立春韭菜引鄉(xiāng)愁

袁明華

《說文解字》說：“一種而久者，故謂之韭?！彼?，韭菜又名“長生菜”。多種韭菜，日子便經(jīng)得久。從《詩經(jīng)》至今，韭菜的故事從未與過往的歷史割裂過。

立春從一把韭菜開始。

早在冰雪覆蓋之下，韭菜就期待春陽，準備了新衣，和一畦畦同樣從冰雪中復蘇過來的青翠欲滴的麥苗一樣，都是接地氣的春使，但韭菜似乎更具農(nóng)家新春之神韻。

一

當鄉(xiāng)間裊裊炊煙在春寒料峭的晚風中襲來縷縷韭香，我媽已經(jīng)割下第一刀新韭，從雞棚里摸兩個熱乎乎的雞蛋——假如有新雞下蛋，必定優(yōu)選頭窠蛋——立春立新，就如過年要做新衣服，穿新鞋子。我們小孩子在新春的暮色中打打殺殺，奮不顧身，似乎已經(jīng)贏得了新春第一盤韭菜炒雞蛋的優(yōu)享權。

韭菜有深厚的植食文化積淀，從《詩經(jīng)》至今，韭菜的故事就從未與過往的歷史割裂過。比如南朝劉宋時期，周颙答文惠太子曰：“春初早韭，秋末晚菘?！币馑际牵绱貉┤诰虏诵?，晚秋霜降青菜甜，是一部美食春秋的代表。比如杜甫的“夜雨剪春韭，新炊間黃粱”，絕對的家常便飯，卻是酒逢知已千杯少，是詩人離亂中貼心的溫暖。比如五代時期的楊凝式，午睡醒來，恰逢有人饋贈韭花，非?？煽冢瑘?zhí)筆寫了一封謝折，短短53字的手札，竟成就了天下第五行書。一把韭菜，成就文學史上的一段佳話。

而在我少年時的鄉(xiāng)村經(jīng)驗中，韭菜其實是適合懶人種的菜。只要種下一畦，家里就不會缺菜。割了一茬長一茬，幾乎一年四季都有得吃。而且還可以數(shù)年內不停地割，越割越長，生生不息，這是其他蔬菜做不到的。而且還很容易打理，房前屋后隨便找塊巴掌地都能長好，也不怎么害蟲。懶人鐘情于韭菜，人懶菜不懶，不辱懶人名聲，甚至會給懶人帶來好運。此等奇妙便生成了韭菜美好的寓意——長久。

《說文解字》說：“一種而久者，故謂之韭?！彼裕虏擞置伴L生菜”。多種韭菜，日子便經(jīng)得久。

包春卷為什么總少不了一味韭菜餡？用于包餛飩、包餃子，大致都有這么一層意思在。辦進屋酒拜菩薩，甚至上墳祭祖，鄉(xiāng)人都樂意用韭菜，因此輕視不得。

有些地方至今還保持著“咬春”的習俗，立春節(jié)氣搶先吃韭菜，狠狠咬一口春天，咬住春天。

此番道理是爺爺告訴我的。

二

我爺爺是鄉(xiāng)廚，做得一手好菜，也種得一手好菜，兩頭都受人尊重，被鄉(xiāng)人敬稱為“桂桂師傅”。

桂桂師傅做菜，絕活是“絕配”——文武筍，將春筍與萵筍弄一塊兒;文武蘋果，將樹上的蘋果與地下的蘋果土豆弄一塊兒;文武豬爪，將新鮮豬爪與咸豬爪弄一塊兒。運河邊的魚羊鮮，將魚肉和羊肉燒一塊兒，尤其是甲魚燒羊肉，那是農(nóng)家上等菜。

而四鄉(xiāng)八里最常見的韭菜炒雞蛋，到了桂桂師傅手里要求就十分苛刻。原材料必須是春天或秋天地里現(xiàn)割，從割起到入鍋不能超過一小時。炒成后，起鍋盛盤里，韭菜要滴滴綠，雞蛋要金黃雪白分明，金黃是金黃，雪白是雪白，不能和面一樣糊一起。一看，一聞，一吃，都能感受到地里現(xiàn)割起來的鮮度和剛從雞棚里摸出來的溫度。

