本期内容继续歪楼，是一期关于《遥远的救世主》小说的读后思考。 00:00:28 《遥远的救世主》是一篇中篇小说，讲述的是一个关于世上究竟有没有救世主的讨论。而我读完之后，对于主人公芮小丹的结局有了一些联想式的思考。 00:00:54 芮小丹为什么在受伤之后，选择了自杀？ 书中人物对于她的自杀理解分析，是因为她在书中的身份是警察。当她看到自己受伤很严重，无法再站立起来的时候，她无法面对自己的职业生命就这么结束了。同时，她也是一个对于自己的容貌非常自信的女性。可是受伤不仅导致她无法站立，还导致了她的毁容。而这个毁容，让她无法再自信地面对丁元英了。因而她自杀了。 00:01:48 丁元英是否是王庙村的救世主？ 丁元英创造了一个选择，让王庙村在贫穷之外，多了一个需要付出更多代价获取财富的选择。很难说，这里面他没有一种“创造神话”的优越感。但没有这个生产系统的设定，单靠一盘散沙，王庙村也很难靠自己走出困境。所以，如果非要说有。那就是丁元英的系统设计加上王庙村的自主选择，创造了一个救世主。这是一个有机体，单靠一方无法成立。 00:03:00 芮小丹自杀的真正原因是什么？ 是她的原生家庭，她的父亲、母亲潜移默化地塑造了一种“只有极度强、极度完美”才不会被抛弃的价值观。早年，她的父亲抛弃妻女。这是根源之一。她的母亲，远走他乡，独立自强，但过完大半生，依然觉得女人很傻，自己是人老珠黄才活明白。其实，真正平等的价值观。从人的角度去看。是只要是人，都会经历一个从无知到清醒的过程。这就像小孩子学走路一样。只是男性很少会把自己的这种无知叫做无知，会描述成“成长”或绝口不提。因而，芮小丹的价值系统里就是女性不够强、女性必须得极度强、极度独立且完美才得以不被抛弃。所以，当她受伤之后，就无法接受自己不够强的这个事实了。而自杀就可以不去面对这个痛苦的接受事实的过程了。 00:04:29 芮小丹的父亲和丁元英是一类人吗？ 从芮小丹的心理投射角度而言，是。这一点也是经过反复的思考之后得出来的。他们俩最共同的特点就是不健康自恋。芮小丹的父亲的不健康自恋是以事业为支柱，丁元英的不健康自恋是以他以为的看透和境界为支柱。本质上，就是不敢与人平等。因为平等，就会有一方在辩论的时候失败。他们的逻辑就是只要我跳出来，在我的认知框架里把对方框架为“你不懂”的那个框框，我就不用与对方辩论了。比如芮小丹的父亲，一定要劝说女儿去学编剧、演员、艺术。比如丁元英在酒桌上，对于问题本身的不做回应和讨论。这一点也要说明，在现实世界里，不是所有不做回应和讨论都是高人一等。笔者这么表述是因为书里写了丁元英的情绪以及心理活动等，是明确了他就是认为其他人都参不透，只有他参透了。 所以，从这个角度来说，对于芮小丹来说，她的父亲和丁元英是有镜像投射的。

歪个楼啦 做了个词，操纵AI编了个曲，分享下。 一句话。 分不清大小王。 其实这件事说白了—— 就是“ 谁说了算”这件事， 从来都没有达成过真正的共识。 家里老人觉得自己带大过孩子， 经验就是王炸。 哪怕年轻的时候， 也是自己长辈帮忙带的， 在小辈面前，也是自己最大； yoyo 年轻的新手爸妈， 觉得自己学了那么多科学育儿， 孩子是自己的， 自己是孩子的监护人， 又有科学理论加持， 自己才是大王。 两边手里都握着把牌， 没有人心甘情愿当小王， 特别是遇上控制欲强的个体， 几乎事无巨细地都要掰扯一轮。 而且吧， 这其中更为不可预测的是， “谁是大小王”这场battle 还经常随着不同的场景进行实时切换， 每家也各不一样。 吃饭穿衣老人说了算， 学习教育爹妈说了算， 但边界又模糊不清， 一会儿一变， 模模糊糊，一变更得炸。 炸 炸 炸

