Peter Chang’s Diary: The Taste of Early Spring
Seizing the opportunity while my younger siblings returned to our rural hometown for the New Year, I asked them to take some photos of the cabbages and radishes still stored in the fields—preserved in a special way. These images bring back the most vivid and flavorful memories of winter-stored vegetables, a taste deeply engraved in my mind.
Back in the 1960s and 70s, the warmest, most inviting, and most fragrant days in a farmer’s home were those just before and after the Spring Festival. It was the only time of the year when the dining table would be graced with an abundance of fish, meat, chicken, duck, beef, and lamb—a grand feast. However, just like a pauper who suddenly comes into great wealth and feels overwhelmed by the excess, consuming too much of these rich dishes would often leave people—who were usually thin and malnourished—feeling heavy and uncomfortable. It was at this moment that the simple, homegrown vegetables, which had been deemed as worthless as dirt, made their timely and much-welcomed appearance.
Having spent most of my life as a chef, tasting countless flavors, I find that as I grow older, my mind keeps returning to the taste of the vegetables my mother grew in our family garden—especially the cabbages and radishes pulled from beneath the snow. Every year, just before the first frost, my mother would carry buckets of rice straw ash to the garden, creating “warmth circles” around all the cabbages and radishes. She would then cover them with plastic sheeting to shield them from the elements.
Thus, these resilient vegetables remained in the soil, enduring the frost, winter chill, icy rain, and deep snow until the early days of spring. By the time the New Year arrived, the outer leaves of the cabbages and radishes appeared withered and yellow, seemingly lifeless and unappetizing. Yet, the moment they were pulled from the ground and stripped of their outer layers, they revealed themselves to be vibrantly fresh, exuding the rich aroma of the earth. And most importantly, they tasted better than ever—an unforgettable, soul-stirring flavor that I constantly yearn for.
There is an old saying: “Vegetables touched by frost taste sweeter.” As early as two thousand years ago, during the Western Han Dynasty, records noted that “only after enduring frost do radishes become palatable; otherwise, they remain bitter.” In the Western Jin Dynasty, the scholar Lu Ji also observed that wild greens, when exposed to frost, became crisp, sweet, and delicious.
Scientifically speaking, the sweetness of frost-kissed vegetables is a result of their natural defense mechanism. To protect themselves from freezing, plants increase their sugar concentration, as sugar lowers the freezing point of water. In radishes, for example, frost triggers the transformation of starch into glucose and fructose, making them noticeably sweeter. As temperatures drop after the first frost, radishes convert their stored starch into soluble sugars like sucrose, glucose, and fructose to withstand the cold. This not only enhances their flavor but also ensures their continued growth throughout the harsh winter.
Moreover, frost does more than just improve taste—it also boosts nutritional value. The accumulation of sugars in vegetables provides them with energy while also offering antioxidant and anti-inflammatory benefits, making them even more beneficial for human health.
These early spring vegetables, no matter how they are cooked, become rare delicacies. In my hometown, people love to stir-fry cabbage with crispy pork lard, braise it with dried shrimp (with a touch of pork fat for added flavor), or simmer radish with fish heads—any fish will do. Another favorite is radish stewed with beef offal (since the best cuts of beef were often too precious to eat). Even a simple stir-fry with a bit of pork fat—a rare luxury in those days—was considered an exceptional treat.
In today’s world of commercial abundance and material wealth, life in my hometown has changed in many ways. Yet, this tradition of winter-stored vegetables remains firmly upheld. Perhaps, beyond the practical need for food in early spring, this practice endures because it keeps alive a cherished memory—the taste of home lingering on the tip of the tongue.
People often seek food that is both visually appealing and delicious. But in reality, gains always come with losses—what looks good is not always what tastes best. For a chef, flavor must always come first, for food is the foundation of life. In my journey across America, I found that very taste I longed for—the one that brings me back home—on the farmland of the Amish.