Misty Plateau, Persimmon Fragrance, and the Oil Mill's Passing Days

Misty Plateau, Persimmon Fragrance, and the Oil Mill's Passing Days

By Bai Fanghong

Shaanxi Association of Canada

January 15, 2026

When morning mist creeps over the plateau ridge, it first clings to lashes. Dust particles wrapped in fog, fine as ground wheat bran, stick to eyes—a blink brings gritty discomfort. This is Qinland mist: not drifting, but heavy, pressing down on the plateau. It dampens coarse cotton shirts, clinging to backs like half a sack of freshly harvested grain. The plateau in the mist is yellow—not a bright yellow, but a deep, dull yellow. The dust particles become visible in the fog, like scattered fragments of gold. When the wind sweeps through, the golden specks roll, tumbling into the ravines and landing on the red jujube fruits. The berries take on a yellow tint, as if blood cells were coated with sugar. In the puddles at the gully's bottom, mist condensed on the water's surface into thin ice. It reflected the plateau's shadow, shattering into a pool of yellow. When the wind blew, the ice chips creaked like the plateau grinding its teeth.

The oil mill lay nestled by the gully at the foot of the plateau. Cracks ran through its mud-brick walls, filled with corn husks long since dried to a grayish yellow, crumbling at the slightest touch yet still wedged in place—stuffed there by Grandfather two years prior, who said, “Plug the cracks so the oil's fragrance won't escape.” Moss clung to the wall's base, a dull, damp green. Oil droplets seeped into it, glistening like shards of glass that sparkled when the sun emerged. Most striking was the ancient persimmon tree by the mill's entrance. Its trunk was so thick it took two people to encircle it, its bark cracked like the deep lines in Grandfather's palms—so deep you could dig your fingernails into the crevices. The scars on its trunk dated back to the Republican era—slashes from bandits' blades still gaping open. Dirt filled the wounds, and dried resin had crusted over the edges, yellow as aged honey. To the touch, the scars felt cooler than the trunk itself, warmth lingering only at their bases where sap still flowed—the tree felt the pain of its wounds yet nurtured them into strength. New shoots sprouted from the scars, branches twisting crookedly to catch more sunlight. In autumn, red berries hung from the branches, the ones closest to the scar being the sweetest. Grandma said, “The tree pours all its strength into the scar, like a person leaning their heart toward the pain, only then can it produce sweetness.”

As a child, I'd always gather persimmons beneath the tree while Grandma sat on the stone bench beside it, drying persimmon cakes. The bench was carved by my great-grandfather—its surface worn smooth, one corner chipped off when I fell at five. Even now, I can still feel the rough edge where it broke. Her fingers were wrapped in blue cloth strips, washed until faded and frayed at the edges. The strips were stained with persimmon tannin, which dried into a hard, shell-like crust. When peeling persimmons, the tannin seeped into the cloth. She'd bite one end of the strip with her teeth, turn her fingers, and peel slowly— “Peel gently, so the skin doesn't stick to the flesh. That's how you get smooth persimmon cakes.” The bamboo sieve for drying persimmons had a cracked frame, held together with thin iron wire. Last year's persimmon frost clung to the sieve's mesh, white as snow. When she turned the persimmon cakes, she pinched the stem end and gently twisted them. The frost fell onto the sieve with a soft rustling sound, like a handful of sugar being scattered. The wind swept through the persimmon leaves with a rustling sound. Some fell into the sieve. She picked them up, wiped them off, and popped one into my mouth: “Sweet, sweeter than city candy, but it's a bit astringent. Don't eat too many, little one.” Chewing the persimmon leaves, the astringency spread across my tongue, yet I couldn't bear to spit them out—they carried the sweetness of the fruit and the coolness of the morning mist, a taste unique to the plateau.

When the oil mill's jujube wood door creaked open, the sound startled sparrows from the gully. Inside, the millstone was polished green stone, gleaming smooth. The trough beneath was worn a finger's depth deep decades of grinding rapeseed had carved it. Grandfather said, “A sturdy millstone means a sturdy life. That hollow isn't a loss; it's the oil of days stored inside.” That year, I stood just as tall as the millstone. I watched Grandfather push the grinding wheel, his coarse cotton trousers rolled up to his knees. Sweat had turned the dirt on his legs into mud streaks that dried into cracks, like the furrows on the plateau. He used locust wood to roast the seeds. The fire in the stove blazed high, sparks leaping out the opening and vanishing into the mist, leaving only tiny red dots—like the embers in Grandfather’s pipe bowl. “Don't get too close, kid,” he called to me, smoke escaping the corners of his mouth and drifting into the mist, staining it gray. “The fire needs to be fierce for the seeds to roast thoroughly and the oil to become rich and fragrant. Don't skimp on the oil by cooking it too slowly slower is better for the ingredients.” I crouched by the stove entrance, gathering fallen wood chips to stuff into the fire. Dirt clung to the chips, sizzling and extinguishing in the hearth. Grandfather didn't scold me, only said, “Take your time. Don't fan sparks onto yourself.”

