Welcome to Sue Quietly.
I'm so glad you are here tonight.
Find a comfortable position.
And Let your body settle into the surface beneath you.
Relax your shoulders.
Release any tension in your jaw.
N Soften the muscles around your eyes,
Brows and face.
Take a slow breath in through your nose.
And breathe out through your mouth.
With each steady breath.
The sounds of your day.
Begins to fade.
Into the background.
Now let yourself drift into tonight's story.
Tonight.
We step softly.
Into the noodle shop.
In the world.
Just north of the west market in Chang'an.
On the morning,
Before the Dragon Boat Festival.
The 5th day of the 5th lunar calendar.
Nihalie 1,
300 years ago at the height of the Tang Dynasty.
It is the hour before the world comes to life.
The lane beyond the gate is silent.
The air has the particular softness of early summer morning.
Not the cold pressing weight of winter.
Something warm and still.
Carrying the scent of damp earth and Distant water.
From the city's canons.
The woman.
Who is the shop owner.
Has been awake a little while already.
Most mornings.
How walk begins with noodles.
By Dawn.
Broth would be heating on the stove.
Door waiting to be rolled and cut.
Dumplings,
Prepare for the day's customers.
The menu changes with the season.
And the ingredients.
Available.
In the markets of Chang'an.
But the rhythm of the kitchen rarely change.
Today is different.
This morning,
Her work is no noodles.
A large clay ball set out last night.
Glutinous rice.
The soft round grain used for Dragon Boat Festival food.
Soaking through the dark hours.
Sits on the prep table.
The grains are soft and pure.
Today,
She will make zhongzi.
It is glutinous rice wrapped in fragrant rice leaf.
Tied to a parcel and slowly boiled for the Dragon Boat Festival.
Four neighboring households have placed their orders.
She will make enough for all of them.
The reed-leaf were soaked overnight.
In the large basin to soften.
And they need one more wash before use this morning.
She carries the basket of softened leaves out to the courtyard.
The stone basin is where it always is.
To the left of the bamboo.
Below the show.
The palm tree holds its summer leaf without moving.
The bamboo stand still beside it.
She draws cool water into the basin.
One by one.
She live,
Each live.
Long and flat.
And faintly shining from the soap.
N.
Pass it through the water.
Each leaf is checked with her fingers.
Any torn edges.
Any thin patches that might split and the hours of boiling.
Good leave.
Go to the stack on the left.
Any with damage.
Go into the discard pile.
The smell of wet reed leaf is clean and green.
Something new that belongs only to this season.
Entirely different from anything the kitchen smells like in winter.
For a moment,
She stands in the quiet courtyard.
She placed the lamp on the high shelf where she always places.
She crouched before the clay stove.
With the iron scraper,
The cold ash is drawn out and set aside.
Fresh charcoal is arranged inside.
She opens the ember tube.
A small clay pipe fitted into the stove wall for drawing air.
She breathed gently into it.
Somewhere deep within the charcoal.
A glow begins to wake.
A moment later.
The paper at the base.
Takes the flame.
She does not rush the fire.
It knows what to do.
Every morning.
The large clay pot goes on to begin heating.
Not that broad pot she used for noodle stock.
But the YD port.
Kept for long boiling.
It will take time to come fully to here.
The kitchen is warm at the edges of the lamp ridge.
Dark in the corners.
The smell of waking charcoal rises.
The same smell as every other morning before the day begins.
She lifts the cloth from the large bowl.
Inside the glutinous rice.
Soft and pure from its night of soaking.
What comes out is translucent.
Is soft white.
Thus seems.
Almost to glow in the lamplight.
She pours the soaked rice.
Into the shallow bamboo basket.
Woven tightly enough.
To drain the water.
The water runs through.
She spreads the grain evenly to help them drain.
Then,
She put the basket aside.
The stove fire builds behind her.
The water in the large pot is beginning to warm.
The kitchen holds the quiet of Hollywood.
The small sound of the fire.
Finding its rhythm.
And the silence between.
She lays the station.
On the long prep table.
The stack of wash,
Read,
Leave flat.
Their smooth sides up.
The basket off.
Drain glutinous rice.
The grains peel and translucent in the lamp light.
At the table 3.
The small earthway jar of jujube.
Dried red dates.
Dense,
And dark.
Beside it.
A shallow dish off.
Chestnut.
The pill kernels split open.
Soften from an overnight soak.
Annabaskar.
Set aside.
For the plain glutinous rice zongzi.
Ordered by two of the neighboring households.
Several lengths of cord lying along the table's edge.
Cut and ready for tying the finished puzzle.
She stands for a moment and look at what she has laid out.
Then.
.
.
She takes the first two leaves and begins.
To leave.
Their white ends.
Overlapping.
She folds them in her palms.
Then leave.
Carving and the hot thumbs.
And the cone forming.
She first put the rice into the base.