Hello everyone, and welcome to today's episode. Today, we're talking about a bowl of steaming, gelatinous Sichuan Tremella soup. If you've ever tasted soup made from authentic Tongjiang Tremella, you'll know it's no ordinary snow fungus. In Sichuan, especially in the Bazhong and Tongjiang areas, Tremella is a mountain treasure, known as the "crown among fungi." Let's talk about the soup. Picture a white porcelain bowl filled with amber-colored broth. It's not thickened with starch; the natural gelatin comes from Tremella polysaccharides released during slow simmering. It stretches like threads when lifted. The taste is smooth, soft, and sweet, with notes of rock sugar and goji berries. It's a traditional tonic believed to nourish the lungs and enhance beauty, suitable for all seasons. Why is Sichuan's Tremella so special? Its secret lies in geography and tradition. Tongjiang County, deep in the Qinba Mountains, has the perfect humid, misty climate. More importantly, local growers use the ancient "log inoculation" method. Instead of industrial bags, they use oak logs—specifically Qinggang wood—and let nature do the rest. Wind, rain, and sunlight help the fungus grow slowly. This "relying on the heavens" approach yields less but creates an unmatched gelatinous texture and aroma. Every piece carries the essence of the Bashan mountains. Beyond taste, this soup holds deep cultural meaning. Tongjiang Tremella was an imperial tribute during the Qing Dynasty. With over a century of history, it's a symbol of heritage. In rural Sichuan, serving Tremella soup to guests is the highest form of hospitality, wishing them a "sweet and moist" life. It reflects the Sichuan philosophy of "food as medicine," blending wellness into daily life through slow cooking. This craftsmanship is itself an intangible cultural heritage. From a fungus on an oak log to a bowl of thick soup, Sichuan Tremella soup connects natural ecology, traditional craftsmanship, and the gentle spirit of the Bashu people. Next time you have the chance, try making a bowl with Tongjiang Tremella, sip it slowly, and taste the gift of time and nature. That's the story for today. Are you hungry yet? Do you have a secret recipe? Share it in the comments. What would you like to hear next? See you in the next episode.

Hello everyone, and welcome to the podcast! Today, we’re diving into a magical liquid that gets people in Henan Province out of bed at 5 a.m. We’re talking about Hu La Tang—Hot and Spicy Soup. If you’ve never been to Henan, you can’t imagine how every morning, the aroma of pepper, beef bones, and spices acts like an alarm clock, seeping into every street corner. This isn’t your light, watery broth. It’s the "hardcore champion" of Central Plains breakfasts, a "liquid shield" that warms you from your stomach to your toes. Let’s see what it really is. Many hear "Hot and Spicy Soup" and think it’s just chili water. Wrong! The "Hu" (Hot) refers to pepper—a mix of white and black that opens up your sinuses instantly. The "La" (Spicy) is that pungent kick rushing straight to your head. The texture? It’s thickened with starch water left over from washing gluten. So it’s thick, coating your spoon, but with a sticky, smooth glide. What’s in it? Anything goes. Beef or lamb bone broth, hand-washed gluten, sweet potato noodles, daylily flowers, wood ear mushrooms, beef slices, and tofu skin. The owner drizzles sesame oil on top. Add vinegar if you like. One sip gives you aroma, freshness, thickness, and spice—everything complete. Now, the two major schools of thought. This is the "Huashan Sword Contest" of Hu La Tang. First, "Xiaoyao Town." Originating from Zhoukou, this is the "Shaolin Kung Fu" type. Fierce! Beef bone broth, heavy spices, a direct punch of pepper. The soup is reddish, packed with ingredients. The first two sips might make you cough, but by the third, you’re sweating and shouting for more. In 2021, this recipe became National Intangible Cultural Heritage. Serious street cred. The other school is "Beiwudu." From Luohe, this is "Wudang Tai Chi"—mellow and gentle. It focuses on lamb or fresh meat broth. Pepper is subtle, never overpowering the meat. Traditionally slow-cooked in a copper pot over charcoal, with large meat chunks. If you can’t handle spice, this is your pick. Its softness lets you quietly finish the bowl and still crave more. There’s also Kaifeng’s vegetarian version—no meat, just gluten, tofu, and kelp, sour and refreshing. And "Liang Chan"—half Hu La Tang, half tofu pudding. The spiciness is neutralized by soy, perfect for first-timers. How to drink it? In Henan, it never "flies solo." Its best partner: fried dough sticks or "You Motou." Break them in, soak, and enjoy the soft-outside, juice-filled-inside perfection. Or pair with pan-fried buns, sesame cakes, or sweet sugar cakes. Sweet and salty—texture maxed out. Why is it a Henan symbol? Every morning, the "smoke and fire" atmosphere starts at these stalls. Office workers, students, elderly—all sit together with a bowl of red soup. It’s cheap, hot, filling, and chases away cold. It’s a craft, a heritage, and deep nostalgia for Henan people far from home. Next time in Henan, skip fancy restaurants. Wander into a morning alley, find a steaming shop, order a bowl, get some You Motou, sit down, and feel that hug of pepper. That’s it for today. Are you salivating? Want a shopping list and thickening ratio for a simple homemade version? See you next time!

