by Li Juan
Although an inevitability in the course of life, it was nonetheless painful to see.
* * *
PUTTING THE CATTLE to bed at night, Sister-in-law arranged them according to their ability to withstand the cold, with the back of the burrow being the warmest and the entrance being the coldest. Farthest back were the nursing cows, then the cows, then the young bulls. But there were always individuals who were unhappy with their placement and insisted on shoving the others. And once said individual reached the back of the burrow, it defended its territory with all its might, ramming anyone who came close. For Sister-in-law, putting the cattle to bed was always a battle. Fists were swung, feet were kicked, curses were shouted.
One thing that puzzled me was why Sister-in-law always led the big black cow in first, giving it the best spot. It looked plenty big and strong.… It wasn’t until one day when it gave birth that I understood—it was a pregnant mother!
The black cow’s calf was born early one morning in the middle of January. When Sister-in-law went to let the cattle out of the burrow first thing in the morning, she came right back to bring us the news. Thrilled, I put down my tea bowl and ran to look. So—a newborn calf is no bigger than a dog. It was all skin and bones with huge, bright eyes. Dragging from its belly was a long, slimy umbilical cord. All of a sudden, the black cow’s belly deflated, drooping loosely over its pelvis. It had been a skinny cow all along!
The black cow licked its calf with love and affection, not the least bit put off by the slimy, ugly little thing. The calf’s four hooves were so thin that it couldn’t stand straight. Even though it could hardly keep its body off the ground, it still tried its best to avoid me.
Cuma happily remarked, “Don’t be fooled by the fact that it can’t walk yet. Tomorrow, it’ll be walking slowly. The day after tomorrow, it will be walking quickly. Then, the day after that, Li Juan, even you won’t be able to catch it!”
The cattle burrow was too cold, so Sister-in-law brought the calf back to our burrow. The big black cow was furious. It refused to eat and stood outside our door, screaming for days. (There was one thing that perhaps Cuma and the family did wrong. They threw away the placenta instead of giving it to the mother to eat. According to them, if the cow ate it, it wouldn’t produce milk, but as far as I know, it’s mammalian instinct to eat the placenta after giving birth as the first boost of postpartum nutrients.…)
The calf was probably unaware of the fact that it was the subject of all the protestations outside. It was unaffected by its mother’s call, crouching listlessly on the manure floor under the window. With its jaw on the ground, nose scrunched up, it spent all day doing nothing.
For two days, the black cow decided to block the entrance to our burrow and give everyone coming and going a mean look. It even chewed up the thermometer I had hung outside, broke the plastic sheet over our window, and knocked over our satellite dish. On the third day, it was so hungry that it had no choice but to follow the others to graze. But after only two hours, it returned by itself to continue to protest. After another long demonstration, it felt hungry and joined the herd once more. As soon as it had filled its belly, it rushed home to take care of its unfinished business … what a persistent gal!
That very same day, the black cow started producing milk. I carried the calf out of our burrow to suckle. It was a hefty little thing, about thirty pounds! Carrying around such a heavy load must have been tiring for mama cow, not to mention having to walk a long way to find grass.…
Since the black cow was producing milk, Sister-in-law decided she might as well squeeze a small potful! And that was the first time I tasted cow colostrum. It’s hard to believe, it was yellow and thick—impossible to boil, you had to steam it. Once steamed, it looked like egg custard but much heartier and more potent. And it tasted like egg custard, not at all like dairy! The treat sat at the center of the table. Everyone shared it using the same spoon. The calf crouched grumpily by the bed, probably because it knew that we were eating its lunch.
But whose fault was it that it didn’t finish its meal? It was so much more interested in this strange new world than in its mother’s milk. Each time, it would get distracted after only a few sips. It was always running off, forcing its mother to chase after it, calling and running.
