Day Sixty-One: New Questions, New Discoveries (Part Two) An Extra Chapter for Those Who Smooth Out the Rough Edges

What? Could it really be arrowroot! I never imagined I would see it here. If it hadn’t borne some resemblance to snake plant, I might never have recognized it. There are many varieties of arrowroot; I’ve seen quite a few—some grown for ornamental purposes, others cultivated for use. Back when I was on a business trip in Guangzhou, I even visited a plantation to see them firsthand.

So, when I first caught sight of those oval leaves, streaked alternately with deep and pale green, I wondered if it could be arrowroot. It’s said that this plant can be used to make starch, but I’ve only ever tasted old duck soup with arrowroot, or pork broth with it; I’ve never had arrowroot starch, nor do I know how to make it.

Still, if the harvest proves abundant, perhaps I could try producing arrowroot starch myself. With enough raw material, I could experiment several times—just like when I practiced weaving rattan baskets. After enough attempts, success is inevitable; and in the end, I succeeded, didn’t I?

Perhaps my timing wasn’t ideal—the tubers weren’t very large. They were tower-shaped, resembling bamboo shoots. Once the earth was brushed off, the tubers revealed a pale yellow hue, each only about the length of a finger. The ones I’d eaten before were at least two fingers long, and you only needed to slice them into chunks to make soup.

Arrowroot doesn’t grow in my hometown. The reason I remember it so vividly is purely its texture; I’ve never encountered anything quite like it in any other food. I’m sure that anyone who has tasted it will remember the sensation: refreshing at first bite, but as you chew, your mouth fills with the taste of starch—a powdery texture that lingers. And when it’s simmered with old duck, all that umami soaks into each small piece of arrowroot.

As you chew, the fragrance continues to burst forth, and the starchy sensation clings between your teeth, at the base of your tongue, and to the roof of your mouth. At that moment, a mouthful of rich broth melds the flavors together; you swallow it all in one go, and the savory, smooth feeling lingers all the way to your stomach.

Such memories always bring me a pang of longing, though thankfully, I’d eaten my fill at lunch, so I wasn’t plagued by hunger again this time.

It was because I’d been captivated by it once before that my curiosity led me to the plantation; otherwise, I wouldn’t have recognized it. The saying about accidentally planting a willow and finding shade comes to mind—such is the serendipity I feel now.

Of course, just a few wouldn’t be enough. But what if the whole patch was arrowroot?

Would that be sufficient?

It would be more than enough! Not far away, where sunlight filtered through the tree canopy, there was another large swath of identical arrowroot plants.

If I dug them all up, I’d guess there would be well over a hundred pounds. I couldn’t calculate it exactly—they’re not like fruit on a tree, whose quantity you can estimate at a glance. These tubers are buried deep in the earth, invisible until unearthed.

I didn’t know the optimal harvest time for arrowroot. An old farmer at the plantation once told me, but I hadn’t listened closely—at the time, it seemed irrelevant, and I never imagined I’d be the one harvesting them.

Still, it didn’t matter. There were plenty of arrowroots—perhaps even more to be found in the distance.

So I started digging.

I kept at it until the setting sun stained the entire sky crimson and the woods began to darken. Only then did I stop. I hadn’t noticed it in the busyness of work, but as soon as I paused, my lower back ached terribly. I could barely straighten up, and spent nearly five minutes hunched over before I could finally stand upright.

With a sigh, I looked at the plastic basket filled with arrowroots, large and small, still clinging with dirt. I felt quite satisfied, though the fatigue was real. Hoisting the basket onto my back, I prepared to return and rest. After an afternoon of hard labor, my stomach began to grumble again, signaling its need for a meal.

It was a strange feeling—almost as if it hadn’t been long since my last meal, yet I was hungry already.

What to eat for dinner was another headache. I had to consider not only myself, but make sure Blackie could eat his fill as well.

All the way home, my mind churned with ideas, suggesting dish after dish that I could prepare—some of them quite complicated, like noodles or dumplings. I could probably manage them, but I never want to spend too much time cooking, and today I was truly exhausted. Perhaps, once back in the treehouse, I could simply make some flour dumplings and add a few pieces of arrowroot—surely Blackie would accept that.

No sooner had I entered the yard than Blackie came bounding over—not to pounce, but to tug at my trouser leg, urging me inside.

This surprised me. Had he found something? Or perhaps brought back something good?

As soon as I entered the lower level of the treehouse, I saw a fat, gray rabbit lying there—large and meaty.

But I was so tired, and night was falling. I truly didn’t want to do anything else—I only wanted to rest! So, after setting down the basket, I collapsed onto a stool. Yet I couldn’t resist Blackie’s pleading; he kept nuzzling my leg, his eyes full of longing.

“All right! You win!” I gently patted his head, tossed the rabbit and five or six arrowroots into the woven vine basket I’d prepared earlier.

What else could I do but go wash them? This fellow had timed it perfectly; by the time I’d finished cleaning up, darkness had fallen. I made my way back to the treehouse, stumbling in the gloom.

This time, I didn’t roast just the rabbit legs; I chopped the whole rabbit into pieces and made soup.

Arrowroot shouldn’t be added too early—only after a thin layer of oil floated to the surface of the rabbit broth did I put in the sliced arrowroot.

As it simmered, the aroma wasn’t particularly strong—just a faint meaty fragrance wafting from beneath the lid. After a few more minutes of stewing, I sprinkled in salt, and the rabbit-and-arrowroot soup was done.

I remember, when I first heard the name “arrowroot,” I thought it would be like taro, but I was mistaken. It resembles a small bamboo shoot, or perhaps a larger version of tower greens, or even an oversized earthworm…

The scent drove Blackie wild with excitement. He circled the fire five or six times, his tail scattering ashes everywhere. Despite my repeated attempts to stop him, it was no use—one moment of inattention, and around he went again.

I knew very well that only once he had his food would he finally settle down. As soon as the soup was cool enough, I ladled out his share.

At last, peace returned, and the ashes drifted gently down with Blackie’s quiet.

Though the rabbit-and-arrowroot soup wasn’t quite as delicious as the old duck version, it came close. I finished all the arrowroot and broth, but there was still plenty of rabbit left—too much to eat, so I dumped the rest in Blackie’s bowl. When I went upstairs, he was still eating.

Perhaps someday I’ll try making arrowroot starch. That way, it could be preserved much longer.

And that whole patch of arrowroot—was it truly wild? Or had someone planted it?

If someone had planted it, then who?

Could it be…?

As these thoughts drifted through my mind, fatigue and drowsiness washed over me…