Waiting for the Winter Solstice in Autumn: The Warmth Hidden in Hainan's Fireworks
The air of autumn has barely crept over the coconut trees of Hainan, the wind still carrying the lingering warmth of late summer. A grandmother at the corner of the alley, drying her sausages, is already muttering, "In three months, it'll be time to make glutinous rice balls." Most people imagine the winter solstice as a cold place, with snow falling on eaves and people huddling around fires to warm themselves. But the winter solstice in Hainan is a warm experience, mingled with sea breeze and the fragrance of coconut—it's hidden in the white of glutinous rice flour, soaked in the savory flavor of traditional broth, and bathed in the bowl of hot glutinous rice balls passed by a neighbor. Even the sunlight is a touch softer than usual. This is the winter solstice for Hainanese people, quietly brewing sweetness from the anticipation of autumn.
Autumn Drying the "Flavor of Winter": Marinate the Days in the Warm Sun
Autumn in Hainan is far from bleak; it's actually a perfect time to dry things. Just after the Autumnal Equinox, families set up bamboo racks beneath the arcades of the old city. Pork belly, cut into long strips, rubbed with coarse salt and five-spice powder, and hung on ropes. Sea eels, split in half, hung skin-side out, their oil glistening in the sun. Dried shrimp and scallops, spread out on bamboo trays, swaying in the breeze with their salty, fresh flavor. Grandpa said these were "drying winter ingredients." On the Winter Solstice, glutinous rice balls are made with Chinese sausage, and chicken soup requires dried shrimp. "The autumn sun isn't too strong or too dry, so the food that's dried out is fragrant, and only when we take it out on the Winter Solstice does it truly taste delicious."
The vegetable market was even busier. At the glutinous rice stall, women were already selecting the rice: "I want round rice, so it's sticky for making glutinous rice balls." The owner smiled and replied, "Don't worry, this is freshly harvested Wenchang glutinous rice. It's been soaked and softened, so it won't stick to your hands when you knead it." The woman selling zongzi leaves nearby neatly arranged fresh jujube leaves. "We'll be using them for making coix cakes during the winter solstice. Let them air out now so they're tough enough when the time comes." Even the stalls selling sweet tributes had already laid out sesame and coconut-filled candies—for dipping the glutinous rice balls. The anticipation of autumn had already seeped into the daily necessities of life, along with these small preparations.
The most fascinating thing was watching the children busying around. Every day after school, my neighbor, Xiaoyu, squats under the old lady's sausage rack and counts: "I dried five more today!" The old lady rubs his head and smiles: "I'll cook them for you on the Winter Solstice, but first, you have to help me shred the coconut." Xiaoyu immediately brings a small stool and begins shredding the coconut shell. The delicate fragrance of the coconut flesh, mixed with the scent of sunshine, fills the alley. Hainanese people look forward to the Winter Solstice, not because they're anxious to get through winter, but because they long for the warmth of home that changes with the seasons—the more winter flavors are dried in the autumn sun, the more profound the warmth of the Winter Solstice.
Winter Solstice Day: Start with the aroma of glutinous rice in the morning light
On the Winter Solstice, at first light, the sweet aroma of glutinous rice flour wafts through the alley. Kitchen lights are on in every household, and women gather around the stove, kneading dough: adding warm water to the glutinous rice flour, kneading it into a smooth dough, then forming small balls and rolling them into round, white dumplings in their palms. The little kids joined in the fun, imitating the adults' example, but the glutinous rice balls were either flat or cracked. Grandma smiled and put the crooked ones in a pile, saying, "These are 'naughty little glutinous rice balls.' I'll cook them for you."
Tangyuan are best enjoyed with a sweet soup. Hainanese people don't cook glutinous rice balls in plain water. Instead, they put brown sugar and ginger in the pot, sometimes adding longan and red dates, and simmer until it simmers loudly. The brown sugar dissolves in the water, turning the soup amber. The spicy ginger blends with the sweetness, and each sip warms the stomach. After the glutinous rice balls float to the surface, they're scooped into a bowl and sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds. Dad would scoop a spoonful for Grandpa, saying, "Dad, have a hot bite first." Grandpa sipped the soup and smiled, "I look forward to this every year. It warms me more than anything else." Besides sweet glutinous rice balls, some families also make savory ones: dumplings filled with dried shrimp or pork, cooked in a seafood broth and served with pickled bamboo shoots, their delicious flavors are so refreshing they'll make you squint—both sweet and savory, a gesture of thoughtfulness, warming the same feeling of reunion.
The lunchtime meal is the most sumptuous. Wenchang chicken soup, simmered all morning, is drizzled with golden oil, and the chicken is so tender it falls off the bone with a single poke of chopsticks. Boiled Dongshan lamb, smothered in garlic and vinegar, is rich but not greasy. And there's white snail soup, with its clear, translucent broth and succulent snail meat. Grandma always said, "Eat well during the Winter Solstice to have a good winter." While Hainan winters aren't cold, the dishes on this table reflect the traditions of the older generation: chicken replenishes energy, snails bring good luck, and even the vegetables are chosen with "sweet hearts," hoping for a sweet year ahead.
The alleyway at noon resembles a small market. One neighbor brings a bowl of glutinous rice balls, while another passes a piece of barley flour—a glutinous rice wrapper filled with shredded coconut and peanuts, wrapped in holly leaves and steamed. A bite of barley flour offers a fragrant aroma of leaves, rice, and sugar. Auntie smiles and pushes it over: "Your shredded coconut is sweeter!" Grandma takes it and tastes it: "Your dough is softer. You'll have to teach me next year." Children run around with their bowls, not caring if the glutinous rice balls get stained on their lips. The alley is filled with smiles of "delicious!" and "One more bowl!" In Hainan, there's no need to gather for the Winter Solstice. The hot food passed back and forth from neighbors already creates a warm and inviting atmosphere for reunion.
Warmth in the Heart: A Longing Lasts Longer Than the Sun
As the sun sets, the fragrance of the glutinous rice balls fades, but the warmth lingers in my heart. Grandpa sits under a coconut tree, smoking, watching his grandchildren run after each other. He says slowly, "When we were poor, we'd just cook a few glutinous rice balls with brown sugar for the Winter Solstice. Now we have everything, but this is still the most delicious." In fact, it's not the glutinous rice balls that are fragrant; it's the warmth of family gathered together, the sweetness of neighbors' thoughts and cares.
I once asked my grandmother why the Winter Solstice is so grand, given Hainan's relative ease. Picking vegetables, she smiled, "The Winter Solstice isn't about celebrating the cold; it's about celebrating hope. Making glutinous rice balls is about hoping for good weather in the coming year; eating reunion dinner is about hoping for the company of family." Indeed, the sausages dried in the autumn sun are a sign of the hope for the freshness of the Winter Solstice; the smile as I knead the dough is a sign of the hope for a sweeter future; the bowl of hot soup I pass out is a sign of the hope for the warmth of my neighbors.
The autumn wind blew through the coconut leaves, and another leaf fell beside the sausages on the bamboo rack. Grandma began counting again: "Ninety days left! Time to soak the glutinous rice and dry the bamboo leaves." The sun fell on her white hair, warm as the glutinous rice dumpling soup on the winter solstice. For Hainanese, the winter solstice is never just a single day of excitement; it's an anticipation that begins in the autumn, a tenderness hidden in the fireworks, a warmth that lives on in their memory, no matter how many years pass.