Cuma was right! By the fourth day, not even I could catch the little guy. It ran all over the place! On the fifth day, it learned another new skill: jumping. It bucked its hind legs as it jumped, which was quite the performance. All the other cattle and calves turned to watch in amazement. And yet, it couldn’t recognize its own mother! As it passed by the other cattle, whether it was a bull or a cow, it would kneel down to look for teats. But often all it found was a headbutt. Good thing it was born a fighter. The moment is saw the other three calves, it charged forth to challenge them (it seemed to have known not to mess with the cattle …). Unfortunately, its head was bald, without any horns to speak of. Clearly, it was no match for the other calves!
In short, the calf quickly fell in love with the world. Whereas at first, it needed to be picked up and taken outside, now, as soon as the door opened, it would leap outside. As soon as it was out the door, it began to run in circles. Its anxious mother chased after it, circle after circle, mooing all the while. Alas, there were only a short few hours to run wild; of course it was too busy to drink milk! It was a cause for concern. Even little Karlygash knew to drink milk several times a day. Yet this newborn, barely a week old, only drank milk once or twice a day. It sure could handle hunger.
Cuma said that in ten days, the calf would begin to eat grass. So Zhada gathered a big bouquet of “Fickle” grass and hung it from the window. The soft “Fickle” grass was the best fodder winter had to offer; all the cattle loved it. On the other hand, it was just dried grass, coarse and hard—whereas the calf’s tongue was so tender. Alas! Lucky are the calves born in the summer pasture, where the earth is covered in tender green grasses.
Sure enough, after the grass had been hanging there for a week or so, the calf poked its head up to eat it! The first time I noticed, I quickly ran to tell everyone. With everyone watching, the calf stretched its neck to take a second bite. Everyone was thrilled.
By day twelve, the calf’s frame had filled out considerably and its coat had grown thicker, giving it a glow of confidence—a black, shiny snout, eyelashes thick and long, and a pair of perky ears like a dog’s. But it was still ever so petulant. When it was out frolicking, it was always puffed up with pride, unwilling to answer to anyone.
Thanks to that little calf, our standard of living had greatly improved! Every day, we were able to drink creamy milk-tea … a cow who has just given birth is highly productive!
Sadly, the good times didn’t last. On a warm day in the middle of February, Cuma’s relatives from Akehara arrived in a rented jeep to pick up the black cow and the calf. They had a newborn child back home who needed the milk more than we did. In the winter, milk is a precious commodity.
At that point, it wouldn’t be long before we picked up camp and migrated north. Such a young calf may not have been able to handle such a long journey. It was better off in the care of the relatives. As for the milk, I suppose that would have to be considered the caretaker’s compensation.
The men tied the black cow to the hatchback of the Beijing jeep and covered it with a felt mat to symbolically protect it from the frigid journey. The calf was tied into a ball, wrapped in felt, and stuffed into a polyester sack, which was then stuffed under the back seat … its own fault for being so compact! It couldn’t have been a comfortable ride. Had it been a person curled up like that for the whole journey, their limbs would have gone numb and fallen off.
Knowing that the black cow was leaving us, Sister-in-law figured she may as well squeeze another small pot full of milk! It was enough to keep our tea creamy for three days.
As the sky comes to light, the cattle set out to pasture.
24.
Food
WHEN I FIRST AR
RIVED in the pastures, the moon looked pale and elegant. But before long, when I looked up, all I saw was a crispy golden pancake, fried just right … not to mention everything else that I could put in my mouth or, better yet, my stomach! Confronted with the vision of such delectable treats, I froze as if caught in a gun’s sights.
During teatime, I usually politely declined refills after three bowls by saying, “Satisfied!” But once, after only my second bowl, Cuma spoke on my behalf: “Ja, boldy!” (Enough, satisfied!). Feeling panicked, I quickly corrected him: “Haide boldy?” (What do you mean, satisfied?). Everyone laughed. So it was that Cuma gave me a nickname: “Haide boldy.”
From then on, if I was full from a meal but the cook was offering more, I would politely say, “Toydym!” (I’m full!). Cuma went out of his way to mishear my words as “Toyjadymu” (I’m only half-full). Which was how he gave me a second nickname: “Toyjadymu.”
I had to live with these two nicknames all winter.
