"Wan, I got the tofu dregs!"
Early in the morning, Hu Ximei returned with a bamboo basket, calling out before she even stepped through the door.
Ji Huan poked her head out from the kitchen. "Quick, bring it over. Is it fresh?"
"I asked Uncle Fu. They were just made last night," she said, holding the basket up to Ji Huan as if presenting a treasure.
Ji Huan took a pinch to examine it. It was snow-white and slightly moist—perfect.
Hu Dacheng, who was feeding the fire in front of the stove, couldn't help his curiosity. "Wan, can tofu dregs really taste good?"
Hu Ximei had the same doubt. "Once, when we ran out of food at home, Mom got some tofu dregs from Uncle Fu to stir-fry for us. It wasn't good at all and had this raw, beany smell. Uncle Fu's family uses it to feed their pigs."
The Uncle Fu she mentioned was the village tofu maker.
While people rarely ate tofu dregs, they were excellent pig feed. But even then, pigs preferred bran.
'Even the pigs are picky about it.' She couldn't imagine how this stuff could be made into something delicious, even if Wan's cooking was undeniably amazing.
Ji Huan kept them in suspense, asking Hu Ximei to fetch a handful of pickled greens from the pickling jar outside. Meanwhile, she wrapped the tofu dregs in cheesecloth, submerged them in clean water, and kneaded them to press out the starchy liquid before lifting the bundle out to squeeze it dry.
"Dacheng, keep the fire low."
The iron wok had just been scrubbed clean. She poured the tofu dregs into the hot wok, slowly toasting them over a low fire until they were dry and cooked through, then scooped them out.
With swift cuts, she finely chopped the washed pickled greens on a round block. Then, she managed to scrape a small half-spoonful of lard from the bottom of the lard pot.
The lard melted quickly in the wok. When it was about medium-hot, she tossed in dried chili segments and fried them until they darkened. Next, she added the finely chopped pickled greens, stir-frying until fragrant, before finally adding the toasted tofu dregs and stir-frying everything together.
The moment she took it off the heat, both Hu Dacheng and Hu Ximei crowded around, their noses twitching.
"It smells amazing!" Hu Dacheng exclaimed, taking a deep breath. He was about to snatch a pinch when Ji Huan slapped the back of his hand and told him to go wash up.
He giggled. After a few days, he had learned Wan's rules. He gave his hands a quick dip in the water, then impatiently grabbed his chopsticks, picked up a mouthful, and stuffed it into his mouth. Sucking in a sharp breath from the heat, he nodded vigorously, exclaiming how delicious it was!
Hu Ximei followed his lead, washing her hands before taking a bite. After just a few chews, her eyes squeezed shut in delight. "I can't believe tofu dregs can be this delicious! Wan, you're incredible!"
But both children were very considerate. Their mother and second older brother had gone to fertilize the fields and weren't back yet. Not wanting to eat without them, they each had one taste and then reluctantly put down their chopsticks.
Ji Huan scrubbed the wok clean and told Hu Dacheng to keep the fire going. With six or seven mouths to feed, one dish clearly wasn't enough.
Seeing the vibrant, crisp pickled greens, she really craved a dish of fish with pickled vegetables. But you can't make bricks without straw. Forget fish; they could barely afford vegetables.
Widow Xie didn't have time to tend to the house, so Hu Ximei usually managed the vegetable garden. It was sparsely planted with things like cabbage, radishes, green beans, and eggplant, but all of that had to be taken to town to sell. For their daily meals, they only had a large vat of pickled greens and two small pots of salty bean paste.
Ji Huan finely minced the rest of the pickled greens, squeezed out the liquid, and stir-fried them in the wok until dry. Then she set them aside.
She ladled a tiny amount of vegetable oil from the pot. When the oil was about medium-high heat, she flash-fried some dried chili segments until fragrant, then immediately tossed in the pickled greens for a quick stir-fry. Once the aroma of the greens was released, she added salt and removed the dish from the wok.
