一碗油光闪闪的红烧肉上，突然多了一簇一簇鹅黄色的生物。
那密密麻麻的细长细长的卵，不知道是哪只早起的苍蝇还是飞蛾留下的。看到它们的那一秒，我气得又是跺脚又是叹气，心里灌满了懊恼。我懊恼自己清晨出门时的匆忙，竟然一转身就忘了把这碗红烧肉放进冰箱；我更气的是，这可是一碗早上新烧的、热气腾腾的红烧肉，原本是一家人一天的口粮。
On top of a bowl of glistening, glistening red-braised pork belly, clusters of pale-yellow organisms had suddenly materialized.
Those dense, elongated eggs—left behind by some early-rising fly or moth—instantly made me stomp my feet and sigh in pure frustration, my mind flooded with regret. I was mad at my own rush when leaving the house this morning, turning on my heel only to forget to slide this bowl of pork into the fridge. What burned me even more was that this was a freshly cooked, steaming bowl of braised pork belly from this morning—the foundational meal meant to sustain the family for the entire day.
In those faraway days, a bowl of braised pork belly was a luxury of cosmic proportions.
Back then, the adults could never bring themselves to raise their chopsticks against it, hoarding the meat so the children could eat first. The kids were picky, eating only the interlaced lean parts, while the adults sat by in silence, peeling away and eating the pork skin. Yet, no matter how greedy their cravings, no single child could actually eat much; usually by the third piece, an adult would bark a reprimand to stop.
In that era, a bowl of braised pork belly had to be meticulously calculated against the calendar; it often had to stretch across three days. By the third day, nothing remained in the bowl but a few chunks of fat and a thick layer of congealed gravy. At that point, the adults would take the remnants and simmer them alongside small potatoes. The potatoes, enveloped in the deep red aroma of the meat, would stew until they were fragrant and melt-in-your-mouth soft—it was unimaginably delicious. Sometimes, when the first round of potatoes was cleared, the remaining gravy would be used to stew a second round. Only then, at the very end, could the life trajectory of this single bowl of braised pork be considered to have righteously fulfilled its destiny.
Yet right now, this bowl before my eyes—which should have reached that exact same fulfillment—had been brutally brought down by these clusters of uninvited guests.
The manifestations of this world are sometimes excruciatingly ironic. The exact same cluster of pale yellow, if grown on a tender sprout in early spring, would likely move you to praise nature's bounty and celebrate the generative power of life. However, when it punctures the air right there in that bowl of highly aromatic braised pork, it only makes my stomach turn over in violent revulsion. Right on its heels, the instinctive impulse for thrift—bred deep into the bones of every Chinese—rose up, engaging in a dead lock of a struggle with the immediate disgust.
The child stood to one side, his eyes devoid of fear, containing only the innocent curiosity of someone who has not yet encountered the world. He even suggested, "Let's put them in a glass jar and raise them, just to see what kind of creature they turn into."
Hearing this, I waved my hands frantically to shut it down.
The youth born after the 2000s cannot possibly comprehend what kind of days my generation lived through. They have never seen those wide-open outhouses of the early years; they have never seen the bizarre sight of white maggots desperately squirming out of the pit in the stench of a summer day. They have no way to understand what it was like living in a cramped, suffocating rented room, where on the wooden ceiling overhead, flies would lay eggs on a dead rat and hatch into maggots, falling down in clusters through the cracks onto the bed, onto the floor—a pure horror scene. Those are boils grown deep into our skin and memories; touch them, and you get a full body of goosebumps.
The elder of the house drifted over too, took one look, sighed, and said, "It’s fine. Just pick out those white seeds and it’s good to eat. Don't let it go to waste."
But I knew. You can pick away the seeds on the surface, but you can never pick away the image burned into your brain. In that split second, even if that bowl of meat were to boil over the fire ten more times, becoming perfectly sterile, those white maggots felt as though they were already living inside my own body, slithering stickily through every organ, sending wave after wave of nausea through me.
Ultimately, amidst a chorus of stomping feet and heavy sighs, I ground my teeth and dumped this bowl of glistening, rich meat into the trash can. The moment I watched them slide into the plastic bag, my heart sank. After all, it had fulfilled that ancient saying—a flagrant waste of heaven's gifts.
But that is life.
Some forms of life inspire awe when they thrive in mountains, rivers, lakes, and seas; when they thrive in your bowl, they are pure terror. The colors, the bitters, the sweets, and the spices of human existence are never a polished script rehearsed in advance. It always chooses the exact spot where you are most relaxed to shove one or two unavoidable, absurd farces down your throat. A bowl of meat is lost, but the days must keep rolling. Tomorrow morning, the clatter of pots and pans will still rise up in this room, steaming hot as always.
