Jade+Soup+-+full+text

Jade Soup
** Jade Soup: A Folk Tale From China ** Adapted from a story by Carol Kendall and Yao-wen Li  A thousand years ago and more, whenChina was split into “Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms,” the rulers could scarcely get through a fortnight of peace before a new war broke out and they lost their thrones, or their heads, or both. Armies fought back and forth acrossCentral China in a bloody game of Chinese chess. At last one great general outfought all the others and himself became Emperor. But before the final victory that changed General Zhao into Emperor Zhao of the Song Dynasty, there were battles and defeats enough to satisfy the most bloodthirsty. Of course, there were not a few tales to tell along the way: tales of courage, dejection, despair—and at least one of near starvation. It was during one of the early defeats, with his army in confusion, that General Zhao became separated from his men. The enemy was all about him. It was unsafe to knock at any door. For three days Zhao hid in ditches or hollows or behind rocks. He fled during the dark hours from the region that meant certain death should he be found there. At last he reached the safe pine forests of a mountain. He breathed deeply the spicy air that meant freedom to the hunted. But pine needles could not feed a starving man, and Zhao had not eaten since the defeat of his army. Unless he found food soon, he would die as surely as though the enemy had chopped him down. Stumbling along a faint mountain path, scratched and torn by thorns and nettles, he could think only of food. So intense was his longing that he could actually imagine the fragrance of cooking in the air he breathed. The farther he staggered along the path, the stronger came the scent, beckoning, luring him onward. By the time he reached the other side of the forest, he was ravenous—and there by a crude hut, bending over a fire, was an old woman stirring the pot from which the delicious aroma rushed at him. “Good grandmother…,” Zhao croaked. The old woman turned and looked at him, at his torn clothes, his unshaven face, his trembling hands. Without a word, she dished up a bowl full of the bubbling stew—white bits of bean curd peeping through a bed of green vegetables. When he had gulped that down, she silently refilled the bowl and handed it to him. Never had food tasted so good! “What…,” he mumbled through a mouthful of the savory morsels, “…what do you call this dish?” “Oh, I call it Pearls Fallen on the Green Jade Tree,” said the old woman. “But that is just my fancy. It is only a few bean curd bits and wild vegetables from the mountain. I live in a poor way.” “I shall never forget it,” Zhao promised, “for it is the most wonderful meal of my life.” Many years passed. Zhao had long since swept away his enemies and proclaimed himself Emperor Taizu of the Middle Kingdom of China. Settled in his rich capital, he never wanted for food again. Delicacies were brought to his table from the mountains and the seas. Famous dishes from all over the kingdom were concocted for him. There was no gourmet delight he hadn’t tasted. Then, suddenly one day, he lost his appetite. He had had enough of exquisite dishes. No matter where they came from, they all ended up tasting the same. His mind wandered over his younger days, when all food tasted good because there was so little of it. Suddenly he remembered the old woman on the pine-clad mountain and the bowl of food she had given him—Pearls Fallen on the Green Jade Tree. Closing his eyes he could even now remember its ravishing taste… If he could only recapture the ecstasy of that long-ago meal! And why not? What were the royal cooks for if not to cater to his appetite? With rising excitement, he sent for all forty-seven of them. After describing the mountain woman’s Pearls Fallen on the Green Jade Tree, he sent them all back to the kitchens, promising them rich rewards if they could produce the same dish. The cooks set to with a will to please their Emperor’s taste. They used only the choicest soybeans, grinding them exceedingly fine to make the soy milk, and setting the bean curd with great care. They went themselves to the kitchen gardens to pluck the freshest, greenest, most perfect vegetables. These they cooked with an excellent meat broth while the bean curd simmered in savory oil. When the dish was complete, they bore it to the Emperor’s table in anticipation of the promised rich rewards. The Emperor took one bite and threw down his chopsticks. “Tasteless! Boring! Dreary! How dare you call yourselves royal cooks. Even an old woman of the mountains puts your feeble dishes to shame! Get out, all of you!” The next lot of cooks in the royal kitchen fared no better. They were dismissed so fast that their aprons were still clean when they left. There followed a procession of cooks through the palace kitchens—in one day, out the next—until the supply was exhausted. There was simply not a cook in the kingdom who could equal the old mountain woman’s Pearls Fallen on the Green Jade Tree. The Emperor grew moody and sad. If he could only recapture the zest of those earlier days… Meantime, the chief minister, seeing the chaos in the palace kitchens, had sent out runners to find the old woman of the mountains. At last they discovered her by her hut. She was still stirring her pot as though she hadn’t moved from the spot all the years since the Emperor’s visit when he was merely Zhao Kuangyin. Bowing to the will of the Emperor now, but grumbling not a little at having her peace disturbed, she gathered together the ingredients for her jade soup and allowed herself and her big iron pot—the chief minister was not one to take chances with his Emperor’s demands—to be transported to the capital city. There she was ushered into the palace kitchens, where she set up her pot. In went bits of dried bean curd, and when they had doubled in size, she poured in some rancid oil and stirred vigorously. Then she added water and threw in the wild grasses and leaves to cook. In no time at all, the dish was ready for the Emperor Taizu. Emperor Taizu was more than ready to eat it. He loaded his chopsticks with a great helping and put it into his mouth. Suddenly his eyes bulged and he gulped. Bitter, bitter! Water squeezed from between his eyelids and slid down his face. His tongue curled in his mouth. His teeth were full of grit. The portion that had plummeted into his stomach threatened to come up again. “No, no!” he cried when he was able to talk. “It was not like that, not at all! You have forgotten how to cook that priceless dish!” “Your highness,” said the woman with some impatience. “I have been cooking and eating that dish all my life, for I could never afford better. No, I have not forgotten. It is you who have forgotten how hungry you were on the day you came to my fire.” The Emperor stared at her as a sea of memories washed over him. “You are right,” he said slowly. “I have forgotten. All of us here have forgotten. Good grandmother, I entreat you to prepare another pot of this same dish, just as you have always done. Tonight the whole court will dine on Pearls Fallen on the Green Jade Tree.”