A crack appeared in the wooden wedge used for pressing oil. Grandfather bound it with a strip of blue cloth—the same piece of fabric worn white from washing that Grandmother used on her hands. He and Father hoisted the wooden mallet. With a loud “Heave-ho!” the hammer struck the wedge. Dirt from the oil press trickled down, landing on Grandfather's coarse cotton shirt. He didn't brush it off. When the first drop of oil seeped out, golden like the sunset over the plateau, it trickled down the bamboo trough into the earthenware jar. “Drip-drip,” it fell so slowly it made one impatient. But Grandfather was in no hurry. He sat on the doorstep smoking. His tobacco pipe bowl was copper, polished until it reflected his face. The pipe stem was jujube wood, cracked and filled with tobacco oil, black and shiny. “What's the rush?” he'd draw on his pipe, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Good oil takes time to simmer, just like these hills—centuries of rain make the soil firm. A person's life needs experiences to keep from losing its flavor.” I didn't understand then, just staring at the oil in the pot, wishing it would fill faster so Grandma could make oil-splashed noodles.

Grandma insisted on fresh oil for her noodles. The cast-iron wok, thick-bottomed, bubbled and roared as the noodles churned inside, like winds sweeping through wheat fields on the plateau. She stood by the stove, holding a coarse porcelain bowl—chipped at the rim from my clumsy hands, yet still usable. She sprinkled chili powder, salt, and scallions into the bowl. freshly pulled from the corner of the yard, still dusty with soil. She pinched off the roots with her fingernails and tossed them into the bowl. “Fresh—just as good as city scallions.” When the oil sizzled, she flicked her wrist. With a crackle, the oil, carrying the fragrance of chili powder, splashed over the noodles. The steam and aroma forced me to jump back. She laughed, “Don't hide—you'll let the fragrance escape!” I crouched under the persimmon tree, bowl in hand, slurping noodles coated in fragrant oil. The broth splashed onto my coarse cotton pants, scalding me into a jump. She slapped my pant leg, “Slow down! The noodles aren't going anywhere. It's the burn that's the real loss.” She'd also stir-fry the fried oil residue with shredded radish. The golden, crisp bits were so fragrant with each bite, it felt like swallowing your own tongue. Later, when I fried oil residue in the city, it always felt like something was missing. It wasn't until I returned to the village last year, touching the earth in the persimmon tree's scar, that I realized what was missing: the mist of the plateau, the earthy flavor in the fried oil residue, and the warmth of Grandma's hand patting my pants leg.

Last year when I returned to the village, morning mist still clung to my eyelashes. I pushed open the oil mill's jujube wood door—the creak was just as familiar, though the hinges had grown looser, requiring a hand to steady it against swaying. Dust lay thick on the millstone; I wiped it away to reveal the underlying sheen, the scent of oil mingling with earthy dust and creeping into my nostrils. I touched the scar on the persimmon tree. The resin shell remained, embedded with a bit more soil than before, still cool yet warm to the touch. Grandma's bamboo sieve sat on the stone bench, the persimmon frost in its mesh dried hard as salt grains. The wind rustled through the persimmon leaves, still making that “rustling” sound, though there were fewer leaves now, and the red fruits were sparse—the tree had grown old, yet it still bore fruit, like my great-grandfather who had passed away but left me with his ‘slowness’ and “steadiness.”

Now Grandma's coarse porcelain bowl sits on the windowsill, filled with earth brought from the plateau. Each time I cook noodles, I sprinkle some of that plateau soil into my flowerpots. Watching the plants thrive, I recall the earth of the plateau, the millstones of the oil press, and the red fruits of the persimmon tree. Some say “Shaanxi's sights are the Terracotta Army and Mount Hua,” yet I always recall the dust particles in the plateau mist, the resin in the persimmon tree's scars, the green stone in the oil mill's grinding trough, the blue cloth strips on Grandma's hands—these sights lack grandeur but are genuine, like the lives of old Shaanxi folk. They endure to find sweetness, grind to find fragrance. No matter how thick the fog, once the sun emerges, everything brightens.

As the mist lifted, sunlight bathed the persimmon tree. The crimson fruits glowed like burning lamps. The mud-brick walls of the oil mill gleamed under the sun, corn leaves peeking through the cracks turning yellow, oil droplets on the moss shimmering. I touched the tree's scarred bark and suddenly understood: The plateau speaks not a word yet grinds life into solidity; The tree speaks not, yet turns pain into sweetness; The oil mill speaks not, yet boils urgency into fragrance— This is the soul of us old Shaanxi folk: unassuming, yet weathering wind and rain. Like this plateau, like this tree, like this oil mill, year after year, we turn days into the fragrance of oil, into the sweetness of persimmons

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