水饺· 荞麦面· 年糕汤 Dumplings · Soba Noodles · Rice Cake Soup

过年，你吃什么？

中国人说：水饺。

日本人说：荞麦面。

韩国人说：年糕汤。

三种食物，看似普通，却藏着三种关于时间、人生与幸福的期许。

2025年的最后一天，在东京度过。第二天清晨要飞北海道，心想应该早一点吃饭，早一点睡觉——这跨年夜，怎么好好慰劳一年的努力工作？要吃顿大餐？吃点当地风味？

百货公司外走廊、大堂到地下食品街，都在卖荞麦面。哦，对了，日本人在元旦新年前夕，要吃“跨年荞麦面”（年越しそば）。可是我住在旅店，没有厨房和餐具。

于是找餐厅。结果餐厅不是提前打烊，就是根本没营业。连旅店楼下那家连锁饺子拉面店也熄灯。（还想着日式煎饺也是饺子，有点过春节的意思）。难不成，要吃速食汉堡炸鸡？

开始想念在台北时，母亲包的水饺。

案板上撒着面粉，擀面杖来回滚动，母亲亲手擀的水饺皮特别Q弹。除夕夜子时的水饺是元宝，有的加一小块年糕，意味吃到的人新的一年会长高。有的塞了一枚洗刷干净的一元铜板，吃到的人可以多领100元压岁钱！为了能“发财”，我和弟弟妹妹拼命抢着吃，顾不得烫嘴，惹得大人哈哈笑！听到邻居家的鞭炮声，才匆匆放下碗筷跑去门口放鞭炮——这吉时可要好好把握呀！

长高、发财，把期待握在手心，水饺皮对折按捏，把愿望包进元宝。华人过年讲究一个“增”字：增旺、增福、增寿。所有的不如意，随着串串火光四射的炸裂鞭炮烟消云散，日子，总会越来越好。

日本人现在只过阳历新年，不求“增”，而是“断”。

一碗热腾腾的荞麦面，汤头简单朴素。夹起细长的面条，轻轻咬断，慢慢咀嚼。这一“断”，把积累的烦恼、焦虑与遗憾，全部留在旧年。“跨年荞麦面”要在午夜12点之前吃完，仿佛与自己完成一场无声的和解。

我在旅店边吃打包回来的天妇罗和海鲜沙拉，一边看电视播放的红白歌唱大赛，好多久违的歌手啊，我都几乎忘了曾经那么喜欢他们；连主持人之一的绫濑遥的脸孔也陌生了。临近12点，没有舞台上激情喧哗的倒数计时，画面轮播着京都清水寺、东京浅草寺等庙宇的住持祝祷、击打铜钟，以及双手合十，双眼微闭的信众们。

放下过去，温柔告别。新的一年，轻装上路。

我也曾经在韩国过春节，大年初一吃的是年糕汤（떡국）。象征纯净长寿的白色年糕，切成钱币似的薄片，清水浸泡。大骨汤里加牛肉熬煮，然后放进年糕片，起锅前倒入鸡蛋液，撒些葱花和海苔丝。

喝完浓稠的年糕汤，就长大了一岁，所以韩国人会用“你喝了几碗年糕汤”来代指年龄。

水饺、荞麦面、年糕汤，三种过年食物，三种人生智慧：增添理想，截断执念，迎接清新的未来。

你家过年，吃什么呢？

 

2026年 2月14日，新加坡《联合早报》 “上善若水”专栏

 

Dumplings · Soba Noodles · Rice Cake Soup

I Lo-fen

What do you eat for the New Year?

The Chinese say: dumplings.
The Japanese say: soba noodles.
The Koreans say: rice cake soup.

Three kinds of food, seemingly ordinary, yet each carries a different hope about time, life, and happiness.

I spent the last day of 2025 in Tokyo. Early the next morning, I was to fly to Hokkaido. I thought I should eat early and sleep early—but on New Year’s Eve, how should one properly reward a year of hard work? A grand feast? Local specialties?

