A plate of home-cooked hairtail, fried and stewed out the warm fragrance of fishermen and years of homesickness

I am Mia Rose Carter, and my friends who know me well are used to calling me Mia. I am 35 years old this year. I have been sharing the fresh seafood of the rivers and rivers in the fishermen's hometown for just six years. On weekdays, I will also record these home-made flavors hidden in the aifoodnews and exchange my experience with friends who love the delicious flavor all over the world. I am not a professional seafood cook, nor do I understand the complicated rules of cuisine. I just grew up in a small fishing village along the south of the Yangtze River. I grew up with my father, who had been a fisherman all his life, guarding the hearth, and my bones were engraved with the unique fireworks and fresh gas of coastal fishermen. I have always preferred the common taste of those who take root in the market and bring their own local flavor. I especially like the fresh fish cooked by fishermen. I don't pay attention to the precious ingredients or the exquisite dishes. I can eat the steadiness and warmth of fishermen with a mouthful of mellow sauce and a portion of native seafood. The home-cooked fish is the fisherman's taste engraved in the deepest part of my taste buds, it is the heart-warming hard dish that my father often makes in autumn and winter. It is also the healing taste of homesickness after I leave the fishing village. I have always followed the old rules of the fisherman's family in cooking. The fresh goods should be alive, the temperature should be soft, and the stewing should be stable. I have never been bound by stereotyped recipes. I always feel that the soul of the fisherman's dishes is never exquisite, but the ingredients are fresh enough and the cooking is careful enough. This dish of hairtail is the most straightforward proof. It can't get on the exquisite banquet, but it is fresh enough to hook taste buds and warm enough to iron intestines.

My memory of burning hairtail at home has been firmly tied to the autumn and winter fishing boats along the coast and returning to Hong Kong since I can remember. In autumn and winter along the coast of the south of the Yangtze River, the sea breeze is slightly cool and wet, but it is the fattest season of hairtail in the East China Sea. After a whole summer and autumn foraging, the hairtail at this time is thick in meat, full in oil, broad and silver in the fish body, not thin in spring, nor loose in midsummer, which is the best taste of the year. My father is a native coastal fisherman. Every autumn and winter fishing season, he will go out to sea to catch hairtail. When he comes back to Hong Kong in the evening, the hairtail in the bamboo basket still carries the moisture of the sea water, and the silvery white fish body is covered with warm luster. There is no fishy firewood of frozen hairtail on the market. It is all fresh wild goods that have just landed and is full of real seafood. At that time, the most important thing for fishermen's dining tables was sea fish, and cooking hairtail at home was a common taste that every family would make. Without complicated procedures and expensive seasonings, a slow frying and simmering in an iron pan could bring the freshness of hairtail to the extreme, which was the limited taste of autumn and winter passed down from generation to generation by fishermen.

When I was a child, I was looking forward to my father cooking hairtail after returning to Hong Kong. I always moved a small bench to guard the old-fashioned iron pot and stared at every step of his busy work. My father never excessively cleaned the hairtail when dealing with it. He only cut off the fin, the head and tail, cut it into uniform sections along the fish body, and tore off the black film on the inner layer-this is the most critical step to remove the fishy smell. Then he repeatedly washed the blood with clear water, drained the water, and patted a thin layer of raw powder on both sides of the fish body without thick wrapping. He only locked the juice when frying to prevent the fish meat from scattering. The pig iron pan, which had been with my father for more than ten years, was slightly hot. The rapeseed oil squeezed by my family was poured on it. The oil surface slightly smoked. Only then did my father gently put the hairtail down along the edge of the pan. The hot oil made a sound in an instant and the aroma jumped out at once.

