Recently, quite a few readers have been venting to me — saying that Spring Festival just doesn’t feel the same anymore.
And honestly, they’re right. In my memory, Spring Festival meant living a vibrant, red-hot life during the coldest days of the year. Warm. Lively. Fun. A genuine renewal of spirit.
I still remember those times — one or two weeks before the festival, everyone would begin their preparations in earnest. First came the intensive airport runs, welcoming family members flying back from abroad. Then came settling them into hotels or assigning them rooms in the house.
For every pickup, the family would dispatch at least three or four men in three cars, just to barely manage collecting a single family of three. Because whether relatives were coming home or we were the ones returning, the luggage could only be described as theatrical. Beyond your own everyday essentials, there were cigarettes and liquor, snacks, and imported luxuries you’d brought back for others — enough to fill eight or nine oversized suitcases, packed solid. Loading and unloading required both force and care: too gentle and you couldn’t lift them, too rough and you risked breaking something inside.
Back home, once rooms were sorted out, everyone would gather to the cheerful sounds of variety shows on TV, unpacking bags and exchanging gifts and red envelopes.
Back then, not many people lived abroad, and communications weren’t well-developed. In one extended family, someone might be in North America, another in Europe, one in Japan, even someone making rounds in Africa — so everyone’s stories from their respective corners of the world made for genuinely captivating conversation. At dinner, each person would tell their own tales and recount their experiences, drawing amazed reactions from around the table.
Once all the households had settled in, Spring Festival was only three or four days away. That’s when the elders would each work their own magic — making phone call after phone call, pulling strings to arrange wave after wave of festive provisions to be delivered. The clothesline in the courtyard would hang thick with salted eel, smoked pork, wind-dried chicken, dried bamboo shoots, large prawns, and dried scallops.
The elders were in their prime then — middle age at its most spirited. They each carried absolute confidence in the provisions they’d procured. The seafood, the liquor, the cured meats — each was convinced their own was simply the finest. So what to do? Each household would supply their own ingredients for a meal, and the food would speak for itself.
But Jiangnan households tend to cook Spring Festival dishes in the style of rich, dark-sauced braises — after a few consecutive meals, even the most devoted palate grows tired of it. Fortunately for us younger ones, firecrackers were still permitted back then, so we could fully burn off our energy in wild play. Inevitably, hunger would return.
Sweaty and breathless, we’d race home to change clothes, wolf down a bowl of rice with yan du xian (a hearty Shanghainese slow-simmered soup of pork and bamboo), then dash back out to cause more trouble.
I used to despise cashmere sweaters. The sweat against the fabric around the neck felt prickly and unpleasant. But my parents thought these clothes were refined and stylish — so there were more than a few tantrums, and more than a few smacks, over the issue.
The elders, meanwhile, had endless rounds of chess and card games and conversations that never seemed to reach a natural end. The men smoked cigarettes and cigars; those who enjoyed a drink would savor a few sips of brandy or whiskey. The women would sit in groups of three or five on the sofa, sheet masks pressed to their faces, chatting about luxury fashion brands that hadn’t yet entered the Chinese market. In those days, Versace was the absolute pinnacle of chic — the black-and-gold color schemes turned every head — and owning a complete set of matching outfits and accessories was every woman’s prized ambition.
In the afternoons, a car would often pull into the courtyard. Out would step an uncle in a wool overcoat, or an aunt in an understated fur coat. They’d head upstairs, offer New Year’s greetings, and then, like anyone else, fall into easy conversation about the year’s work and experiences.
But I was young then, and the relatives I liked best were the ones in business — because their red envelopes were thick and solid.
And businesspeople of that era had a certain rough-edged, old-school quality to them. No one was overly calculating or petty. Many deals were struck casually, without fanfare, right there at the dinner table.
If guests arrived around two or three in the afternoon, the elders would drag out tables from the side room — sourced from the family restaurant — and set up an additional spread. And so, one living room would hold two fully packed tables of adults, plus several children underfoot. Counting everyone, it easily came to twenty-odd people. Between the body heat alone and the warmth radiating from the food, the temperature inside would climb a good five or six degrees.
Looking out the windows at a moment like that, you had to wipe away a thick layer of condensation with a tissue before you could see anything outside at all.
Now, in middle age myself, I can still recall that feeling with perfect clarity — the warmth, the noise, the sheer aliveness of it all — and it moves me every time.
What a pity, though, that the times, the world, and the atmosphere have all changed. That Spring Festival from my memory, glowing with warm light and softened by the mist of breath in cold air — it has become nothing more than memory now.
But no matter what, life moves forward, and memories must be turned to a new page. And besides — isn’t there a new kind of happiness in the Spring Festivals of today, simply in having each other’s company?
One last thing: Master Chi has at most one more casual piece before I publish this year’s profile photo and Chinese zodiac (shēngxiào) article — so stay tuned.
For today, let’s keep the comments easy and open. Come chat, catch up. I’m genuinely curious to hear from all of you.