在爺爺手里，韭菜不光是主菜，還是百搭，是麻將里的財神，炒香干，炒筍絲，炒螺螄肉等等，做什么都可以配。韭菜炒螺螄肉是我的最愛。

桂桂師傅菜做得好，是四鄉(xiāng)八里大家都知道的，但桂桂師傅菜種得好，恐怕只有我最了解了。他喜歡帶著我?guī)退N菜，表現(xiàn)好了，讓他開心了，會帶我去臨平街上聚樂園吃一碗肉絲面，面碗里必定是有一小撮韭菜或幾根韭黃的。

桂桂師傅種韭菜，關鍵是畦田做得好，溝是溝，壟是壟，徑是徑，棱角分明，比木匠師傅彈出來的線還直。而且雞糞羊糞焐得好，水也澆灌得好。一切都做好了，得空便去畦邊田埂上守著抽管煙。

他是抽煙管的，尺把長的小竹管，裝一個銅嘴頭。抽著抽著，河邊畦田里針尖般細密的綠色幼芽頂破土壤探出來了，連煙霧也在陽光下縈繞起一片春光。抽著抽著，葉脈漸漸變寬，一點一點向上生長，個把月的工夫，第一茬韭菜就可以開割了。

在過后的日子里，畦田就有了居家過日子的模樣。韭菜一壟一壟此起彼伏，有的剛割完，有的長半高，有的郁郁蔥蔥在風中搖曳著等待被割。畦邊整條河道充滿了流動的韭香。

天涼了，韭菜生長慢了，桂桂師傅也在風中漸漸老去。桂桂師傅曾多次跟我說，人都是韭菜的命，一茬一茬被割去。接下來，該輪到我這一茬了。

三

老去的兩壟韭菜開花了。油綠的韭菜頂端簇起一朵朵銀色的小白花，未開的小花苞是雞心的模樣，米粒大的花骨躲在半透明的青衣里面，看上去清素雅致，有蘭花的風采。秋蝶翩躚而來，花隨風動，蝶影婆娑，成了畦田秋天最美的畫卷。

那天傍晚，桂桂師傅坐在畦邊田埂上抽煙管，用煙管指揮我去捉一只黑蝴蝶。

我追來追去怎么也追不著，一腳踩上了一坨爛泥巴。

晚霞在臨平山頂上涌起火燒云，不可思議的紅。

媽媽來割一把韭菜，順便喊我們該回家洗洗，準備吃飯了。今晚就做一個韭菜炒雞蛋，還從小店里買了三毛錢什錦菜。

一縷強光斜過來，正擊中桂桂師傅的臉面，我看到他的雙眼血紅血紅，有渾濁的紅色液體從那里流出來，流出來，接著包裹了他的全身。

記憶中的那個血色黃昏，后來又有一只黑蝴蝶始終懸空飛舞在一朵白色小花之上，我把它趕走了，它又飛回來懸舞在白色小花的正上方。

那年秋天遲遲不肯遠去，后來也確實出了許多大事。

當同樣的畫面出現(xiàn)在來年春天畦田上空時，我的爺爺桂桂師傅已經(jīng)倒在了病床上。

但那年霜降后，他又在韭菜畦田里培育了三壟韭黃。培育韭黃需要花更多心思，需要更多的守護，入冬后的日子，除卻給鄉(xiāng)間紅白喜事做酒菜，他幾乎天天守護在畦田里。我說，爺爺，你總是流淚，韭菜吃多了對你的眼病不好吧？

我爺爺身體一直強健，除了迎風落淚，沒有其他毛病。他說，韭菜陽氣重，吃多了眼睛會充血，但韭黃隨和，韭黃炒香干比韭菜炒香干好吃，所以冬天里要把韭黃培植好。“我們村里都不會種，過年都是去臨平菜市場買的，我就帶個頭吧，我已經(jīng)捉摸好幾年了。”