* * *
IN THIS DAY AND AGE, perhaps it is only out here in the wilderness, living a life simple enough to split with an ax, that food is still just food—and not some sort of pretty composition or novel distraction. It’s there, on the tablecloth, on the plate. Between you and your food is the shortest path between two points. It only has one purpose: eat me! Food appears in the oral cavity the way love appears in the spring! There’s nothing more natural, nothing more perfect.
Question: What kind of food is the most delicious?
Answer: The food of a quiet and peaceful life is the most delicious!
In a quiet and peaceful life, even a handful of cracked wheat can smell like paradise. Soak the cracked wheat in some tea with milk, then mix in some butter—your heart and soul will surrender to it! More specifically, it’s the kind of deliciousness that after every gentle chew sends another wave of ocean tide passing over you, a tide that sweeps away all the scattered footprints cluttering the sand.
Or what if you added a handful of crumbled irimzhik (cottage cheese made from sour cream) to your tea with milk? Then you would have even more to chew on. You are struck by an aroma like a welcome home from your two-hundred-and-sixty-pound wife, as she stands there with open arms, full of warmth and comfort. And if the tea happened to have been boiled with some cloves and black pepper, then she would be smiling a deep, meaningful smile.
There is only one reason to eat noodles in sauce: to make your belly as round as you can!
Wheat porridge, on the other hand, acts like a clothes iron that smooths out all the crinkles from your stomach. And if that wheat porridge has been cooked in lamb broth topped with yogurt, then all the digestive enzymes in your stomach will raise their banners like a welcome parade!
When you eat baozi, baozis are the most delicious things in the world. When you eat mutton on the bone, the most delicious food in the world becomes mutton on the bone. There’s not even the slightest contradiction between these two truths.
Let us consider the baozi’s filling: diced potato, minced meat, pork rind. Now let us reconsider it: soft and flaky potato mash, a meatball bursting with juices, golden brown rind … Then let us consider mutton on the bone: think about how after Cuma quickly completes the bata (so simple you might say he never even started it), he picks up the knife and starts shaving slices of meat; think of how bright and shiny the slice of bread becomes after it has fully soaked all the meat’s juices, how pleased with itself the bread feels, being held in the same regard as the slice of meat. In the end, what the baozi and the hand-pulled meat have in common is that even when you are gorged up to your uvula, you feel like you still want to eat more.
Can the leftover filling from the baozi be used to stuff more baozi later? No! Sister-in-law was much more resourceful than that. The next day, she shaved a few more fatty slices of meat into the filling before kneading two steering-wheel-sized flatbreads. She stuffed the middle with the filling, sealed the edges, then threw the whole thing into the piping-hot oven the same way she baked nan. That’s one serious baked baozi—the size of a steering wheel! When it was time for the baozi to come out of the oven, everyone was waiting eagerly at the sitting area. The neighbors’ kids weren’t going home no matter what. They could wait forever if they needed to. When the steering-wheel-sized baozi landed on the tablecloth, its glory lit up the whole burrow! When Sister-in-law sliced it up like a birthday cake, grease poured everywhere! Rahmethan’s hand was as quick as his eyes, instantly reaching out to grab the largest slice. He ate it slowly and properly, then declined a second slice with just as much decorum.
After having munched all the meat from a horse femur, Cuma would pull out his butcher knife and hack off the two dumbbell-shaped ends of the bone. He had Kama and me chew on the pieces and suck out the marrow from hollow bone. When someone is cruel, we say they “suck a person’s marrow dry”; in other words, they are very violent. But to be honest, sucking horse marrow is … oh that flavor! It’s impossible to pass up—even if chewing on the pieces of bone only yields a teeny, tiny amount of marrow.
The cheese soup Sayna brought over from next door was one of life’s pleasant surprises. Better yet, she generously added lots of sugar!
And there was the thin nan baked in sheep-manure charcoal—Sister-in-law would fire up a pile of manure until the flames died down. Then she would pry apart the smoldering charcoals and lay them out flat. After that, she would knead a prepared dough into a large flatbread and throw it in the center of the smoldering charcoal. Finally, she would move the charcoals back to cover the pristine white dough. Once the charcoal had cooled, she would use her tongs to pull out a perfectly golden brown, porcelain-hard flatbread—yum, the smell … what more can I say?
