Hey, Sugar: The Extreme Craft of Blowing Candy Figurines
For the December issue of the Beijinger, we sent our editors out to try their hand at traditional Chinese crafts. An excerpt of their experiences was featured in the magazine. The following is the full version of their story.
We've all seen (or been) those tourists, goo-gooing over the golden animal sculptures being peddled around Houhai lake or in the popular hutongs. But what does it take to create something so sweet in every aspect of the word? To find out, I went down to the China Culture Center offices in Liangmaqiao.
In technical terms, this process is called sugar-pulling or sugar-blowing. But while these innuendo-laced verbs may conjure up the “Candy Man” of Christina Aguilera rather than Willy Wonka, this ancient craft is as pure as the incorruptible Charlie himself.
Confectionary craft has been passed from father to son since the Song dynasty. My teacher was a fourth-generation sugar-styler. But while the craft was quite common back in the day, these saccharine skills are increasingly endangered. Apparently there are only around a hundred candy blowers left in the whole of China, about ten of whom live in Beijing.
The friendly, English-speaking staff at the China Culture Center offer a “Blowing Candy Figurines” class, where you can marvel at this edible art. Because the boiling point of sugar is 186°C, though, many people choose to limit their participation to the latter – and safer – stage of the process: simply inflating the cooling sugar blobs with their own oxygen. (The secret is slow and consistent breath.)
However, if you are into extreme crafts and are willing to risk burning yourself, then you can attempt the entire process. The teacher gives you a dollop of the hot, hot gloop. You play with it in your palm for a while, then hollow it out with an index finger dipped in starch. After pinching shut one end, you stretch the sugar sphere out to make a needle-thin spout. You then simultaneously blow into that end and pull the bubble that emerges at the other to make eyes, ear, legs, etc.
The sugar cools rapidly. You have a one-minute window of opportunity to fashion yourself a zodiac animal. Despite how easy the teacher’s calloused, nimble fingers make it look, don't expect to be whipping up cute little critters to show off to your friends. When I eventually managed to inflate mine, it resembled a dehydrated tadpole much more than a mouse.
This intense craft class was certainly enjoyable, and reinforced my appreciation of this dying art of old China. But I don't think I'd recommend eating one of those candy critters … unless, of course, you like your food pre-fondled and with a side of someone else's breath.
Price and venue: RMB 220/two-hour session, China Culture Center
The rewards of persevering: You would need to devote at least half a month to learn how to carry out the entire process on your own. More years are necessary to hone your skill and attempt the more difficult shapes.
Click here to see the December issue of the Beijinger in full.
Photos: Judy Zhou
