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
