I know that there are many delicacies in this world that I've never seen or even heard of. But for a long time, I thought that tofu was the most delicious food in the world.

Back then, tofu could be exchanged for on the street.

On winter mornings, quite often, I would be awakened by the shouts of the tofu vendors. I'd poke my head out from under the quilt, blow hard on the frosted windowpane, and wipe away the frost with my hand, and then I could see the tofu vendor. In my impression, most of the tofu vendors were middle-aged or elderly men. They wore black or gray cotton-padded jackets and pushed a wheelbarrow. The tofu on the cart was carefully covered with a white cloth. When the white cloth was lifted, the tender, white, and plump tofu would tremble and come into view. Mother would pour half a gourd ladle of soybeans onto the scale pan and could get a piece of tofu in return. The tofu was cut into neat and regular squares. Even if it was just a little short of the right weight, the tofu vendor would cut an extra slice to make up for it. And if he cut a bit too much, that was okay too. The business of selling tofu was not only about trade but also about hometown affection and worldly wisdom.

After getting the tofu back home, Mother would cut off a small piece, divide it into two, and drizzle some soy sauce on it. It was a rare snack for my brother and me. The soy sauce tofu retained the pure tenderness and fragrance of the tofu and the pure saltiness and freshness of the soy sauce. Putting it in your mouth would bring a sense of satisfaction and happiness. My brother and I would sit in front of the stove, munching on the tofu while turning our heads to watch TV. Sometimes I would ask while eating, "Mom, how much soybeans do we still have at home?" Mother would say, "Enough to exchange for tofu until next Qingming Festival." Mother, who was good at careful budgeting, could always make the aroma of tofu permeate our whole winter and most of the spring.

For a more complicated way of cooking, Mother would first cut the tofu into slices and then fry them in a little oil until the surfaces turned golden. She would peel the Chinese cabbage into thin slices and stir-fry it together with the tofu. The fried tofu was not only more fragrant but could also absorb more of the soup, making it very flavorful. When the dish was ready, with its green, white, and golden colors, it looked nice and seemed quite presentable. Although it was a common home-cooked dish, it was entirely suitable for serving guests and would never seem disrespectful. However, in the countryside at that time, vegetable oil was very precious, so this dish of stir-fried Chinese cabbage with fried tofu was inevitably a bit of a luxury. And because of the additional frying process, the tofu would lose some of its original flavor to some extent. As for Mapo Tofu and stewed fish head with tofu, we neither knew how to make them nor liked them.

What the folks back home often made and liked was stewed Chinese cabbage, vermicelli, and tofu.

Put the Chinese cabbage into the pot, then the vermicelli, and finally the tofu. Mother didn't need to put the tofu on the chopping board. She would hold it in her palm, make a few cuts horizontally and vertically, and the tofu would turn into neat little pieces. Tofu must be cut neatly and regularly; that's how it should be when eating it. Many years later, I once ate a dish called "steamed tofu" in a restaurant. They steamed the whole piece of tofu thoroughly in the pot, then randomly broke it into several pieces with chopsticks, poured some sauce on it, and sprinkled some scallions on top. And it was sold at the price of roast duck. Not to mention that the dish was expensive and tasted just so-so, just the way they treated the tofu made me feel dissatisfied. I've always been stubbornly convinced that tofu should be cut into neat squares, just like those simple farmers.

A big steaming pot of stewed Chinese cabbage, vermicelli, and tofu. On winter days, the whole family would sit around on the kang, munching on the tofu loudly and slurping the vermicelli. The days of the farmers thus became full of flavor. If there were also a few pieces of pig blood, some fatty pork, or even a few big bones, it would be an unbeatable combination. But these things were really rare. Usually, the spoonful of lard that Mother put in the pot was enough to make the whole family satisfied.

This kind of satisfaction is by no means a lack of ambition for the quality of life. Instead, it's a love for, or even gratitude towards, those simple and ordinary days. Outside, it was freezing cold, while the heated kang was warm. The frost on the windowpane started to melt. The black-and-white TV was replaying a TV series. My brother's and my schoolbags were quietly hanging on the wall. Father took off his hat with steam rising from it. Mother put a tiny piece of meat residue into my bowl. There were children running and playing noisily at the door. A flock of sparrows flew across the courtyard. In the distance, a loud thunderclap rang out... I could never get enough of such days. And it was many years later when I finally realized that I was willing to live such days.