The salt workers, their carts groaning under the weight of their cargo, trudged forward at a sluggish pace. After just a few miles, the first light of dawn was already stretching over the horizon, bathing everything in a tired glow.
Everyone, looking as if they'd just fought a battle with the very earth, decided it was time for a break.
"Let's take a detour," suggested one of the salt workers, grinning as he pointed northwest. "I know a spot up ahead—Xing Honglang, Tie Niaofei, come on, follow me!"
Xing Honglang and Tie Niaofei exchanged a glance, neither one bothered by the extra couple of miles. After all, when you had a goal in mind, what were a few extra steps?
They eventually arrived at Xiao Lake, which was small, unremarkable, and, frankly, not much to look at. A patch of water barely two miles wide, stretching just over a dozen miles long—definitely not in the same league as the renowned Xie Lake.
"What's the catch here?" Xing Honglang muttered to himself, looking at the stagnant, slightly salty water that shimmered under the early morning light.
The workers, ever the optimists, began singing the praises of the lake.
"Well, you see, Xiao Lake's salt's a bit… bitter. Not like the high-quality stuff from Xie Lake. But if you know what you're doing—"
Xing Honglang didn't need to hear more. His eyes twinkled. Perfect. It was isolated, desolate, and basically free of people or pesky authorities—ideal for setting up operations without anyone breathing down their necks. The kind of place where even the wind couldn't be bothered to stick around for long.
Sheer desolation was like an old friend to her by now. Having grown up in Gao Family Village, she knew exactly how to turn barren land into a thriving village with the right hands, decent pay, and a lot of elbow grease. The kind of gritty creation from nothing was exactly what Dao Xuan Tianzun adored. The Heavenly Lord wasn't a fan of lazy complacency. No, no—Dao Xuan Tianzun liked to see things being built from the ground up. Every new stone laid made him happier than a rooster at dawn.
A salt production site? Oh, that definitely counted as "something new." Surely Dao Xuan Tianzun would approve.
At the Gudu Ferry, the scene was more chaotic than a market on a festival day.
As soon as the first rays of morning light touched the town, the common folk burst out of their homes, rushing to help unload three massive cargo ships.
There was something about unloading cargo that brought joy to these people. Sure, they were getting paid—three catties of flour in exchange for their sweat—but more than that, there was something deeply satisfying about the sight of flour piled high. It was like a promise that, no matter how bad things got, they wouldn't go hungry today.
After years of drought, their stomachs were more fickle than their neighbors' goats. The fear of going without food gnawed at them constantly. But now, seeing the cargo ships brimming with goods, they could relax a little.
For the first time in years, they could stop worrying about where the next meal would come from.
The workers smiled as they toiled, with the elderly, the women, and the children pitching in as best they could. They'd spent the day before filling wooden barrels with water from the Yellow River. Overnight, the silt had settled, leaving behind clear water that was now being boiled for a simple porridge.
It wasn't much, but at least it was food. And food was a blessing.
One woman, quick with her hands, began kneading dough. She twisted it, stretched it, and then—behold!—she shaped it into a mahua, the beloved fried dough twist.
But, of course, she had no oil. She had only water.
"Ha! What are you doing, woman?" an old man nearby chortled. "You can't deep-fry a mahua in water! Are you trying to boil it into submission?"
She blushed, sheepishly admitting, "Well, I haven't had mahua in years. I just missed it, you know? So, I thought… maybe I could make it, even if I can't fry it."
The old man chuckled heartily. "Let's pretend the water's oil, and we'll call it a 'boiled mahua'. It'll taste just as good, don't worry."
The woman sighed wistfully. "Ah, if only the drought would end soon. If we could plant some rapeseed, we could press oil... and then maybe I could actually fry some mahua."
Just as they were lamenting their lack of fried dough, the workers unloading the ships suddenly broke into cheers.
The old man squinted, confused. "What's all that noise?"
The woman set down her dough and stood up, her curiosity piqued. She turned her gaze toward the source of the commotion.