🎙️ Episode Title Chili in Cocktails? A “Coconut Chili Rum” Adventure in a Beijing Hutong 📝 Episode Description Welcome back to Local Eats in China! In this episode, we take you to a hidden bar inside the Second Ring Road in Beijing’s Jiaodaokou area — Obst Zimmer (German for “fruit room”). There, the host boldly tries a custom cocktail made with coconut, chili, and rum. What sounds like a crazy combination turns out to be a surprisingly amazing taste experience. This isn’t just a story about a drink — it’s a snapshot of modern Beijing’s inclusive and adventurous spirit: behind the gray bricks and tiles of the old hutongs, unexpected global flavors are waiting to be discovered. 📍 Key Info * Bar Name: Obst Zimmer (Fruit Room) * Location: Jiaodaokou South Street, inside Beijing’s Second Ring Road, in the hutongs * Storefront: An unremarkable rusty metal door, no flashy sign * Special Feature: Fixed menu of fresh fruit cocktails + full customization (choose your own fruit/vegetable, base spirit, and glass size; the bartender mixes it on the spot with fresh ingredients) ⏱️ Timestamps & Highlights Time Summary [00:00:00] Intro: Welcome back, setting up the story of yesterday’s adventure in Jiaodaokou [00:00:11] The drink: A coconut chili rum cocktail [00:00:20] Location reveal: Obst Zimmer, a whole different world behind a rusty metal door [00:00:30] Menu & concept: Fixed classic menu + custom orders (tell the bartender your fruit, base spirit, and glass preference) [00:00:53] The order: Purely curious, the host asks for coconut, rum, and chili — the bartender smiles and gets to work [00:01:03] First sip: Nervous anticipation turns into a pleasant surprise [00:01:22] Flavor breakdown: Sweetness of rum first → creamy coconut texture → gentle warmth of chili slowly rising from the back of the throat [00:01:41] City reflection: The real fascination of modern Beijing, going beyond the Forbidden City and Peking duck [00:02:06] Cultural fusion: German precision × hutong dare-to-try spirit × Caribbean rum × tropical coconut × Chinese chili [00:02:24] Quote: “This drink doesn’t exist in Germany and it doesn’t exist in the Caribbean. It only exists in Beijing because only this city would ask the question: why not?” [00:02:32] Call to action: Skip the five-star hotel bars, wander into the hutongs, find that rusty door, push it open, and let Beijing surprise your taste buds 💬 Memorable Quotes “The sweetness of the rum hits you first, then the creamy texture of the coconut spreads out, and then the gentle warmth of the chili slowly rises from the back of your throat.” “This drink doesn’t exist in Germany and it doesn’t exist in the Caribbean. It only exists in Beijing because only this city would ask the question: why not?” 🔗 Recommendations * If you enjoy this kind of exploration, take a walk through Beijing’s hutongs — you never know what surprise awaits behind the next door. * Want to try a custom cocktail? Remember the formula: fruit/vegetable + base spirit + glass size (tall/short), and don’t be afraid to share your wild idea with the bartender!

