it ourselves, but the stove is too high, so we still enjoy the benefits. This is not eating, just playing. Father said it was cold at night and everyone would be warmer after eating.
We all like this kind of white water tofu; as soon as it is served, we look eagerly at the pot, waiting for the heat, waiting for the tofu to fall from my father's chopsticks in the heat. It's winter again, I remember it was the night of November 16th in the lunar calendar, and I was riding a small boat in the West Lake with Mr. S and Mr. P. Mr. S had just arrived in Hangzhou to teach, and he wrote in advance: "We are going to visit the West Lake, no matter it is winter." The moonlight was so beautiful that night, and it still seems to shine on me when I think about it. It turned out that the night before was "the first of the moon"; maybe the moon in November is really special. It was past nine o'clock and we seemed to be the only boat on the lake. There was a bit of wind, and the moonlight shone on the soft water waves; the reflection in the middle was like fresh silver. The mountains on the lake only have faint shadows left. Occasionally there are one or two lights under the mountain. S Junkou wrote two poems: "The fishing village can be recognized by the lights of a few stars, and the light ink lightly depicts the traces of black in the distance."
We don't talk much, only the steady sound of oars. I gradually fell asleep. Mr. P said "feed", then raised his eyelids and saw him smiling. The boatman asked if he wanted to go to Jingji Temple; it was Amitabha's birthday and it was quite lively there. When we arrived at the temple, the hall was brightly lit with candles and filled with the sounds of Buddha chanting Buddha's name. It was like waking up from a dream. This was more than ten years ago, and Mr. S still communicated with him frequently. Mr. P heard that he had changed his position several times. The year before last, he was in a special taxation bureau to collect special taxes. There has been no news since then. We spent a winter in Taizhou with a family of four. Taizhou is a mountain city, which can be said to be in a big valley. There is only one main street two miles long. On other roads, there were hardly any people during the day; it was pitch dark at night. Occasionally, a little light shines through people's windows, and people walking hold torches; but that's very rare. We live at the foot of the mountain. Some are the sound of wind in the pine forest on the mountain, and the shadows of one or two birds in the sky. Get there in late summer and early spring