A man jumped off one of the cargo ships, cradling a massive jar like it was the holy grail. "Look!" he shouted, eyes wide with excitement. "It's oil! Rapeseed oil! It's a big jar of oil!"
The crowd erupted in disbelief, followed by another cheer.
Then another worker appeared, his face almost glowing with glee. "Meat! Meat! Look at this—cured meat!" He swung a pole over his shoulder, loaded with slabs of cured meat.
The noise was deafening. People scattered in every direction, yelling with astonishment as more goods were revealed from the cargo ships. Flour was just the beginning—there were sugar, vegetables, lard, rapeseed oil, and cured meats in abundance.
It was beyond what they'd ever dreamed of. Three ships full of flour and this?
A porter excitedly rushed to Zhan Seng, practically bouncing on his toes. "Master! Master! Look at this! A huge chunk of beef jerky! It's so fragrant—take a smell!"
Zhan Seng—always the pious monk—swung his staff, knocking the man to the ground with a single blow. "What do you mean, offering me meat? This humble monk follows the way of Buddha! Do you think I'll indulge in such earthly delights?"
The man scrambled up, his face beet-red. "Ah, sorry, Master! I forgot!"
Zhan Seng, though a strict Buddhist, couldn't help but marvel at the sheer scale of the operation unfolding before him. This wasn't just salt-smuggling; no, this was something else. Something far more ambitious.
"If these folks are really just salt smugglers," he muttered to himself, "then I'll personally donate my own head to the cause." His eyes flicked to Lao Nanfeng, who was calmly orchestrating the unloading of goods, and an idea began to form in his mind. Something is off here. They're hiding something.
Meanwhile, Lao Nanfeng, ever the man of simple pleasures, strolled over to the woman who had been twisting her dough. He carried a large jar of oil in his hands, like it was a precious artifact.
"I saw you over there," he grinned. "You know how to make mahua, don't you?"
The woman blinked in surprise. "Me? Oh, yes, sir. I was born in Yongning Village, Zhangying Township. Everyone there is good at making mahua."
Lao Nanfeng's grin grew wider. "Well, what are you waiting for then? This jar of oil is yours! Fry those mahua! I've been craving them for years!"
The woman blinked again. "Wait, sir—you haven't had mahua in years? I haven't had it in four years!"
"Four years?" Lao Nanfeng scoffed. "You've got it easy! Try ten years without a single mahua! It's been that long since I've been in the Central Plains. I even dream about it... cough... what am I talking about? Fry the damn mahua already!"
She hurriedly set to work, pouring the oil into the pot—half a pot of it, a rich, golden sea.
The air filled with the scent of sizzling dough, and Lao Nanfeng, his stomach growling audibly, couldn't help but salivate.
This was excess, this was indulgence—this was everything he'd been missing.
Trivia about Mahua:
1. A Snack of Many Names:
While mahua (麻花) is the most common name for this twisted dough snack, it is also known by other names in different regions of China. In some places, it is called "mahu", and in parts of northern China, it might be referred to as "twist bread" or "fried dough twists."
Mahua is often associated with Chinese New Year and other festive occasions. It's a food that symbolizes good fortune, and people typically make or buy it to share with family and friends during celebrations. Its crispy, golden shape is believed to bring prosperity and happiness.
The origins of mahua are somewhat unclear, but the most commonly accepted story is that the snack dates back to the Tang Dynasty. During this time, China saw a rise in trade and cultural exchanges, and this led to the development of many culinary traditions. Mahua, being a simple, fried dough snack, was likely a result of the common practice of frying dough to make it more durable for travel.
It became widely popular during the Ming Dynasty, and records from this time suggest that fried dough twists were often served at festive events and gatherings, though they were far less intricate than the varieties we see today. The simple dough twisted into knots or spirals was often sweetened with sugar or honey, making it a satisfying snack.
Mao Zedong's Favorite: Legend has it that Mao Zedong, the founding father of the People's Republic of China, was particularly fond of mahua. It's said that he enjoyed the snack during his time in Yan'an in the 1930s and 1940s, and it became a popular snack in areas where he was based.