In my childhood, the twelfth lunar month was always filled with busyness. Within this short month, we had to complete numerous tasks: cleaning the house, buying new clothes, preparing festive foods, and more. At the same time, it was the most mysterious month. Dumplings prepared on New Year's Eve couldn't be left in the kitchen, and you weren't allowed to watch others fry their New Year's treats.
Entering the twelfth month always brought a sense of urgency. The New Year felt like someone holding a whip behind you, lashing out again and again.Adults bustled about as if possessed, rushing about like mad.
Women bore the heaviest load during the twelfth lunar month.
"After the fifth day of the twelfth month, beans sprout like axe blades. After the eighth day, they grow as thick as chopsticks. By New Year's Day, they'll be as sturdy as rafters," Mother would chant while winnowing wheat, washing grains, and grinding flour.She dug out the wheat she'd been saving all summer from the flour chest with a scoop, carried it to the irrigation ditch to wash clean, then carried it back to spread on mats to dry. After that, she went to "ask for grinding."
Women were also busy with needlework. They spun yarn and wove cloth early on—checkered cloth and striped cloth for girls; coarse white cloth dyed blue or black for boys.My aunt was a seamstress. Every New Year, she made clothes for my siblings and me. In exchange, my mother made shoes for her children.Then, carrying baskets, we'd go in groups to the "Warm Water Beach" behind the cliff to wash them. Wooden mallets and soap pods came into play, "thump thump thump," beating the water into splashes. Back home, we'd hang them on bamboo poles, red and green, like a rainbow of flags.
The twelfth lunar month also meant rushing to the market to trade homemade goods for cash, then stocking up on New Year's provisions. My father's cutting boards and pot lids, Uncle Wenyao's straw rings... all had to be sold at the major markets during this month before buying this and that. The twelfth-month market was a sea of people, stretching from East Gate to West Gate, with goods lining both sides of the street.
By the twenty-ninth day of the twelfth lunar month, it was the "Rush Market": rich or poor, people bought what they needed and hurried away. There was no time for browsing or haggling.
For many years, the market offered no New Year paintings—only portraits of Chairman Mao. The cave dwelling walls were uneven and damp, rendering paste and thumbtacks useless.My father carefully hammered long nails—the kind used for dry carpentry—into the four corners of the portrait, fearing his hand might slip and "accidentally harm" Chairman Mao. Slaughtering pigs and chickens kept the men busy too. In the cold twelfth lunar month, men found time to gather firewood in the mountains for steaming buns and cooking stews.They would then split the gathered firewood into logs, stacking them neatly in front of the cave entrance or under the eaves. These orderly piles looked warm and inviting, signaling a household that knew how to live well.
The more diligent would tidy the courtyard early, arranging stones and tiles neatly in the corners, clearing manure from pigsties, chicken coops, and rabbit hutches, replacing it with fresh soil, and cutting grass from the cliff edges. After all, during the New Year, what does wealth or poverty matter? Cleanliness is essential. After all, people laugh at dirtiness, not poverty.
Around here, we steam buns using large pots, straw rings, and bamboo strips. Dexterous men would head into the mountains to cut kudzu vines and white grass, returning to weave straw rings. Besides using them ourselves, we could take them to the market to earn a few coins.
Father was a carpenter. In the twelfth lunar month, neighbors would come to our house in twos and threes—one seeking an axe, another needing a saw.After a year of wind and rain, either the pot lids broke or the bamboo handles fell off, needing repairs. Some brought wood for Father to make new lids; others brought finished lids to be planed smooth or adjusted if they didn't fit properly. It was a lively back-and-forth.
Slaughtering pigs and chickens was men's work. Pig slaughtering drew the whole village; chicken slaughtering kept the household bustling. Father sharpened his knife on the whetstone before heading to the coop to catch a rooster. I couldn't bear to watch and slipped outside. Before the slaughter, Mother would chant incantations: "Don't blame us, little chicken. If we don't kill you, we'll have nothing to serve our guests."By the time I returned from behind the cliff, the chicken lay still beneath the eaves. Hot water boiled in the kitchen, its pungent scent mingling with the festive air of the New Year.
Steaming buns is a skill in itself.
As the twelfth lunar month drew to a close, life grew even busier.On the twenty-fourth, sweeping the house was non-negotiable. Mother donned a straw hat and mask, moved every pot, jar, box, and cabinet outside, and swept the cave ceiling and walls with a large broom, clearing years of dust from the cave walls. She emerged covered in dust like a "dust person."