Fried hairtail should not be impatient. My father will never fry the fish in a big fire or turn it over frequently. He will only fry it slowly with medium and small fire. When one side is fried until it is golden and crisp and the fish body is shaped, he will turn it over carefully and fry the other side to a bright color. The whole kitchen is filled with the fresh fragrance of hairtail, mixed with the mellow fragrance of rapeseed oil, and even the sea breeze outside the window is gently smoked by this warm fragrance. When both sides are fried, he will add ginger slices and scallion segments to stir-fry, pour a circle of yellow wine to remove fishy smell, add a little raw soy sauce to lift freshness, a little old soy sauce to color, and then pour in a proper amount of boiled water, just past the hairtail segments. After the fire boils, he will immediately turn to a small fire and simmer slowly, so that each hairtail will slowly absorb the sauce.

The ten minutes of braising was the most painful and healing waiting in childhood. The iron pan was glug and glug, and the sauce flavor and the fresh air of sea fish slowly blended and floated all over the courtyard. My father always stands by the hearth and pours the soup on the fish pieces with a spoon from time to time to ensure that every inch of fish tastes delicious. When it comes out of the pot, he turns on a high fire to collect the thick soup. He does not need to dry it. He leaves a little thick sauce wrapped around the fish body. Finally, he sprinkles a handful of chopped green onion and a plate of steaming hairtail fish out of the pot. There is no delicate plate, it is filled in the coarse porcelain plate, the golden and crisp fish skin is wrapped in red and bright sauce, the fish is full and firm, and the hot air is wrapped in fresh fragrance, which instantly dispels the wet and cold coastal autumn and winter, and makes people have a big appetite.

The hairtail must be eaten while it is hot. If it is cold, the skin will become soft and the fresh flavor will be discounted. When I was a child, I couldn't wait to take a piece of fish when I was on the table. First, I took a bite of the crisp fish skin on the edge. It was crisp and tasty, without any fishy smell. Then I took a sip of the fish inside. It was thick and tender, firm and not firewood. Every texture was full of salty, fresh and sweet sauce. The unique fresh air of marine fish was completely stimulated, mellow and not greasy. At that time, the autumn and winter dinner, a bowl of white rice and a plate of home-cooked hairtail, was the most sumptuous meal. The rice was mixed with the sauce left in the pot, and it was so fragrant that you could eat an extra bowl. The taste was unmatched by more exquisite seafood eaten later.

When I grew up and left the fishing village, it was very difficult to eat fresh hairtail that had just landed in the city. The frozen hairtail in the supermarket was either fishy or loose, and no matter what, it was less of the fisherman's fireworks. Every autumn and winter, I miss the hairtail cooked by my father, the delicate taste of the burnt fragrance, and the fireworks and sea breeze in the small courtyard. Later, according to my father's instructions, I chose hairtail with thick meat, patiently tore off the inner black film to remove the fishy smell, fried slowly over a small fire, did not add any extra seasoning when stewing, and slowly reprinted the taste close to childhood. Whenever this warm fragrance floats all over the rental house, I feel as if I have returned to the hearth of my hometown. My father is by my side. The sea breeze blows in from the window, bringing the water with me. All the tiredness of the foreign land is smoothed by this mouthful of fresh alcohol.

I always feel that cooking hairtail at home is never a rare seafood, but the most practical fireworks in the world. It has no complicated techniques, no gorgeous display, relying on a fresh, a patient, a family's mind, it has become a nostalgic memory engraved in the bones of coastal people. Fried is the fresh hairtail, stewed is the warmth of the years, one bite down, is the abundance of the fishing season, is the family's concern, is no matter how far you go, can pull people back to the taste of hometown. I also often share this simple fisherman's taste in the aifoodnews. Instead of talking about rigid recipes, I convey the warmth hidden in the fried and braised fireworks. I also understand the most touching taste. I have always been in the slow fire of my stove and in my nostalgia.

It's autumn and winter hairtail fat again. If you find fresh hairtail, you may as well use the most common method to slowly fry and simmer a plate of hairtail at home. When it is hot, you can feel the warmth and freshness that belongs to coastal fishermen. This common taste hides the sea breeze, hides the time, and hides the most touching human fireworks.