Just as the food was brought to the table, Widow Xie and her second son, Hu Liang, returned from the fields with hoes on their shoulders. They each washed their hands and sat down to eat.
At the table, everyone ate with their heads down, too engrossed in the food to speak.
Never mind the tofu dregs—they ate pickled greens every single day and were long sick of them. But today's were completely different.
The tangy aroma and crisp texture, stuffed inside the coarse black-flour flatbreads, made even the usually throat-scraping bread taste delicious. When mixed into their bowls of millet porridge, they slurped it down with gusto, almost swallowing their own tongues.
By the time they put down their chopsticks, everyone was stuffed to the brim. Hu Dacheng even let out a long belch.
Ji Huan knew they weren't necessarily physically full; it was more a sense of psychological contentment.
This was why she loved food so much.
'In my old life, after getting off work, my favorite thing to do was wander through the market, buy fresh ingredients, and go home to cook all sorts of new recipes just for myself. A warm stomach brings a sense of contentment, a feeling that was very close to happiness.'
'When things get better,' Ji Huan thought, 'I'll make them some of my specialty dishes.'
Widow Xie put down her bowl, which had been scraped clean, and wiped her mouth.
She was born without a single cooking bone in her body; no matter the ingredients, everything she made tasted the same. Her children had grown weary of her haphazard stews, so once Hu Liang was old enough, he had taken on the responsibility of cooking.
His cooking was passable, but comparisons are always odious. And now, Ji Huan had only been with them for a few days, and she had already spoiled their palates.
Widow Xie was a bit puzzled. "Who did you learn all this from? I remember your mother wasn't much of a cook."
"Um… I learned by watching others cook."
Ji Huan answered vaguely, changing the subject to something that was weighing on her mind.
"Oh, right, Aunt Xie, I was thinking…"
Before she could finish, Widow Xie's eyebrows shot up. "Don't you start talking about going back! The roof might be fixed, but you don't have any bedding or anything. Just stay here and don't worry. We won't let you starve!"
Ji Huan didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Two days ago, Hu Liang and Hu Dacheng had fixed the large hole in the roof of her shack. She'd wanted to move back that same day but had gotten a stern lecture from Widow Xie for her trouble.
In truth, the Hu Family didn't have any spare bedding either; her staying meant she had to squeeze onto the same heated kang bed with Widow Xie and Hu Ximei.
And while the Hu Family wasn't starving, they weren't well-off by any means. Before Ji Huan came, they only ate two meals a day.
Through their interactions over the past few days, Ji Huan felt she had a much better understanding of Widow Xie.
The widow had a bad reputation in the village. She was known for being sharp-tongued and feisty, and many people disliked her. She wasn't one for pleasantries, but her kindness toward Ji Huan was real.
She had taken Ji Huan into her home, and none of her children had shunned her for fear of being "jinxed."
Ji Huan was deeply grateful. This was the first time she had felt the warmth of a family in Dafeng Village.
This warmth was a heavy, precious thing, and it made Ji Huan even more restless.
She wasn't used to passively accepting kindness. She hoped to be able to repay it as soon as possible.
"Aunt Xie, that's not what I was going to say! I wanted to ask you…"
Ji Huan had been trying to think of a way to earn money. The other day, when she went with Widow Xie to wash clothes by the river, she had noticed the widow's hands were red, swollen, and horribly ulcerated.
When she asked, she learned that the widow worked at the silk-reeling workshop in town. Her hands were constantly submerged in the water used to boil the cocoons. The water was filthy, and over time, the skin around her fingers had started to rot.
When the pain became unbearable, she had even visited the town clinic. She'd spent a dozen or so copper coins on a small bottle of purple medicine to apply, but it didn't help much. The moment her hands touched the cocoon water again, they returned to their terrible state.
It wasn't just her; all the women at the workshop suffered from the same thing. They'd tried plenty of folk remedies, but nothing worked. All they could do was grit their teeth and bear it.