作品原文

舒婷 《传家之累》

春卷的普及范围是这样狭小，只有闽南人心领神会。厦门和泉州虽同属闽南，春卷体系又有不同，一直都在互相较力，裁判公婆各执一词，于是各自发展得越加精美考究。

即使在厦门工作了好几年的外地人，也未必能吃上正宗春卷。隆冬时节大街上小吃摊都有的卖，仿佛挺大众化的。其实，萝卜与萝卜须吃起来毕竟有很大区别。

有稀客至，北方人往往包饺子待客，而南方人就做春卷吗？也不。

即使上宾有如总统，春卷却也不肯召之即来。首先要看季节，最好是春节前后。过了清明，许多种原料都走味，例如海蛎已破肚，吃起来满嘴腥。第二要有充足的时间备料。由于刀工要求特别细致，所以第三还要有好心情。当然不必像写诗那么虔诚，但至少不要失魂落魄到将手指头切下来。

霜降以后，春卷的主力军纷纷亮相。但是，抹春卷皮的平底锅还未支起来；秋阳和煦，小巷人家屋顶尚未晾出一簸簸海苔来。这时候的包菜尚有“骨”，熬不糜；红萝卜皱皱的，还未发育得皮亮心脆；海蛎还未接到春雨，不够肥嫩；总之，锣鼓渐密，帘幕欲卷，嗜春卷的人食指微动，可主角决不苟且，只待一声嘹亮。

终于翡翠般的豌豆角上市了，芫荽肥头大耳，街上抹春卷皮的小摊排起了长龙。主妇们从市场关家，倾起一边身子走路--菜篮子那个重呀！

五花肉切成丝炒熟；豆子切成丝炒黄；包菜、大蒜、豌豆角、红萝卜、香菇、冬笋各切成丝炒熟，拌在一起，加上鲜虾仁、海蛎、扁鱼丝、豆干丝、肉丝，煸透，一起装进大锅里文火慢煨。

这是主题，桌上还有不少文章。

春卷皮是街上买的，要摊得纸一样薄，还要柔韧，不容易破。把春卷皮摊平桌上，抹上辣酱，往一侧铺张脱水过的香菜叶，撒上絮好油酥过的海苔，将上述焖菜挤去汤水堆成长形，再撒上蒜白丝、芫荽、蛋皮、贡糖末，卷起来就是春卷。初涉此道的人往往口不停地问先怎么啦再怎么啦，延误时机，菜汁渗透皮，最后溃不成卷。

孩子则由于贪心，什么都多多的加，大人只好再帮垫一张皮。因此鲁迅的文章里说厦门人吃的春卷小枕头一般。

曾经到一个外地驻厦门办事处去玩。那儿几个巧媳妇雄心勃勃想偷艺，要做春卷，取出纸笔，要我一一列帐备料。我如数写完，她们面面相觑，无人敢接。再去时，她们得意洋洋留我午饭，说是今天吃春卷。我一看，原来是厚厚的烙饼夹豆芽菜，想想也没错，这也叫春饼，福州式的。

春卷在厦门，好比恋爱时期，面皮之嫩，如履薄冰；做工之细，犹似揣摹恋人心理；择料之精，丝毫不敢马虎，甜酸香辣莫辨，惊诧忧喜交织其中。到了泉州，进入婚娶阶段，蔬菜类炖烂是主食，虾、蛋、海蛎、扁鱼等精品却另盘装起，优越条件均陈列桌上，取舍分明，心中有数。流传到福州，已是婚后的惨淡经营，草草收兵，锅盔夹豆芽，粗饱。

我有一个九十岁的老姑丈，去菲律宾六十余年，总是在冬天回厦门吃春卷，又心疼我父亲劳累，教我父亲操作精简些，说只要在蔬菜类中加些鸡液、虾汤、鲜贝汁就行。我父亲默默然半天问：剩下来的鸡肉、虾仁、鲜贝怎么办？

做春卷是闽南许多家庭的传统节目。小时候因为要帮忙择菜，锉萝卜丝，将大好的假期花在侍候此物真是不值，下定决心讨厌它。我大姨妈是此中高手，由她主持春卷大战，我们更是偷懒不得。还忆苦思甜：说当年她嫁进巨富人家，过年时率四个丫鬟在天井切春卷菜，十指都打泡。吃年夜饭时，她站在婆婆身后侍候，婆婆将手中咬剩的半个春卷赏给她吃，已算开恩。听得我们不寒而栗，大姨妈的“春卷情结”影响了我们，除夕晚上，我们几个孩子无一不是因为吃多了春卷而灌醋而揉肚子而半夜起床干呕不止。

每每发誓，轮到我当家，再不许问津春卷。

不料我公公、丈夫、儿子都是死不悔改的春卷迷。今年刚刚入冬，儿子就计较着：“妈妈，今年我又大了一岁，春卷可以吃四个吧？”

丈夫含蓄，只问我要不要他帮拎菜篮子。公公寡言，但春卷上桌，他的饭量增了一倍。只好重拾旧河山，把老节目传统下来。

幸亏我没有女儿。

可惜我没有女儿。

作品译文

The Burden of a Family Tradition

Any spring-roll tradition spreads to only a tiny area, a fact that the natives of Southern Fujian alone understand. Even though Xiamen and Quanzhou are both located in Southern Fujian, they are always in competition, each boasting its spring-roll as the best. They continue to refine their respective spring-rolls year by year, bring them to even greater gastronomical heights.

One can't assume that outsiders have tasted the orthodox spring-roll just because they have lived and worked in Xiamen for many years. Yes, all the stalls on Xiamen's main streets sell spring-rolls. They look more or less alike, but the spring-rolls you find there could taste as different as a radish from its wispy roots.

