When the dark green shell overturned the bucket, I realized it was a wild soft-shelled turtle over seven years old. Stewing it with chicken would create a dish so delicious it could steal a person’s soul.
The morning mist had not yet lifted when I caught sight of a faint olive-brown shell peering out from behind a rock while I was chopping firewood by the stream — it was a wild turtle! It was lazily sunbathing, its shell covered in damp moss. I held my breath and gently stirred the stream water with a dry twig. The cool mountain spring flowed toward it — and to my surprise, it approached without suspicion, slipping right into my palm.
Back home, I quickly fetched my clay pot. In Guangdong, we believe in the art of cooking with soup. I used half a free-range old hen, cut into chunks and blanched first. Then went in slices of ginger, goji berries, and astragalus root. After cleaning the turtle thoroughly, I added it to the pot along with the chicken. Simmered slowly on low heat for about 40 minutes, the broth gradually deepened into a rich amber color. When I lifted the lid, the wild freshness of the mountains mingled with the richness of the chicken in rising steam. Even the sparrows under the eaves fluttered closer, chirping noisily in curiosity.
At dinner that evening, the stewed turtle with chicken became the highlight of the meal. My father took a sip of the broth, his eyes crinkling with pleasure: “Even better than your mother’s.” Looking down at the tender turtle meat floating in my bowl, I suddenly remembered a stormy day nine years ago — just like now, he handed me a whole pot of hot soup and said, “Wild things from the mountains must be simmered with care to truly taste their flavor.
尋味世界 XunweiShijie
When the dark green shell overturned the bucket, I realized it was a wild soft-shelled turtle over seven years old. Stewing it with chicken would create a dish so delicious it could steal a person’s soul.
The morning mist had not yet lifted when I caught sight of a faint olive-brown shell peering out from behind a rock while I was chopping firewood by the stream — it was a wild turtle! It was lazily sunbathing, its shell covered in damp moss. I held my breath and gently stirred the stream water with a dry twig. The cool mountain spring flowed toward it — and to my surprise, it approached without suspicion, slipping right into my palm.
Back home, I quickly fetched my clay pot. In Guangdong, we believe in the art of cooking with soup. I used half a free-range old hen, cut into chunks and blanched first. Then went in slices of ginger, goji berries, and astragalus root. After cleaning the turtle thoroughly, I added it to the pot along with the chicken. Simmered slowly on low heat for about 40 minutes, the broth gradually deepened into a rich amber color. When I lifted the lid, the wild freshness of the mountains mingled with the richness of the chicken in rising steam. Even the sparrows under the eaves fluttered closer, chirping noisily in curiosity.
At dinner that evening, the stewed turtle with chicken became the highlight of the meal. My father took a sip of the broth, his eyes crinkling with pleasure: “Even better than your mother’s.” Looking down at the tender turtle meat floating in my bowl, I suddenly remembered a stormy day nine years ago — just like now, he handed me a whole pot of hot soup and said, “Wild things from the mountains must be simmered with care to truly taste their flavor.
5 months ago | [YT] | 3