Today, let’s step out of the Western dessert comfort zone—no cream, no chocolate, no frosting. We’re heading to Guizhou, a damp, mountainous province in southwest China. Walk the streets of Guiyang or Anshun in midsummer and you’ll see something puzzling: vendors cubing pineapples and mangoes, then topping them not with syrup or ice cream, but a crimson powder. It’s not paprika. It’s chili powder. Meet Guizhou’s favorite summer snack: chili-salt fruit. Before you swipe away thinking it’s a prank, hear me out. This isn’t clickbait “weird food”—it’s a flavor combo rooted in chemistry and culture. In Guizhou, fruit vendors follow a prep ritual. Before chili comes brine. Cubed mangoes and pineapples soak briefly in lightly salted water. Why? First, safety and comfort. Pineapple contains bromelain, an enzyme that breaks down proteins—including those in your mouth, which is why raw pineapple can feel like it’s attacking your tongue. Salt water tames this enzyme, giving the fruit a “calming bath.” Second, a dash of salt triggers contrast effect: it makes mango’s sweetness pop instantly. Think of the pinch of salt in chocolate chip cookies—only tropical. Now the magic: a sprinkle of “chili salt.” This isn’t just ground chili. It’s a blend of dried chili, salt, sometimes Sichuan pepper or MSG. In Guizhou, they often use hula jiao—charred, smoky chili that adds a subtle grilled aroma. Take a bite. Salt hits first, waking your palate. Then capsaicin triggers endorphins—your brain’s “happy hormones.” Next, the icy-sweet mango juice rushes in, smoothing the heat. It’s a rollercoaster: salty, spicy, sweet, sour—all at once. In the West, we draw strict lines: sweet for dessert, spicy for savory. In Guizhou, that line doesn’t exist. This snack reflects the local “mala” culture and a practical wisdom: in humid, mountainous Guizhou, people believe spicy food makes you sweat—and sweating cools you down. A biological AC, if you will. So next time you see a vendor dusting mango with chili powder, don’t call it a mistake. Call it a 2,000-year-old flavor hack. Want to try it at home? Cube firm mango or pineapple, soak in salted water for 5 minutes, drain, then toss with a 1:1 mix of chili powder and salt. Sounds odd? There’s an old foodie rule: trust the process. Thanks for listening. See you next time—keep exploring.