Mother always approached this task with great diligence, sweeping every nook and cranny without the slightest carelessness. When I asked, "Why clean so thoroughly?" she would reply, "It's the New Year, after all. We can't bring dust into the new year, can we?"
On the twenty-sixth day of the twelfth lunar month, we steamed buns. Every household prepared several pots of buns that day, enough to last until the fifteenth day of the first lunar month. Besides our own consumption, these steamed buns served as gifts for visiting relatives. Only the closest kin received buns; more distant relatives were given a box of sesame wafers or a jar of preserves instead.
Steaming buns is a skilled task: the dough must rise properly, and the bean paste filling must be well-covered. For vegetable-stuffed buns, the vegetable filling also needs advance preparation. Winter's low temperatures make dough rise difficult, so Mother would mix the yeast starter batter the night before, placing it in a pot of warm water. She'd check on it several times throughout the night.
Early the next morning, she'd "lift the dough"—lifting two large bowls.Once the dough had risen again, she kneaded it thoroughly, then divided it into evenly sized portions. These were filled with bean paste or cabbage, shaped into buns, and left to rest on the work surface before being placed in the steamer. The first batch went in first; once the water boiled and the buns' skins tightened, the second and third batches followed.
After 40 minutes of steaming, the buns were done.When removing the buns, they must be taken out while hot. If they cool, they stick to the steamer cloth, and the condensation will make them soggy. Opening the pot was too hot; Mother would always suck in her breath, "Huff, huff, huff," switching hands.
On steaming day, there was no time for cooking; the whole family ate steamed buns.When Mother kneaded the dough, we helped at first, but soon grew bored. By the time we returned from playing outside, two pots of bean-filled steamed buns already sat in the winnowing basket in the courtyard.
After another round of hopscotch, the vegetable-filled buns were ready. We grabbed them and ate.After two steamed bun meals in one day, our stomachs felt dry and uncomfortable. Mother scolded, "Go drink some water!" After drinking, we went back for more buns, this time peeling off the crusts to eat only the vegetable filling. Mother chided, "Oh dear, you've got such a big appetite, wasting food like that!"No Outsiders Allowed During "Pot Cooking"
On the twenty-seventh day of the twelfth lunar month, every household engaged in "pot cooking"—frying oil-based foods. In our area, this included fried mustard greens, dried slices, meatballs, sweet potato chips, and sweet potato balls. Each year during pot cooking, my parents worked in perfect, silent harmony: one tended the fire while the other fed ingredients into the pot.
They never let us get close or speak loudly, saying they feared spit might splash into the oil or hot oil might splatter and burn someone.
The biggest taboo during frying was having outsiders come by. If strangers arrived, either the oil would bubble over or the fried goods would sink. Yet there were always tactless people who came to disturb you right when you were frying.Borrowing things, chatting idly—you can't very well ask them to leave, can you?
Strangely enough, whenever someone arrived during frying, the oil would suddenly start bubbling and overflowing, or the fried items would become stiff and unyielding.Mother warned us never to visit neighbors during the twelfth lunar month. If you must go out, play in the fields instead—especially when someone is steaming buns or frying dough. Never intrude. They say steaming buns fears disturbances too. The first batch might be fine, but after visitors arrive, the second batch either turns green or refuses to rise at all.Mother said, "It's all about warding off evil spirits. Even if you don't believe it, it won't work."
Farmers always have their own humor. When meeting during the twelfth lunar month, they'd ask each other:
"What are you preparing?"
"Nothing much. Just buying a few pounds of vermicelli and cutting some meat."
"Exactly. It's New Year's. What's the big deal?"
"Ah, the New Year's easy to get through, but the rest of the year's tough."
"Tough or not, we get through it. Every year's hard, but we make it."
"Exactly. Can't let it keep us from celebrating, can we?"
After cooking the pot, it's time to make dumplings. The clatter of meat being chopped echoes through the village.The finished dumplings had to be stored in the living quarters, never the kitchen. Strange things had happened in the village before—someone had made a whole table full of dumplings on New Year's Eve, only for them to vanish by dawn on the first day of the new year. Some said thieves had stolen them, others claimed departed relatives had taken them. Mother's explanation was this: "When mice marry off their daughters, they steal flowered shoes and dumplings too."
After eating the dumplings, Mother took out new shoes, clothes, and socks from the chest, placing them by each person's bed. When we woke, firecrackers roared outside like thunder and lightning. We ran out to play, leaving our parents—who'd worked hard all through the cold month of December—to finally enjoy a day of rest.