Early in the morning at the market, a faint, refreshing herbal fragrance drifted through the air. At a granny's stall, bundles of fresh mugwort still glistening with dew were neatly arranged, while a bamboo basket was piled high with free‑range eggs – the unmistakable signs of Duanwu in Chongming were all around.

　　I grabbed two bundles of mugwort – one to hang above the door, and the other to cook a pot of authentic Chongming mugwort leaf eggs. In Chongming, the ritual of Duanwu has never been just about reed‑leaf zongzi. This pot of mugwort eggs is the taste of the festival etched into the memory of every Chongming local.

　　When I was a child, every Duanwu, my mother would wrap reed‑leaf zongzi with one hand while boiling mugwort eggs on the earthen stove. The gentle fragrance of mugwort and reed leaves filled the kitchen, drifted across the pond behind the house, and wafted into the bamboo grove – that was the unique imprint of the festival.

　　Unlike tea eggs or garlic eggs elsewhere, Chongming people cook mugwort eggs as a therapeutic remedy suited to the dampness of the waterlands. As the county annals record, it has long been a tradition to hang mugwort and calamus, and to eat mugwort‑based foods during Duanwu, using the righteous yang energy of plants to expel the damp chill accumulated throughout the rainy season.

　　A bundle of mugwort, a pot of mugwort eggs – that's how Chongming people celebrate Duanwu. No elaborate rituals, just simple herbs from the fields, simmering the wishes for dispelling dampness, inviting blessings, and safeguarding the family's well‑being into a pot of warm, humble comfort.