YAQI NING
Professor Sikorski
International Writing Workshop
The Letter
Dear Jenny: It has been nearly a month since last time we met. How’s college life for you so far? Recently, I’ve encountered a maze. It was already late night. My room was so quiet after my roommates went to sleep. I, wide-wake, turned on my table lamp and opened the Allsen’s book “Mongol Cuisine”. The first page was about the office of ba’urchi, which translated as “cook” in the Mongolian. Staring at the strange letters that consisted the exotic, weird word-ba’urchi, I envisaged a bustle image of the cooks, wearing gowns that cut out from wolf skins, prepare food with horseflesh, mutton and cheese. I was also amazed by how they respect food, in distinctive and extreme ways, nothing like other cultures. The mutton is preserved by drying, freezing, jerking, and smoking. When they kill an animal by making an incision in the chest, they “squeezing the heart” and thereby “retaining the blood in the carcass for later use”. I definitely saw myself there also, standing right next to yurts on the grassland, watched local people making fire and rounding up the sheep or cattle, preserving food in a persistent and faithful way. But, I, strived to put myself inside the picture to understand why, still failed to get close.

Eye ache, cervical bitter, I closed the book filled with disappointment and pushed it away. Lay inside the blanket with the mild moonlight through the window and curtain, I, felt so unsure. The annoying uncertainty disturbed me like a far deeper itch I could never scratch. I witnessed the display of the nomadic culture at food and hunt. I read every detail of the various activities of people who live in Mongolian plains age after age. The vague feeling about Mongol culture sprang in my heart, but was stuck inside my chest. It is too dim to articulate. Just like the gentle moonlight, it walks through the window and splashes itself all over the quilt in front of me. But it is a light that I cannot touch. The only exist evidence of it will even disappear when I closed my eyes. Something is definitely missed. I murmured to myself. But I have no idea what is missed exactly.

As a young biologist, Wilson made a fieldwork directly across the peninsular base to collect samples of ants and other small animals. On the Hunon forest, he observed the Bird of Paradise, attracted by the marvelous display of the birds’ unique behavior and appearances alterations, enchanted with the power of natural selections throughout thousands of generations. Somehow I felt just like him, maybe in a different way. I engaged with the contexts of Mongol instead of animals on science. “The improbable spectacle” in my case, is the ways of Mongol people treat their food. In “The Bird of Paradise The Hunter and The Poet”, Wilson indicates “What humanists dislike most about science” is that “it reduces nature and is insensitive to art.” However, through pointing out science is also synthetic，which uses artlike intuition and imagery, he reveals the interconnection between science and art: “in the synthetic phase even the most elementary activity of these biological units is seen to create rich and subtle patterns.” It sudden reminded me of the time I traveled at Inner Mongolian. It was during mid July, the long summer just after I graduated from middle school. We ridded Jeep from the local towns all the way to Hölün buyir grassland, expecting to to take a look on native people’s life as tourists. Almost dehydrated under the sultry sunlight and dry air, we arrived right in front a yurt. The yurt was surprisingly beautiful, with long colored ribbons on the dome flying every time with the rare breeze under the azure sky. The host, a man of giant stature, led us into his “house”. In side the yurt, the decorum was so simple. No extra furniture. From the whole yurt itself, which is basically a huge tent extend over the field with detachable timber structures, to the exquisite embroidery carpets under my feet and the low dark-colored tables near the window, everything was moveable. It seemed like the whole family is about to pack all their stuff and leave. His wife, a woman with red sunburnt face, brought us server bowls of butter tea and traditional homemade cheese sticks. I took one sip of the turbid tea. I couldn’t help to grown while the greasy, salty taste occupied my mouth violently. It’s nothing like tea, the smooth tea mixed with milk that I used to have at lazy afternoons. And the cheese is so hard and dry. I was even hesitate to call it food. In “ The White Bird”, a little prose I read before, people are able to sees the construction steps and the carving skills when staring at those homemade wooden birds. However, those simple white handcrafts, usually hung on a thread from a beam, move with the air currents, are figurative symbols of people’s hope of stable happiness and believe of security under bleak natural context. “The art is the mirror of nature”. The aesthetic emotions derivate from how people experience on natural environment. I didn’t really access into the weird taste of these traditional Mongol foods until I had my first Global Asia lecture last week. The Professor came in with his typical amiable smile. After the students tricked in and took their seats, he said:“ Today, we’re goanna begin with a map, a moving map”. At the same time, a dynamic map flash of China through out history was showed on the projection screen. The changing territories were marked with different colors. The boundaries of the country slightly changed as time goes from dynasty to dynasty. At the time period 1271 to 1368, a yellow territory that was bigger than any one of dynasties appeared before suddenly occupied most of the screen. From North Sea to the Sea of Japan, the Mongols built a vast empire across much of Asia. The natural conditions shaped the way they lived and their spiritual life. It is the harsh living environment and scare resources in which they gained the ability to adapt and thrive in any situation and on any terrain as nomads, eared the title of “the Devil’s horsemen”. I imagined the view of Mongol people herding horses, milking cows, but failed to see the window coated in frost when temperature plummets and hear the wind begins to howl at sever winter night. I, wondering how many connections behind the map changing were left outside consideration, started to gather up the missing parts and piece up together a fuller picture of what I am looking on the Mongol Plain. The whole viewing and comprehending process demands detailed surface examination as well as traces of causations beneath the configuration. With the biological information, the original impression of the amazing mate-season dance will no longer be limited within mere appreciation; with the congruence of emotion and natural experience, people feel less mysterious and able to meet a point of affirmation in front of the wooden birds made by peasants during long winter; with knowing the causes and reasons behind the Mongol Cuisine, I realized the kitchen was only the starting point. It is already dawn now. I can actually feeling the warm temperature of the morning sunlight. I know that I will be even closer to the Mongols when I reopen the book tonight. Hope everything is well. Best wishes, Agnes