Okay, quick question—when was the last time you ate a clam[klæm]… and actually tasted the ocean, not just the garlic butter? Today, we’re talking about a dish from Southern China called 白灼蚬子—bai zhuo xian zi. If I had to translate it poorly, it’s ‘clams, barely cooked.’ But if I had to translate it honestly? It’s ‘how to let a clam say hello.’” Part 1: What Is It, Exactly? "Let’s start with the name. 蚬子—xian zi—are small clams. Whether they’re river clams from Southern China or those golden-shelled ones from the Northern seas, they all count. 白灼—bai zhuo—literally means ‘white boiling,’ but don’t let that fool you. It’s not about boiling them to death; it’s about a ‘quick dip and dash.’ Picture this: the water’s roaring[ˈrɔrɪŋ, ˈror-], you toss in the clams, and the second those shells pop open, you snatch[snætʃ] them out. It’s like cooking pasta—the box says eight minutes, but a Cantonese chef turns off the heat at seven. That one-minute difference? It’s the gap between ‘tender’ and ‘rubber eraser[ɪˈreɪsər].’ This method comes from Guangdong. Cantonese cooks have a golden rule: the ingredient is the star. The sauce? Just a supporting actor. Preferably one with very few lines." Part 2: The Culture Bit "Now, this dish has a super fun ‘soundtrack version’ called 卜卜蚬—bok bok xian. Why ‘bok bok’? Because as the clams cook in the pot—or over a little portable stove—they go pop, pop. Like popcorn, but way more shy[ʃaɪ]. In places like Shunde and Jiangmen in Guangdong, everyone huddles around a little pot, listening to the bok bok symphony[ˈsɪmfəni] while waiting for the shells to open. Up north in Dandong, Liaoning, they use golden clams. Locals there say the flavor tastes like ‘sea water that forgot to add salt.’ For my friends overseas, here’s the key takeaway: In China, a dish lives/lɪv/ or dies by the freshness of its ingredients. If you serve someone a plate of bai zhuo clams, you’re basically saying, ‘I trust this clam, and I trust your palate[ˈpælɪt].’" (Pause, like you just remembered something) "Oh! Quick heads-up: before you cook, soak[soʊk] the clams in salted water for an hour so they spit out the sand. Otherwise… you think you’re eating ‘fresh,’ but you’re actually eating ‘crunchy.’ It’s the classic rookie[ˈrʊki] mistake for first-timers." Part 3: How to Make It at Home (Super Easy) "Alright, here’s a version anyone can do in any kitchen. No wok needed, just a soup pot. You’ll need: · 500gram live/laɪv/ clams (any small variety works—littlenecks, golden clams, you name it) · 3 slices of ginger[ˈdʒɪndʒɚ], 1 green onion · Dipping sauce: 1 tbsp(tablespoon) soy sauce, a dash of vinegar[ˈvɪnɪɡər], minced ginger (add a tiny bit of chili if you like heat) Just four steps: 1. De-sand:​ Soak in salted water for an hour. Rinse 2-3 times until the water runs clear. 2. Boil:​ Bring water to a rolling boil. Toss in the ginger and onion. 3. Cook:​ Add the clams, lid on, high heat. 4. The Crucial Bit:​ The moment about 80% of the shells are open, kill the heat. Wait 30 seconds, then pull them out. Whatever you do, don’t wait for all the shells to open—by then, the early birds are already overcooked. One last rule: if a shell stays shut after cooking, toss it. It was dead. Not safe. When eating, slurp[slɜːrp] the broth[brɔθ] inside the shell first, then eat the meat. That broth? That’s the ocean’s tip to you." "Honestly, bai zhuo clams are kind of a ‘secret’ to Chinese cooking: No heavy sauces, no complicated techniques. Just pure respect for timing. Once you master the logic of bai zhuo, you’ve also mastered poaching shrimp, squid[skwɪd], and even leafy[ˈlifi] greens… They’re all saying the same thing: ‘Don’t mess with me, I’m delicious.’ Next time you see a bag of clams at the supermarket, don’t just think ‘wine and cream.’ Give bai zhuo a try. And tell me… did you hear the bok bok?"

This is a piece of music I create for Vol 2 "The Story of Sour & Spicy Chicken Gizzards in Hunan". I call it "Spicy and Sour Dance". Comparing for Spicy and Sour Disco, this music is relaxing and mellow. I create this with music AI tools. Enjoy and have FUN!!!