Than the feeling.
Two jujubes at the center.
Then add more rice over the top.
The leaf folded down.
One lap.
Than the other.
The shape.
Closing into a triangle.
Some of the orders ask for chestnuts instead.
For them.
A chestnut.
Half press into the center.
Heal.
Dance.
Less sweet than jujube.
More earthen.
Is flavor.
Absorbed into the rice over the long while.
And two of the household has asked simply for plain rice.
No filling.
Only the rise alone.
Which produce.
Its own sweetness over hours of boiling.
She fills the role differently for each household.
Choo-choo.
Chestnuts.
All plain rice.
This is the long session of the morning.
Forward.
Fail.
Close.
The motion is the same.
Slightly different each time.
Different leaves bend differently.
And also the filling.
They said.
Differently.
In each rise puzzle.
The triangles are not also identical.
Her hands move without deliberation.
She finds this piece.
Is Chandla.
Compared to noodle making.
More subtle.
More patience.
Nothing asks to be rushed.
The roll of finished glutinous rice parcel grows at the far end of the prep table.
Outside.
The first morning birds are.
.
.
Beginning.
Somewhere beyond the world war.
Nor yet distinct.
Just the suggestion of birdsong.
Returning to the early summer morning.
One small row is finished.
She reached for the cords.
Wading along the table's edge.
She winds the cord several times.
Around the body of each puzzle.
Around the white base and up towards the tip.
Keeping the folded leaf from opening under the long pressure of boiling.
At the end,
A nod.
Tie.
Flat.
Tested with a brief pool before she puts the parcel down.
It should hold through many hours of boiling.
Without loosening.
She tests each one.
Called esteem.
That strong.
She has used this material for many years for this purpose.
The motion of time is not something she has thought about in many years.
It lives entirely in our hands.
The finished puzzle rests in their room.
Neat.
Triangular.
They are leaf surfaces,
Deep green and shining.
The lamb on the show.
Has been burning.
Through the whole of this.
The fire beneath the large pot builds steadily.
The water warming through the thick clay walls.
One enough on me to feel the white part.
She transferred them carefully.
She placed each parcel upright in the pot.
Point up.
White bees down.
Pack closely so they will not shift in the while.
She added more water into the pot.
And place the lid.
She returns to the table and.
.
.
Continues making the next batch.
The morning move forward without hurry.
The fire in the stove.
The row of tied puzzle growing steadily at the far end of the prep table.
When the pot comes to a boil she notes it and continues walking.
The water changes color slowly.
From clear to a faint amber green.
As the leaf released into the water.
The smell that rises with the steam.
Is the smell of the Dragon Boat Festival and no other.
The kitchen is filled with the smell of cooked reed leaf.
Sweet glutinous rice.
Something warm and starchy.
She makes the second batch.
While the fest boils.
By midday.
The kitchen smells entirety of it.
She set down the last Thai parcel of the second batch and goes to the large pot.
She lift the lid.
Steam rises in a full cloud.
The full warm smell of the Dragon Boat Festival.
Failing the kitchen.
In a single wave.
The glutinous rice puzzle wrapped in reed leaf are deep green brown now.
Their cords still tie.
She lift one and unwrap a corner.
The rice inside.
Fully translucent.
Holding its shape.
Cook through.
She'll lift that first patch out one by one.
N.
Hangs them along the bamboo pole.
Beneath the ray beam.
The parcels hang in a row.
Free in the kitchen air.
Pulling on all sides.
The second batch.
Goes into the port.
The lid goes back on.
Outside the world has settled into its daily rhythm.
Inside.
The rule of Finnish glutinous rice parcel.
Hands from the beam.
Green brown.
Dance.
Cooling slowly in the warm air.
That smells entirely of this morning.
And so,
The noodle shop owner of the world.
Just north of the West Market.
Spends the day before the Dragon Boat Festival.
In her kitchen.
The fire.
Burning steadily.
Through the morning.
The large pot filling the room with steam and the smell of cooked leaf and sweet rice.
The smell that belongs only to this day and this fifth month.
The rice parcels cooling in their rolls.
The war,
Quiet outside.
The Dragon Boat Festival.
Only one night away.
Bye,
Evening.
Neighbors will come through the gate.
Each will leave with their order tied neatly.
Some for the festival table.
Some carry to relative in other words in Chang'an.
For now.
The Han cooling from the beam.
In the quiet kitchen.
In the particular day of the day before the Dragon Boat Festival.
The world we visited tonight grows quiet now.
N.
You can simply rest here.
Comfortable and at ease.
Your mind can relax.
Your body can Soften.
If you are already drifting into sleep.
Allow yourself.
To sink a little deeper.
And if you are still awake.
Just listen.
To the quiet.
There is nothing more to do.
Nowhere else to be.
I'll be here whenever you need another peaceful moment like this.
But For now,
Sleep well.
Good night.