Along the corridors outside the department stores, in the lobbies, and down in the basement food halls, soba noodles were everywhere. Of course—on New Year’s Eve, the Japanese eat “Toshikoshi Soba” (year-crossing noodles). But I was staying in a hotel, with no kitchen and no tableware.

So I looked for a restaurant. Most had closed early, and some were not open at all. Even the chain dumpling-and-ramen shop downstairs in my hotel had gone dark. (I had thought that Japanese pan-fried gyoza might at least resemble dumplings, giving me a hint of Spring Festival.)

Was I really going to end up with fast-food burgers and fried chicken?

I began to miss the dumplings my mother made in Taipei.

Flour dusted the chopping board, the rolling pin moved back and forth. The dumpling wrappers she rolled by hand were especially springy. The dumplings eaten at midnight on Lunar New Year’s Eve were shaped like gold ingots. Some contained a small piece of rice cake, meaning whoever found it would grow taller in the coming year. Some hid a carefully washed one-dollar coin; whoever found it would receive an extra hundred dollars in lucky money! To “get rich,” my siblings and I would scramble to eat as many as possible, ignoring the heat that burned our mouths, to the roaring laughter of the adults. Hearing the crackle of firecrackers from the neighbors, we would hastily put down our bowls and rush outside—this auspicious moment must not be missed!

To grow taller, to become wealthier—holding expectations in the palm of one’s hand, folding the dumpling wrapper in half, sealing wishes inside the golden ingot. For Chinese families, the New Year is about “increase”: increasing prosperity, increasing blessings, increasing longevity. All misfortunes vanish in the brilliant bursts of firecrackers. Life will surely get better and better.

The Japanese now celebrate only the solar New Year. They do not seek “increase,” but rather “cutting off.”

A steaming bowl of soba, the broth simple and plain. Lift the long, thin noodles, gently bite them through, chew slowly. With that single “cut,” the accumulated worries, anxieties, and regrets are left behind in the old year. “Toshikoshi Soba” must be finished before midnight, as though completing a silent reconciliation with oneself.

In my hotel room, I ate takeout tempura and seafood salad while watching the Kohaku Uta Gassen on television. So many singers I once loved—had I really almost forgotten them? Even the face of one of the hosts, Haruka Ayase, felt strangely unfamiliar. As midnight approached, there was no boisterous countdown. Instead, the screen showed temple abbots at Kiyomizu-dera in Kyoto and Senso-ji in Tokyo offering prayers, striking the great bells, while worshippers stood with hands clasped and eyes gently closed.

Letting go of the past, bidding it farewell with tenderness. In the new year, travel light.

I have also spent the Lunar New Year in Korea. On the first day, we ate rice cake soup (tteokguk). The white rice cakes, symbolizing purity and longevity, were sliced into coin-shaped pieces and soaked in clear water. Beef was simmered in bone broth, then the rice cake slices were added. Before serving, beaten egg was poured in, and chopped scallions and shredded seaweed were sprinkled on top.

After finishing a bowl of thick rice cake soup, one grows a year older—so Koreans sometimes ask, “How many bowls of rice cake soup have you had?” to refer to someone’s age.

Dumplings, soba noodles, rice cake soup—three New Year dishes, three kinds of wisdom for life: add to your aspirations, cut off your attachments, and welcome a fresh future.

What does your family eat for the New Year?

February 14, 2026
“Shangshan Ruoshui” Column, Lianhe Zaobao, Singapore

馬踏飛燕銅奔馬 Bronze Galloping Horse Treading on a Flying Swallow

甘肅省博物館

衣若芬拍攝於2025年6月15日

文圖學四重奏 Quartet of Text and Image Studies

衣若芬：《暢敘幽情：文圖學詩畫四重奏》杭州：西泠印社，2022年 

I Lo-fen, Free Our Most Hidden Feelings: Quartet of Text and Image Studies. Hangzhou: Xiling Seal Art Society (ISBN:9787550837256)

2026年衣若芬壽蘇會I Lo-fen Celebrates the 989th Birthday of Su Dongpo

你有什麽人生困惑,生活煩惱嗎? 把話留在這個影片下方 讓我陪你問一問蘇東坡 Do you have any life confusions or worries? Leave your words under this video. Let me accompany you to ask Su Dongpo.