Appendix: The Recipe (For the Show Notes) Hunan Sour & Spicy Chicken Gizzards (酸辣鸡胗) A classic Hunan "Rice Killer." Ingredients: 1 lb (450g) Chicken Gizzards, cleaned 1/2 cup Pickled Long Beans (Suan Doujiao), chopped 3-4 Pickled Chilies (Pao Jiao), chopped 2-3 Fresh Red Chilies (or Jalapeños), sliced 1 tbsp Ginger, minced 1 tbsp Garlic, minced 2 stalks Scallions, chopped Shaoxing Wine (or Dry Sherry) Neutral Oil Sauce Mixture: 2 tbsp Soy Sauce 1 tbsp Oyster Sauce 1 tsp Sugar White Pepper (to taste) Method: Prep:​ Slice gizzards thinly against the grain. Scrub with salt and a splash of vinegar for 2 mins; rinse well. Blanch:​ Boil water with ginger. Add gizzards and blanch for exactly 30 seconds​ (until just opaque). Drain immediately and pat dry. Sear:​ Heat wok over highest heat until smoking. Add oil. Stir-fry gizzards for 45-60 seconds until they start to curl. Remove and set aside. Aromatics:​ In the same wok, add a bit more oil. Sauté ginger, garlic, fresh chilies, pickled chilies, and pickled beans for 1 minute until fragrant. Combine:​ Return gizzards to the wok. Splash with Shaoxing wine. Pour in the sauce mixture. Stir-fry for another 30-45 seconds. Do not overcook. Finish:​ Toss with scallions. Serve hot with steamed rice. Pro Tip for Non-Chinese Audiences:​ Suan Doujiao (Pickled Long Beans) are lacto-fermented, not vinegar-pickled. They are available in most Asian markets or online. They provide a complex, "funky" sourness essential to the dish.

Hey everyone, welcome back . So, I don’t know about you, but I am so ready for fall. But the weather? Not so much. We’re still stuck in that weird liminal space where the calendar says “autumn,” but outside, it feels like a sauna. In China, we call this the "Autumn Tiger"—basically, summer’s last, very sweaty, roar. To survive this, I’ve been thinking about a specific "life hack" I found from Guizhou province. You guys, I found the ultimate cure for the heat. It’s called Ice Slurry, or Bing Jiang.

飞吧

今天我突然有了一个感悟。人说“命里有时终须有，命里无时莫强求”，我突然的感悟是“命里有时终须有，命里无时终是无”。这句话怎么理解呢？ 有很多时候我们非常努力地做一件事情，其中有很多障碍，有很多负面的、阻碍的成分在，但我们依然竭尽全力，想要得到期待中的结果或目标。可有时候我们能达成那个目标、那个结果，有时候却像猴子捞月，什么都没有，甚至是非常糟糕的结果。那我们该怎么看待这件事呢？ 从整个生命的过程来讲，所谓“强求”的过程，其实就是“终须有”的——一定会有这样的经历。后面一句我把原句改了，我不觉得是“命里无时莫强求”。为什么要对自己的“强求”感到后悔呢？“强求”也是努力的一种啊。你非常努力后得到好结果，就叫“终须有”；那你特别努力后得到坏结果，就要因为这个坏结果，否定前面所有的努力过程吗？ 我觉得没有任何必要，而且这是十分危险的。不能因为结果没达到期待，就否定自己曾经为一件事付出的全部心血——我们不能否定这一切，因为那本身就是愿望达成的一部分。没有所谓的“强求”，就没有那个结果。不论结果好坏，所谓“强求”的经历，都是努力的一种形式，只是因为结果不好，才把这种努力叫做“强求”。这是因为结果不好就否定过程，不符合逻辑，是由结果推导过程，这是不对的。 所以我认为，被误称为“强求”的过程，是努力的一种形式。“强求”其实是极度努力，即便结果不好，我也感谢那个过程，感谢曾经付出那么多的自己，他的心血没有白费。爱迪生发明电灯泡做了多少次实验？如果最终他没有发明出电灯泡，那前面的实验过程就要被称之为“强求”吗？其实我心底里对这种解释感到愤怒。所以他前面的不是“强求”，是极度努力。 那个结果没有绝对的好，也没有绝对的坏，只在于是否达到了自己的预期、其他人的预期，或者社会价值观的预期——非常努力却没达到预期，仅此而已。 所以我说“命里有时终须有，命里无时终是无”，这是宇宙运行的结果，而我们通过努力看到了这件事的局限性，这也是结果的一种。我敬畏自己曾经的努力过程，也敬畏最终的结果。 好，今天的分享就到这里。

先聊聊再说，跟重要的你聊聊天。 时间是变化的代名词，仅仅是看着它、观察它，就已足够令人着迷。 对于你来说，时间是什么呢？