Likewise, what can I say about beef plov or meat and potato kuurdak stew? And strangely enough, even dry nan soaked in breakfast tea, maybe with half a spoonful of butter—even that’s so delicious it leaves me speechless.
And if there was a handful of tary in the tea, then speechless would be an understatement. You pretty much had to weep, it was that delicious.…
We only had two heads of cabbage in total. Every day, we peeled off a few leaves to boil with our dinner. This way, the two cabbages lasted us two months! Why were they able to last us so long? It was because in addition to cabbages, we had over twenty potatoes.
The scene of someone frying baursak was as festive as New Year’s Eve: an iron wok bubbling with oil, a kneading board filled with snow-white dough patties, a whole pot and a bowl full to the brim with golden brown squares!
There was nothing more than a pinch of salt added to the baursak, yet it was rich with flavor. The fried dough leaves rolled in raw brown sugar were enticing, like the nouveau riche; the dough nuggets rolled in sunflower-seed oil were classy, like old money. First taste the nouveau riche, then wait for the old money—it was just like New Year’s.
But, for some reason, whenever they made deep-fried food, everyone ate it as soon as it was ready; they never bothered to wait for me.…
And yet, the hand-pulled meat and baozi and tary, both the new money and the old … in our everyday life, they were seldom seen. More often than not, there was only nan on the tablecloth, paired with small dishes of butter and mutton fat. This simple combination must have gone unchanged for hundreds of years. And as for me, I don’t pine for hand-pulled meat, nor do I especially care for tary; the only thing on my mind is that day-old, half-golden, half-tan piece of nan sitting alone on the kitchen counter. That is my one and only! That is my rock-solid truth, the thing that keeps me pondering, even in my sleep—what hasn’t it been eaten yet? Give it another day, it’ll get even harder!
If, when you reach for a piece of nan, you happen to pick one that is only two days old (the rest are all three days old!), it’s even more exciting than winning five bucks at the lottery.
Sometimes, Shinshybek would stop by after dinner. As a sign of respect, Sister-in-law would take out a piece of freshly baked nan … at which point, even if I had just fin
ished dinner, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from returning to the tablecloth for another round of tea and nan. Screw it, so what if I have to double my trips to the toilet in the freezing cold!
Regarding that really old nan that even the hottest tea can’t soften, Sister-in-law had a special trick. She would break it up into small pieces and toss them into the wok when she was stir-frying meat (with the lid on). Out of the wok, the broth-soaked nan was tender yet chewy … even tastier than the meat itself! Noticing how much I enjoyed it, everyone gave me their nan bits. As thanks, I gave everyone my meat in return.
* * *
I ASSUME EVERYONE HAD noticed how obsessed with food I was. If I woke up a half hour early one day, Cuma would say, “Stomach must be grumbling early today!”
He’s one to talk! He’s the gluttonous one. Whenever food was prepared, as soon as the meat was done stewing, Sister-in-law would serve a small bowl of unseasoned meat just for him. Then she would take whatever was left of his meat and stir-fry it with vegetables or add it to noodle soups—even if there were kids or guests watching. Even if everyone was staring at him, the man they call Cuma could still swallow every last bite, unfazed. As a parent, he was about as responsible as a politician!
On these occasions, Kama, who was usually the greedy and petulant daughter, acted like she hadn’t seen anything! But young Zhada wasn’t quite as disciplined. One time, he slowly edged up to his father, quickly snatched two pieces of meat, and fled as he chewed.
Kama showed her true nature when she asked Sister-in-law for a couple of pieces of candy, every day. When Sister-in-law refused, she would steal her mother’s health tonic, “Mind-at-Ease.” She drank it like a soda because it was sweet. But Kama’s favorite magic trick was to pull a potato out from the manure charcoal in the stove. My, the decadence! We split it in half and shared it. The moment the potato split open, the grainy flesh emitted a gust of steam that could take a bite right out of the coldness of winter.…