AI都会作诗了,我们为什么还要背? AI Can Already Write Poetry—So Why Do We Still Need to Memorize It?

 

 

新学年课程调整,本来划分为三个必修课的古典文学,浓缩成了两门。在写课程规划的时候，我已经在思考：AIGC时代，如何学习古典文学？

有点“逆向”地，我开始回顾旧有的方法，重视记忆和背诵。

知道一定会遭来质疑：“AI都会作诗了,我们为什么还要背?”

是啊！当一首诗、一段文字可以随时被搜索全文；当AI可以即刻生成语言，我们还需要把语言背进自己的大脑里吗？

过去我特别讨厌死记硬背，没想到在教了两学期AIGC文图学之后，反而感到：正是在 AIGC 时代，理解和背诵古典诗词，才真正显露出它不可替代的意义。

AI 擅长的是“生成语言”，但不会“拥有语言”。它能在几秒钟内“吐”出一首看似工整的诗、一段流畅的散文，但它的语言始终停留在“外部”。这种外包和代工迅捷便利——不知道说什么，就让 AI 生成；不想组织句子，就让系统改写，拿来就用，无需思虑。

语文的价值从“我有话要说”，转成“你帮我说话”，久而久之，我们的大脑开始退化的，不仅仅是表达能力，还包括判断能力。你会发现一个微妙的现象：当你没有足够多的好语言时，即使 AI 给你十个生成的文案版本，你也很难判断哪一个真正优秀。AI生成的愈多，愈让我们难以选择。

人类的语言，只有在被理解背诵、被反复咀嚼、进入呼吸、节奏、情感与神经连锁反应之中，内化记忆之后，才会真正成为“自己的一部分”。尤其是有韵律、有意象、兴发画面感、凝练情绪密度、整体结构成熟的古典诗词。背诵古典诗词，恰恰是为大脑安装一个“内部语言坐标系”；一个“高级语言样本模型”。

我们对死记硬背的反感，是记不住；即使暂时记住，应付完考试以后就忘了，觉得浪费时间，没有用。问题在没有好好地用，而不是被“强迫记忆”。中文的“记忆”充分显示“输入”——“记”，以及“输出”——“忆”两种大脑的工作状态。为了应付考试的记忆，缺乏调用语言样本的场景，无法形塑长期储存的底层逻辑，所以，在背诵时除了知道作者的写作背景，解释文句，还要学着和我们自己的人生连结。

在彷徨无措，油然浮现“山重水复疑无路，柳暗花明又一村”；在情恋失意，自我安慰“天涯何处无芳草”；在徜徉山水，细细品味“万物静观皆自得”——我们不是在“想起/背出一首诗词”，而是诗词从感官的多模态情境中涌现，转化对应，替我们承接真实的时刻。如此，我们建立起稳定而持久的神经通路，为自己保留一块不被算法主导的内在空间。

话说回来，既然背诵诗词那么重要，我们是不是就不必懂得AI呢？

最近我应邀为大专AI诗词视频比赛担任评审，更确定善于操作AIGC技术工具，对于理解和背诵诗词的高效性能。把诗词转译为影像的过程，考验的是掌握文字意涵，不是一句句生硬地用科技“画出来”，拼凑成动图；而是统合、碰撞、叠加，将我们作为主体，融会进诗词，再提取出触动人心的形象，这是人机协作的真谛。

当一首诗在你心里生根，它不会替你解决问题，却会在你迷惘、失落、迟疑的时候，陪你站稳。

在 AIGC 时代，背诵古典诗词，并不是怀旧和倒退。它更像是一种提醒：技术可以替我们生成语言，但只有人，才能让语言成为生命的一部分。

 

2026年1月31日,新加坡《联合早报》“上善若水”专栏

 

AI Can Already Write Poetry—So Why Do We Still Need to Memorize It?