那密密麻麻的细长细长的卵，不知道是哪只早起的苍蝇还是飞蛾留下的。看到它们的那一秒，我气得又是跺脚又是叹气，心里灌满了懊恼。我懊恼自己清晨出门时的匆忙，竟然一转身就忘了把这碗红烧肉放进冰箱；我更气的是，这可是一碗早上新烧的、热气腾腾的红烧肉，原本是一家人一天的口粮。
在那些遥远的日子里，一碗红烧肉是天大的稀罕物。
那时候大人们总是舍不得动筷，把肉紧着让孩子们先吃。孩子们也挑剔，只吃那肥瘦相间的瘦肉，而大人们则在一旁默不作声地夹走肉皮。可即便嘴馋，每个孩子其实也吃不了多少，大抵吃到第三块，就会被大人喝止。
在那个年月，一碗红烧肉是要按日子来精打细算的，常常能吃上三天。到了第三天，碗里只剩下几块肥肉和一层厚厚的肉汁，这时候大人们就会把它们和小土豆放在一起煨。土豆裹挟着红亮的肉香，被炖得香香糯糯的，别提有多好吃。有时候，第一顿土豆吃完了，剩下的肉汁还要继续就着烧第二顿土豆。至此，这一碗红烧肉的生命轨迹，才算功德圆满地完成了它的命运。
而如今，我眼前这一碗本该同样圆满的红烧肉，就被这么一簇簇的不速之客，生生给砸塌了。
那时候大人们总是舍不得动筷，把肉紧着让孩子们先吃。孩子们也挑剔，只吃那肥瘦相间的瘦肉，而大人们则在一旁默不作声地夹走肉皮。可即便嘴馋，每个孩子其实也吃不了多少，大抵吃到第三块，就会被大人喝止。
在那个年月，一碗红烧肉是要按日子来精打细算的，常常能吃上三天。到了第三天，碗里只剩下几块肥肉和一层厚厚的肉汁，这时候大人们就会把它们和小土豆放在一起煨。土豆裹挟着红亮的肉香，被炖得香香糯糯的，别提有多好吃。有时候，第一顿土豆吃完了，剩下的肉汁还要继续就着烧第二顿土豆。至此，这一碗红烧肉的生命轨迹，才算功德圆满地完成了它的命运。
而如今，我眼前这一碗本该同样圆满的红烧肉，就被这么一簇簇的不速之客，生生给砸塌了。
这世上的万象有时候是极其讽刺的。同样的一簇鹅黄，它若长在初春的嫩芽上，你大概会赞美大自然的赐予，欣然生命孕育的力量。然而，当它就这么大剌剌地戳在那一碗香气四逸的红烧肉里时，我只觉得胃里一阵翻江倒海地难受。紧接着，中国人骨子里本能的节俭意识冒了出来，和眼前的恶心死死地绞杀在一起。
孩子站在一旁，眼里没有恐惧，只有未涉世事的纯真与好奇，他甚至提议说：“把它们放在玻璃器皿里养起来吧，看看那到底是什么生物。”
我听完直摆手。
00后的年轻人是不可能理解我们这代人曾经历过什么样的日子。他们没有见过早年间那些敞开的茅房口，没有见过在夏日的恶臭里，一条条白色的蛆虫拼命蛄蛹出茅坑的怪异景象；他们也没办法理解，当年住在逼仄的出租屋里，头顶的木质天花板上，苍蝇在死老鼠身上产卵孵化成蛆，一团一团顺着缝隙往床上、往地板上掉的惊悚场景。那是长在我们皮肤和记忆深处的脓包，碰一下，就是一身的鸡皮疙瘩。
老人也凑了过来，看了一眼，叹口气说：“没事，把那些白色的籽儿挑掉就能吃了，别浪费。”
可我知道，挑得走表面的籽儿，挑不走脑海里的画面。在那个瞬间，即使那碗肉在火上再滚上十遍，再干净，那一条条白色的蛆也像是已经活在我的体内，在每一个器官里黏腻地蠕动，让人一阵阵地恶心。
最终，在一声声跺脚和叹息声里，我还是咬着牙，把这碗油亮肥美的红烧肉倒进了垃圾桶。看着它们滑进塑料袋的那一刻，心里咯噔了一下，倒底还是应了那句老话——暴殄天物。
可这就是生活。
有些生命，长在山川湖海里是感动；长在你的碗里，就是惊吓。人生的五颜六色、酸甜苦辣，从来不是提前排练好的精致剧本，它总是在你最意想不到的松懈处，塞给你一两件避无可避的荒唐事。丢了一碗肉，日子还得过，明天清晨，锅碗瓢盆的声响依然会在这间屋子里热气腾腾地响起来。
我听完直摆手。
00后的年轻人是不可能理解我们这代人曾经历过什么样的日子。他们没有见过早年间那些敞开的茅房口，没有见过在夏日的恶臭里，一条条白色的蛆虫拼命蛄蛹出茅坑的怪异景象；他们也没办法理解，当年住在逼仄的出租屋里，头顶的木质天花板上，苍蝇在死老鼠身上产卵孵化成蛆，一团一团顺着缝隙往床上、往地板上掉的惊悚场景。那是长在我们皮肤和记忆深处的脓包，碰一下，就是一身的鸡皮疙瘩。
老人也凑了过来，看了一眼，叹口气说：“没事，把那些白色的籽儿挑掉就能吃了，别浪费。”
可我知道，挑得走表面的籽儿，挑不走脑海里的画面。在那个瞬间，即使那碗肉在火上再滚上十遍，再干净，那一条条白色的蛆也像是已经活在我的体内，在每一个器官里黏腻地蠕动，让人一阵阵地恶心。
最终，在一声声跺脚和叹息声里，我还是咬着牙，把这碗油亮肥美的红烧肉倒进了垃圾桶。看着它们滑进塑料袋的那一刻，心里咯噔了一下，倒底还是应了那句老话——暴殄天物。
可这就是生活。
有些生命，长在山川湖海里是感动；长在你的碗里，就是惊吓。人生的五颜六色、酸甜苦辣，从来不是提前排练好的精致剧本，它总是在你最意想不到的松懈处，塞给你一两件避无可避的荒唐事。丢了一碗肉，日子还得过，明天清晨，锅碗瓢盆的声响依然会在这间屋子里热气腾腾地响起来。
Image by Anxhela Sufa from Pixabay
A Bowl of Red-braised Pork Belly
On top of a bowl of glistening, glistening red-braised pork belly, clusters of pale-yellow organisms had suddenly materialized.Those dense, elongated eggs—left behind by some early-rising fly or moth—instantly made me stomp my feet and sigh in pure frustration, my mind flooded with regret. I was mad at my own rush when leaving the house this morning, turning on my heel only to forget to slide this bowl of pork into the fridge. What burned me even more was that this was a freshly cooked, steaming bowl of braised pork belly from this morning—the foundational meal meant to sustain the family for the entire day.
