The Chinese solar terms begin with “lichun” (“Beginning of Spring”), an agricultural symbol of which is the Chinese chive. Traditional Chinese farmers believe the little, yellowish sprouts waking up from winter chill are the harbingers of a brand-new year of plenty.

My childhood memory is full of the fragrance of Chinese chive sprouts freshly cut from the fields. When the refreshing scent came with the smoke curling up from kitchens, I knew the winter was over and there would be a plate of my favorite springtime delicacy waiting for me on the table. A pious believer in rituals, my mother would make sure to use the first nest of eggs from the henhouse to make the dish.

The tradition of eating Chinese chives dates back to ancient times of China. Legend has it that Zhou Yong, a man of letters in the Southern Dynasties (317-589), once shared his epicurean thoughts with a prince by pointing out that the Chinese chives are the ideal early springtime delicacy.

One of the poems by Du Fu (712-770) also mentioned the poet’s weakness for the first harvest of Chinese chive sprouts. For him, the homey treat is not just a delight to taste buds but more of a cure for his frustrated mood and a broken heart.

The cultivation of Chinese chives is comparably easy. You reap what you sow throughout the year. They grow fast and are easy to take care of. And like a box of gifts, they keep producing surprises and bringing harvests to green thumbs as well as newbies, hence its nickname, “a vegetable that lives forever”.

Chinese chives are a favorite ingredient in Chinese culinary habits, used in a collection of dumplings and “chunjuan” (Spring Rolls) for its strong fragrance as well as its auspicious name (the Chinese pronunciation “jiucai” suggests “long-lasting” and “forever”).

The tradition of “yaochun” (literary “the first bite of springtime”) is still practiced by many rural people in China. My grandpa never got tired of reminiscing the thrill and joy of the “bite” – that is, to enjoy the best of spring and hold fast to the sweetest time of the year.

My grandpa was a village cook who also knew all the secrets about how to reap what one sows. In the kitchen, he was a perfectionist who never made do with the second-best when it came to the ingredients. Fondly called “Chef Guigui” by fellow villagers, he did his best to make sure that each of the dishes was a piece of art that delighted all senses. I can still remember how the freshness and tenderness of the chive sprouts were preserved from his magical hands. Even the temperature of the eggs could be told.

Chinese chives used to be a favorite ingredient of my grandpa’s culinary innovation that is full of his life philosophy. When I was a little child, I would enjoy a big bowl of noodles with shredded meat after offering a helping hand in my grandpa’s vegetable garden, as a reward from him. He took care of the spring sprouts just like taking care of his children, giving them the best they deserved. He’d spend most of his day on the ridges smoking his bamboo pipe and watching the sprouts break through the soil. The lovely spring view and the prospect of the first harvest that would come about in one month would make him very happy and content.

“A lifetime is just like the life cycles of the chives; one crop after another, and then it is you that gets taken away. You just wait for your turn,” he would murmur, more talking to himself than trying to tell me something about what life really was.

After two crops, my grandpa’s chive fields presented a spectacular view of little, whitish flowers gently swaying in late summer breezes and attracting butterflies. One day at dusk, my grandpa was sitting on the ridge and smoking his pipe. “Catch that black butterfly!” He said to me, pointing at the butterfly with his pipe. The sunset glow of that moment was scarlet red, cascading on the face of my grandpa. It looked as if blood were streaming out of his eyes.

He was bed-ridden for about three years before he passed away. “Chives are not good for your eyes, grandpa,” I would try convincing him and he would not listen. My mother had to make all kinds of chive dishes just to make him happy.

A few years later, my mother was taken away by the Grim Reaper. Somehow, I feel lucky for her because she did not have to see my grandpa’s chive fields and the whole village vanishes into the massive urbanization of the region.

I have since been haunted by that bloody twilight and butterflies.