I Lo-fen

With adjustments to the new academic year’s curriculum, classical literature—once divided into three required courses—has been compressed into two. While drafting the new course plan, I found myself already thinking about a pressing question: in the age of AIGC, how should we learn classical literature?

Somewhat “counterintuitively,” I began to revisit older methods, placing renewed emphasis on memory and recitation.

I knew this would inevitably invite skepticism: “AI can already write poetry—so why do we still need to memorize it?”

Indeed. When a poem or a passage of text can be retrieved in full at any time; when AI can instantly generate language—do we still need to commit language to our own brains?

I used to particularly dislike rote memorization. Yet after teaching Text and Image Studies on AIGC for two semesters, I have come to feel quite the opposite: it is precisely in the AIGC era that understanding and memorizing classical poetry reveals its truly irreplaceable value.

AI excels at generating language, but it does not possess language. It can “spit out” a seemingly well-structured poem or a fluent piece of prose in seconds, but its language always remains external. This kind of outsourcing and subcontracting is fast and convenient—when you don’t know what to say, let AI generate it; when you don’t want to organize sentences, let the system rewrite them. You can simply take and use, without reflection.

Over time, the value of language shifts from “I have something to say” to “you help me say it.” Gradually, what deteriorates in our brains is not only expressive ability, but also judgment. A subtle phenomenon emerges: when you do not possess enough good language yourself, even if AI generates ten different versions of a text for you, it becomes difficult to judge which one is truly excellent. The more AI generates, the harder it becomes for us to choose.

Human language only truly becomes “a part of oneself” after it has been understood, memorized, repeatedly savored, and internalized—entering our breathing, rhythm, emotions, and neural responses. This is especially true of classical poetry, with its rhythm, imagery, evocative visuality, condensed emotional density, and mature overall structure. Memorizing classical poetry is, in fact, a way of installing an “internal linguistic coordinate system” for the brain—an advanced model of exemplary language.

Our aversion to rote memorization stems from not being able to remember; or from remembering temporarily, only to forget everything after the exam, feeling that it was a waste of time and useless. The problem lies not in memorization itself, but in how it is used—not in being “forced to remember.” The Chinese word for memory vividly reflects two modes of brain activity: “input” (ji, to record) and “output” (yi, to recall). Memorization aimed solely at exams lacks scenarios for activating linguistic samples; it cannot shape the underlying logic needed for long-term storage. Therefore, when reciting, beyond knowing the author’s background and explaining the lines, we must also learn to connect the text to our own lives.

When we feel lost and helpless, the line “After endless mountains and rivers with no road in sight, suddenly willows shade a village bright” naturally surfaces. When love disappoints us, we console ourselves with “Why worry that no fragrant grass can be found at the world’s end?” When wandering through landscapes, we savor “In quiet contemplation, all things yield their joy.” We are not merely “recalling or reciting a poem”; rather, the poem emerges from a multimodal sensory context, transforms and corresponds, and steps in to carry the weight of real moments for us. In this way, we build stable and lasting neural pathways, preserving within ourselves a space not dominated by algorithms.

That said, if memorizing poetry is so important, does it mean we no longer need to understand AI?

Recently, I was invited to serve as a judge for a collegiate AI poetry video competition. This experience further confirmed for me how skillful use of AIGC tools can enhance the efficiency of understanding and memorizing poetry. The process of translating poetry into images tests one’s grasp of textual meaning—it is not about rigidly “drawing” each line with technology and stitching them into animated visuals. Rather, it involves integration, collision, and layering: merging oneself as the subject into the poem, then extracting images that truly move the heart. This is the essence of human–machine collaboration.

When a poem takes root in your heart, it does not solve problems for you—but when you are confused, lost, or hesitant, it stands with you and helps you stay grounded.

In the age of AIGC, memorizing classical poetry is neither nostalgia nor regression. It is more like a reminder: technology can generate language for us, but only humans can allow language to become part of life itself.

January 31, 2026
“Shangshan Ruoshui” Column, Lianhe Zaobao, Singapore