In those faraway days, a bowl of braised pork belly was a luxury of cosmic proportions.
Back then, the adults could never bring themselves to raise their chopsticks against it, hoarding the meat so the children could eat first. The kids were picky, eating only the interlaced lean parts, while the adults sat by in silence, peeling away and eating the pork skin. Yet, no matter how greedy their cravings, no single child could actually eat much; usually by the third piece, an adult would bark a reprimand to stop.
In that era, a bowl of braised pork belly had to be meticulously calculated against the calendar; it often had to stretch across three days. By the third day, nothing remained in the bowl but a few chunks of fat and a thick layer of congealed gravy. At that point, the adults would take the remnants and simmer them alongside small potatoes. The potatoes, enveloped in the deep red aroma of the meat, would stew until they were fragrant and melt-in-your-mouth soft—it was unimaginably delicious. Sometimes, when the first round of potatoes was cleared, the remaining gravy would be used to stew a second round. Only then, at the very end, could the life trajectory of this single bowl of braised pork be considered to have righteously fulfilled its destiny.
Yet right now, this bowl before my eyes—which should have reached that exact same fulfillment—had been brutally brought down by these clusters of uninvited guests.
The manifestations of this world are sometimes excruciatingly ironic. The exact same cluster of pale yellow, if grown on a tender sprout in early spring, would likely move you to praise nature's bounty and celebrate the generative power of life. However, when it punctures the air right there in that bowl of highly aromatic braised pork, it only makes my stomach turn over in violent revulsion. Right on its heels, the instinctive impulse for thrift—bred deep into the bones of every Chinese—rose up, engaging in a dead lock of a struggle with the immediate disgust.
The child stood to one side, his eyes devoid of fear, containing only the innocent curiosity of someone who has not yet encountered the world. He even suggested, "Let's put them in a glass jar and raise them, just to see what kind of creature they turn into."
Hearing this, I waved my hands frantically to shut it down.
The youth born after the 2000s cannot possibly comprehend what kind of days my generation lived through. They have never seen those wide-open outhouses of the early years; they have never seen the bizarre sight of white maggots desperately squirming out of the pit in the stench of a summer day. They have no way to understand what it was like living in a cramped, suffocating rented room, where on the wooden ceiling overhead, flies would lay eggs on a dead rat and hatch into maggots, falling down in clusters through the cracks onto the bed, onto the floor—a pure horror scene. Those are boils grown deep into our skin and memories; touch them, and you get a full body of goosebumps.
The elder of the house drifted over too, took one look, sighed, and said, "It’s fine. Just pick out those white seeds and it’s good to eat. Don't let it go to waste."
But I knew. You can pick away the seeds on the surface, but you can never pick away the image burned into your brain. In that split second, even if that bowl of meat were to boil over the fire ten more times, becoming perfectly sterile, those white maggots felt as though they were already living inside my own body, slithering stickily through every organ, sending wave after wave of nausea through me.
Ultimately, amidst a chorus of stomping feet and heavy sighs, I ground my teeth and dumped this bowl of glistening, rich meat into the trash can. The moment I watched them slide into the plastic bag, my heart sank. After all, it had fulfilled that ancient saying—a flagrant waste of heaven's gifts.
But that is life.
Some forms of life inspire awe when they thrive in mountains, rivers, lakes, and seas; when they thrive in your bowl, they are pure terror. The colors, the bitters, the sweets, and the spices of human existence are never a polished script rehearsed in advance. It always chooses the exact spot where you are most relaxed to shove one or two unavoidable, absurd farces down your throat. A bowl of meat is lost, but the days must keep rolling. Tomorrow morning, the clatter of pots and pans will still rise up in this room, steaming hot as always.