我家桂桂師傅培植的韭黃那年冬天大告成功，印象中年夜飯就吃上了，正月里派上了大用場，鄰里親戚每家也都送了一點。

爺爺?shù)乖诓〈采系娜昀?，?jù)我媽后來回憶，總是念叨著要吃韭菜，一會兒韭菜，一會兒韭黃，一會兒又要韭花。

后來我媽也被接著的一茬割走了。

再后來，我老家李家橋整個村被開發(fā)區(qū)征用，韭菜畦田從此消失。

但春天里流動在河道里的韭香伴著秋天那個血色黃昏，一直留在了我故鄉(xiāng)的記憶中。

（部分圖片由CFP提供）

The Chinese solar terms begin with “” （“Beginning of Spring”）， an agricultural symbol of which is the Chinese chive. Traditional Chinese farmers believe the little， yellowish sprouts waking up from winter chill are the harbingers of a brand-new year of plenty.

My childhood memory is full of the fragrance of Chinese chive sprouts freshly cut from the fields. When the refreshing scent came with the smoke curling up from kitchens， I knew the winter was over and there would be a plate of my favorite springtime delicacy waiting for me on the table. A pious believer in rituals， my mother would make sure to use the first nest of eggs from the henhouse to make the dish.

The tradition of eating Chinese chives dates back to the ancient times of China. Legend has it that Zhou Yong， a man of letters in the Southern Dynasties （317-589）， once shared his epicurean thoughts with a prince by pointing out that the Chinese chives is the ideal early springtime delicacy.

One of the poems by Du Fu （712-770） also mentioned the poets weakness for the first harvest of Chinese chive sprouts. For him， the homey treat is not just a delight to taste buds but more of a cure of his frustrated mood and broken heart.

The cultivation of Chinese chives is comparably easy. You reap what you sow throughout the year. They grow fast， and are easy to take care of. And like a box of gifts， they keep producing surprises and bringing harvests to green thumbs as well as newbies， hence its nickname， “a vegetable that lives forever”.

Chinese chives is a favorite ingredient in Chinese culinary habits， used in a collection of dumplings and “” （Spring Rolls） for its strong fragrance as well as its auspicious name （the Chinese pronunciation “” suggests “l(fā)ong-lasting” and “forever”）.

The tradition of “” （literary “the first bite of springtime”） is still practiced by many rural people in China. My grandpa never got tired of reminiscing the thrill and joy of the “bite” – that is， to enjoy the best of spring and hold fast to the sweetest time of the year.

My grandpa was a village cook who also knew all the secrets about how to reap what one sows. In the kitchen， he was a perfectionist who never made do with the second best when it came to the ingredients. Fondly called “Chef Guigui” by fellow villagers， he did his best to make sure that each of the dishes was a piece of art that delighted all senses. I can still remember how the freshness and tenderness of the chive sprouts was preserved from his magical hands. Even the temperature of the eggs could be told.

Chinese chives used to be a favorite ingredient of my grandpas culinary innovation that is full of his life philosophy. When I was a little child， I would enjoy a big bowl of noodles with shredded meat after offering a helping hand in my grandpas vegetable garden， as a reward from him. He took care of the spring sprouts just like taking care of his children， giving them the best they deserved. Hed spend most of his day on the ridges smoking his bamboo pipe and watching the sprouts break through the soil. The lovely spring view and the prospect of the first harvest that would come about in one month would make him very happy and content.

“A lifetime is just like the life cycles of the chives; one crop after another， and then it is you that get taken away. You just wait for your turn，” he would murmur， more talking to himself than trying to tell me something about what life really was.

After two crops， my grandpas chive fields presented a spectacular view of little， whitish flowers gently swaying in late summer breezes and attracting butterflies. One day at dusk， my grandpa was sitting on the ridge and smoking his pipe. “Catch that black butterfly！” He said to me， pointing at the butterfly with his pipe. The sunset glow of that moment was scarlet red， cascading on the face of my grandpa. It looked as if blood were streaming out of his eyes.

He was bed-ridden for about three years before he passed away. “Chives are not good for your eyes， grandpa，” I would try convincing him and he would not listen. My mother had to make all kinds of chive dishes just to make him happy.

A few years later， my mother was taken away by the Grim Reaper. Somehow， I feel lucky for her because she did not have to see my grandpas chive fields and the whole village vanishes into the massive urbanization of the region.

I have since been haunted by that bloody twilight， and butterflies.