Is it true that northerners serve dumplings to honored guests and the Southerners spring-rolls? Not necessarily true. Even the President should not assume that he would be served spring-rolls when he is in the south. First it must be the right season, which starts around the Spring Festival (the New Year) and continues until Ching Ming (Festival of Ghosts) in April. Beyond that point most of the ingredients have passed their prime. For example, oysters by then would have grown old and taste fishy. The second requirement is time. Adequate time must be set aside for preparations as each ingredient must be carefully cleaned and finely sliced. The third condition is the right mood. Of course, you don't need to be as reverent as when you are writing poetry. But on the other hand, you wouldn't want to be distracted or upset. You could slice off a finger.

After the first frost, the principles of spring-roll making begin to mobilize. True, the flat pan for making the skin has yet to be installed. And the bushels of sea-weed are still drying in the warm sun on the rooftops. Cabbage, too, is still “bony” and tough even after cooking. Carrots still have wrinkles, and are not crisp and shiny. Oysters have not yet been baptized in the spring rain, and are not plump enough. But even so, the tempo quickens, the curtain is about to rise, and the spring-roll aficionado's index finger quivers with excitement.

Finally the jade-like pea pod makes its entrance. Cilantro is by now big and tender. Little stalls selling the skins line up in the streets in dragon-like formations. Housewives leave the markets with one shoulder weighted down by—what else but their heavy shopping baskets. Pork laced with fat is sliced into fine strips and sautéed; firm tofu is also sliced and sautéed to a rich golden sheen. Cabbage, garlic, bean sprouts, carrots, mushroom, bamboo shoots are each finely sliced and cooked. Then they are tossed together and stir-fried with fresh peeled shrimp, oysters, fish shreds and slivers of tofu and meat. Finally, all go into a large pot to simmer slowly.

So far we have merely taken care of the main topic—the filling. There's more than that to spring-roll making. The skins, usually bought at the stalls, must be paper-thin and resilient, so as not to tear. In wrapping, a hot sauce is first spread on the skin, followed by cilantro and fried sea weed. Then add the well-cooked filling, squeezing out the excess juice, and molding the whole into a loaf-shaped mound. On top of this, sprinkle a few thin threads of leek, cilantro, shreds of scrambled eggs, and a touch of brown sugar. Roll it up and now you have a spring roll. The novice wastes so much time wondering “What goes next?” that the skin becomes soaked and breaks before it's rolled up. As for children, they are greedy and pile on everything in excess, so that grown-ups must add another layer of skin to keep the roll intact. It's for this reason that Lu Xun once pointed out that the spring-roll eaten by the Xiamen people resembles a little pillow.

I once visited an office staffed by people from outside Xiamen. A few of the women there had the audacity to think they could commandeer the art of making spring-rolls. They took out their pen and paper and asked me to give them the recipe. I dutifully listed all the ingredients. They looked at each other in dismay and nobody reached out for the recipe. But when I returned later, they confidently asked me to stay for lunch, because now they have spring-rolls everyday. I took one look. What they called a spring-roll was bread baked flat and thick, rolled around a mixture of bean sprouts. Come to think of it, we also call them spring-rolls, Fuzhou-style spring rolls.

In Xiamen, spring-roll making is like courtship. The skin is so delicate, handling it feels like treading on thin ice. The care given to its preparation is so detailed it resembles massaging a lover's psyche. Careful attention goes into selecting the ingredients so that the taste of sweet, sour, pungent and spicy is a felicitous blend of surprise and curiosity, melancholy and ecstasy.

By the time of the spring-roll goes to Quanzhou, the stage is set for the matrimonial contract. There the well-simmered vegetable filling is the mainstay. The shrimp, eggs, oyster, flat fish and other delicacies are served separately on individual plates. Picking one or rejecting another is done with full awareness of the consequences.

But when the spring roll arrives in Fuzhou, alas, it has settled into married life—poorly merchandised, beating a quick retreat with the skin as thick as the lid of a pot and only bean sprouts of filling. To give it its due, however, it fills the stomach.

The ninety-year-old husband of one of my aunts has lived in the Philippines for over sixty years, but he always returns to Xiamen in the winter for spring-rolls. As if to make my father's life easier, he instructed my father to use only the juices from cooked chicken, oysters, and scallops. After a long pause my father asked, “What shall I do with the chicken, oyster, and scallop that's left?”
In many families of southern Fujian, making spring-rolls is an important tradition passed down for generations. In my younger days I spent the better part of my school vacations cutting vegetables and grating carrots. Because I had wasted so many of my precious holiday hours on this tedious activity I positively disliked spring-rolls.

But by now, nostalgia has sweetened the bitter experience. My aunt told us that, after marrying into a wealthy family, at New Year's she always led the team of four servant girls in slicing vegetables in the courtyard until all ten of her fingers were blistered. At the New Year's Eve dinner, she would wait on her mother-in-law, and the old lady would hand her a half eaten spring-roll to taste. That's called benevolence. Her story made us shudder and her “spring-roll complex” left a lasting effect on us. On every new year's eve, we children would invariably stuff ourselves sick with spring rolls; then after doses of vinegar forced down our throats and massaging of the stomach area, we would finally get up at midnight and throw up.

I vowed countless times that when I married, no one would demand spring rolls of me.

Unfortunately my father-in-law, husband, and son, are all incorrigible spring-roll addicts. Take this year for instance, as soon as winter was here, my son began to badger me: “Mama, I'm one year older, don't you think I can eat four spring-rolls this year?” my husband was more discreet. He only asked if he might help me carry the shopping basket. My father-in-law is a man of few words, and said nothing. But when the spring-rolls were served, his appetite doubled. I have no choice but to pick up the pieces and continue the family tradition.

I'm lucky I don't have a daughter.

I'm equally unlucky I don't have a daughter.