Standing by the Wok All Afternoon to Finally Understand 'Shaqing'

At first, I only saw a pair of hands turning leaves

During the spring tea season, I watched the kill-green process in the village for an entire afternoon. I had thought frying tea was just tossing leaves into a wok and stirring, but within half an hour I knew it wasn't that simple—heat rose from the wok, and the master, without a word, kept turning the leaves with both hands, as if doing something very important.

The heat of the wok is judged by the back of the hand

First, I asked how hot the wok should be. The master didn't answer directly; he passed the back of his hand over the wok, then pulled it back, and said, "We don't use a thermometer for the wok temperature—just pass your hand over it. When it's so hot you can't hold your hand there, but you dare not actually touch it, that's right." As he spoke, he added a handful of fresh leaves into the wok. With a sizzle, steam rose, and the raw green smell of the leaves filled the room.

The iron wok was set at an angle on the stove, with fire burning beneath. He held the edge of the wok with one hand and turned the leaves with the other, not looking at the wok but at the fire.

Turning leaves has a rhythm; you can't rush it

After watching for a while, I began to see the pattern: he didn't turn the leaves randomly but with a method—when there were more leaves, he would cover them briefly to let the heat penetrate; when steam rose, he would toss them to let the green air escape; near the end, he lightened his touch, as if afraid of hurting the leaves.

I tried to turn a batch myself, but it was so hot I shook my hand, and the leaves clumped together in the wok. He took over and quickly spread them out evenly, not laughing at me, only saying, "Your hand must follow the leaves, not make the leaves follow your hand."

When the green air leaves, the tea fragrance comes

The green smell in the room gradually changed as I sniffed. At first, it was the raw smell of grass, astringent and pungent; slowly, the raw smell faded, revealing a bean-like aroma, then a hint of sweet fragrance that was hard to describe. The master leaned close to the edge of the wok, sniffed, and then relaxed: "It's done." He took the tea out and spread it to cool. By then, the green air in the room had dissipated, leaving only a clean, warm tea fragrance.

He squatted by the stove to rest, and I asked why this step was called "kill-green." He said, "Look at the name and you'll understand—what it kills is that green air. If the green air isn't killed thoroughly, the tea will always have a raw grass smell no matter how long you keep it; once the green air is gone, the tea becomes tea."

The sun was setting in the west, and I helped bring the spread tea indoors. That night as I lay down, my nose was still full of that fragrance. I thought the day wasn't wasted—the word 'shaqing' heard a hundred times is not as good as smelling it once by the wok: what is killed is never the leaves, but that green air. Once the green air recedes, the tea fragrance dares to come out.