Winter Melon Tea on the Autumn Counter
The preserved-fruit seller cut a dark slab of winter-melon sugar with a broad knife and wrapped it in waxed paper. I carried the sticky parcel home separately from the tea and grain.
The dark slab behind the counter
The seller warmed the knife against a cloth before pressing through the slab. Its cut face showed dense, amber layers. She folded waxed paper around it and tied the parcel because ordinary paper would have softened on the walk home.
In the kitchen I open it over a plate. The concentrated piece looks little like fresh winter melon. It belongs to a trade counter and a preserving practice, not to the pale vegetable being cut for soup nearby.
The jar wiped at the neck
The seller told me to watch the jar rather than admire the color. Sticky liquid gathers near the lid, so I wipe the neck before closing it and place the jar away from the sunny window.
Mung-bean soup stays in a covered pot. Sour-plum drink leaves a darker stain, and lotus-root water is almost colorless. The winter-melon jar is recognized by the tacky ring that appears if the cloth is forgotten.
Waxed paper saved flat
I smooth the wrapper and keep it beneath the tea tins until the parcel is gone. The seller stacks used sheets the same way below her cutting board.
After the last pouring, the jar stands in warm wash water until the amber line loosens. The lid dries beside it rather than being closed on a damp rim.