White lotus paste, two salted yolks. My favourite kind of mooncake. There are other flavours—red bean, taro, durian, mango. There are even snowskin mooncakes, ones you have to keep in the fridge or they’ll melt and lose their consistency.
I’ve just bought myself four regular-sized mooncakes. They come in reusable tins, a yellow and crimson receptacle for deliciousness. I crack one open. The knife hits some resistance as it catches the yolk, but after half a second, I hit the bottom. I’ve only cut myself a small slice for now, but I know I’m going to end up eating the whole thing in one sitting.
Mid-autumn festival is my favourite celebration, and not just because there are mooncakes involved; it’s because of the stories. The moon is a source of fascination for many cultures, and the Chinese are no different.
As a child, I collected these stories. They took me out of school, out of my own skin. I don’t find them in the library, or even buried in the shelves of books we have at home.
My parents tell me these stories.
Did you know there are stories about the moon? Not the ones that say it’s made of blue cheese. Real stories. Ones that have been passed on from old Chinese poets and storytellers. Ones that my mother told me, when I was little.
Mum tells the story of 嫦娥, now more commonly known as the Moon Goddess. Her husband was a famed archer who shot down nine of the ten suns that had risen at the time, saving the people from the misery of a scorched earth. He was given an elixir of immortality (elixirs are always for immortality), which he kept locked away in his bedroom. While he was away, 嫦娥 snuck into his room and stole the elixir for herself—but in doing so, she floated up to the moon, where she lives to this day.
If you look carefully—oh so carefully—at the right time, when the moon is just so, you can see her.
Sometimes, 嫦娥 is accompanied by a rabbit. The Jade Rabbit. The story goes that the Emperor once turned himself into an old, old man and wandered the streets begging for food. The other animals—a jackal, an otter, and a monkey—fetched him food from the trees and the river, but the poor rabbit had nothing to offer. He attempted to throw himself into the fire, to turn himself into food. Touched by the rabbit’s sacrifice, the old man revealed himself to be the Emperor, and sent the Rabbit’s likeness up to the moon, where he would be immortalised forever.
Look again. Do you see the rabbit? What’s he doing? Is he making more immortality elixir? Or is he just keeping 嫦娥 company?
Mum tells me that we have mooncakes because a long time ago, when two parts of China were at war, people used them to send each other messages. They baked pieces of paper into their mooncakes, and organised a revolution right under the soldiers’ noses. Even as a child, I rather enjoyed the idea of food as a method of protest.
You know we’re not superstitious people. But there’s just something about the moon. Especially when it’s so round. Like it’s smiling at us.
I have a soft spot for these stories. They’re just tales, I know. But a little part of me still hopes there really is a woman living on the moon with a rabbit. I know that when I tell these stories to my own children, I will be eating a slice of white lotus paste mooncake with a chunk of salted egg yolk.
About the author
Yen-Rong is a Brisbane-based writer, and is of Malaysian-Chinese descent. She is the founder and editor in chief of Pencilled In, a magazine dedicated to showcasing the work of young Asian Australian artists. When she is not writing, you might find her on Twitter @inexorablist, drinking tea, or chasing after her cat, Autumn. Her website is here: http://www.inexorablist.com.