袁明華

《說(shuō)文解字》說(shuō)：“一種而久者，故謂之韭。”所以，韭菜又名“長(zhǎng)生菜”。多種韭菜，日子便經(jīng)得久。從《詩(shī)經(jīng)》至今，韭菜的故事從未與過(guò)往的歷史割裂過(guò)。

立春從一把韭菜開(kāi)始。

早在冰雪覆蓋之下，韭菜就期待春陽(yáng)，準(zhǔn)備了新衣，和一畦畦同樣從冰雪中復(fù)蘇過(guò)來(lái)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(dāng)鄉(xiāng)間裊裊炊煙在春寒料峭的晚風(fēng)中襲來(lái)縷縷韭香，我媽已經(jīng)割下第一刀新韭，從雞棚里摸兩個(gè)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(guò)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(pán)韭菜炒雞蛋的優(yōu)享權(quán)。

韭菜有深厚的植食文化積淀，從《詩(shī)經(jīng)》至今，韭菜的故事就從未與過(guò)往的歷史割裂過(guò)。比如南朝劉宋時(shí)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(duì)的家常便飯，卻是酒逢知已千杯少，是詩(shī)人離亂中貼心的溫暖。比如五代時(shí)期的楊凝式，午睡醒來(lái)，恰逢有人饋贈(zèng)韭花，非?？煽?，執(zhí)筆寫(xiě)了一封謝折，短短53字的手札，竟成就了天下第五行書(shū)。一把韭菜，成就文學(xué)史上的一段佳話(huà)。

而在我少年時(shí)的鄉(xiāng)村經(jīng)驗(yàn)中，韭菜其實(shí)是適合懶人種的菜。只要種下一畦，家里就不會(huì)缺菜。割了一茬長(zhǎng)一茬，幾乎一年四季都有得吃。而且還可以數(shù)年內(nèi)不停地割，越割越長(zhǎng)，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(zhǎng)好，也不怎么害蟲(chóng)。懶人鐘情于韭菜，人懶菜不懶，不辱懶人名聲，甚至?xí)o懶人帶來(lái)好運(yùn)。此等奇妙便生成了韭菜美好的寓意——長(zhǎng)久。

《說(shuō)文解字》說(shuō)：“一種而久者，故謂之韭?！彼?，韭菜又名“長(zhǎng)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(jìn)屋酒拜菩薩，甚至上墳祭祖，鄉(xiāng)人都樂(lè)意用韭菜，因此輕視不得。

有些地方至今還保持著“咬春”的習(xí)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(chēng)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(píng)果，將樹(shù)上的蘋(píng)果與地下的蘋(píng)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(yùn)河邊的魚(yú)羊鮮，將魚(yú)肉和羊肉燒一塊兒，尤其是甲魚(yú)燒羊肉，那是農(nóng)家上等菜。

而四鄉(xiāng)八里最常見(jiàn)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(guò)一小時(shí)。炒成后，起鍋盛盤(pán)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(lái)的鮮度和剛從雞棚里摸出來(lái)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(cái)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?lèi)?ài)。

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(kāi)心了，會(huì)帶我去臨平街上聚樂(lè)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(guān)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(lái)的線(xiàn)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(zhǎng)的小竹管，裝一個(gè)銅嘴頭。抽著抽著，河邊畦田里針尖般細(xì)密的綠色幼芽頂破土壤探出來(lái)了，連煙霧也在陽(yáng)光下縈繞起一片春光。抽著抽著，葉脈漸漸變寬，一點(diǎn)一點(diǎn)向上生長(zhǎng)，個(gè)把月的工夫，第一茬韭菜就可以開(kāi)割了。

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

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

三

老去的兩壟韭菜開(kāi)花了。油綠的韭菜頂端簇起一朵朵銀色的小白花，未開(kāi)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(fēng)采。秋蝶翩躚而來(lái)，花隨風(fēng)動(dòng)，蝶影婆娑，成了畦田秋天最美的畫(huà)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(lái)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(lái)割一把韭菜，順便喊我們?cè)摶丶蚁聪矗瑴?zhǔn)備吃飯了。今晚就做一個(gè)韭菜炒雞蛋，還從小店里買(mǎi)了三毛錢(qián)什錦菜。

一縷強(qiáng)光斜過(guò)來(lái)，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(lái)，流出來(lái)，接著包裹了他的全身。

記憶中的那個(gè)血色黃昏，后來(lái)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(lái)懸舞在白色小花的正上方。

那年秋天遲遲不肯遠(yuǎn)去，后來(lái)也確實(shí)出了許多大事。

當(dāng)同樣的畫(huà)面出現(xiàn)在來(lái)年春天畦田上空時(shí)，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(hù)，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(hù)在畦田里。我說(shuō)，爺爺，你總是流淚，韭菜吃多了對(duì)你的眼病不好吧？

我爺爺身體一直強(qiáng)健，除了迎風(fēng)落淚，沒(méi)有其他毛病。他說(shuō)，韭菜陽(yáng)氣重，吃多了眼睛會(huì)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?！拔覀兇謇锒疾粫?huì)種，過(guò)年都是去臨平菜市場(chǎng)買(mǎi)的，我就帶個(gè)頭吧，我已經(jīng)捉摸好幾年了?！?/p>

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(chǎng)，鄰里親戚每家也都送了一點(diǎn)。

爺爺?shù)乖诓〈采系娜昀铮瑩?jù)我媽后來(lái)回憶，總是念叨著要吃韭菜，一會(huì)兒韭菜，一會(huì)兒韭黃，一會(huì)兒又要韭花。

后來(lái)我媽也被接著的一茬割走了。

再后來(lái)，我老家李家橋整個(gè)村被開(kāi)發(fā)區(qū)征用，韭菜畦田從此消失。

但春天里流動(dòng)在河道里的韭香伴著秋天那個(gè)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.