A Little Jianghu in Sichuan and Chongqing

When I was little, every weekend Grandma would bring the cast-iron pot out of the kitchen, and the first wisp of smoke drifting through the courtyard always carried the mouthwatering smell of fried ribs. She would always say, "Ribs have to be slowly fried in a wood-fired stove. You have to coax the chili oil out to make them fragrant enough." I would crouch by the stove and watch her toss a handful of red chilies into the oil. They would sizzle and burst with fragrance, and even the big yellow dog next door would wag its tail eagerly behind the gate. When I grew up and left home to study and work, what I missed most was still that plate of ribs coated in chilies. Now I've learned my mother's cooking, recreating that "spicy, fragrant soul" in the kitchen. Pick up a piece and the outside is crisp while the inside is tender and juicy, with savory fragrance reaching right down to the bone. When a plate of ribs is set on the table, the whole family gathers around, eating until sweat beads on our foreheads. The familiar taste brings tears to my eyes. It's more than delicious food: it's a symbol of home, and the warmest companionship throughout my growing years.