Crispy Pork

A few years ago, my mother asked me to roughly plan the menu for the New Year’s Eve dinner, and the first recipe that popped into my mind was: Crispy Pork. One bite and the caramel aroma overflows.

I am glad that I can inherit my grandma’s original craftsmanship today, allowing me to retain the taste that the old man brought to me when she was still alive.

At that time, my grandma’s fingers had become bent due to years of hard work. All ten fingers were like this. As a young person, I didn’t feel too deeply. I just stood by the stove and watched my grandma cut the pork into small pieces. Take a small piece, put it into a basin, add some eggs, cornstarch or something, and mix the pork pieces evenly with one hand and the other hand. Although the fingers cannot be straightened, the movements are still flexible and quick.

After the oil was hot, my grandma grabbed the mixed pork and put it into the pot piece by piece. There was a sizzling sound in the large earthen stove pot, and I watched the pieces of crispy meat cooking. The oil pan bloomed like circles of golden ripples, and my heart was filled with anticipation.

My grandma in my hometown

At that time, I would go back to my hometown every winter and summer vacation. In the small county town full of fireworks, my grandma’s house was on an ordinary stilted building. In the morning, my grandma and grandpa would go to the early market with vegetable baskets on their backs. When I woke up, they had already gone home carrying the day's ingredients. Sometimes they would bring back some cakes or gouache for my brother and me.

Life was very slow at that time, we were very young and my grandmother was not yet old.

While my grandma was working, she would chat with my grandpa from time to time about family issues. She would occasionally watch TV and interact with my brother and I. After finishing the preparations, she would carry the basins and bowls through the long aisle into the kitchen. When it was over, grandpa started reading the newspaper, and there began to be a clanking sound in the kitchen. That was the state that grandma was in most often. After a while, you could smell the aroma of food.

Grandma said she should look forward to it twice a year, once during the summer vacation and once during the winter vacation. That meant I was coming back. She said she could take me to bed and fry crispy pork for me to eat. Often in a leisurely afternoon, I would watch my grandma bring a large pot of crispy pork in front of me for my brother and I to eat together. I can’t remember when she entered the kitchen. The only thing I can remember is that she slowly approached me from the end of the long aisle, holding a large portion of crispy pork in her hands. The aisle is usually not lit, so it remains in my memory. The deepest part is the silhouette of my grandmother, short but capable. I think this silhouette must have a reassuring smile.

Many years later

A long time later, life became faster, we grew up, and grandma got old.

My hometown has been modernized, the old house was demolished, and my grandma moved into a commercial building with her younger brother and his family. The last time she fried crispy pork for me was the Spring Festival of the year before she died. My grandfather had already left, and she had spent five years alone that year. She said she was lonely, missed her grandpa, and often slept holding her grandpa's clothes.

She knew that I was going back to my hometown that day, so she stared at the corner where I appeared on the balcony early. Until I appeared and called her loudly, she waved to me vigorously, with a reassuring smile on her face, until Saw me entering the unit building. This scene repeats every year, just like the tacit understanding between me and her, as long as I come back, there will be her figure in the corner of the balcony, which makes me feel at ease. No matter how far I go, as long as I come back, there will be someone caring about me and waiting for me.

She hugged me as soon as I entered the door, like a child waiting for candy. After I settled down, she went into the kitchen and started frying crispy pork. She said that she knew I liked to eat it and had prepared a lot of it early in the morning. She was afraid that I wouldn't eat enough, so I stayed with her and watched her with a smile.

Grandma couldn't resist me, so she taught me. I listened very carefully and recorded it carefully in my notebook. I was afraid that if I made a wrong step, the taste would be worse. I had never asked myself so accurately. Although there are too many recipes for crispy pork, I just love the taste of hers.