As a university cafeteria, Rongda’s dining hall was famously affordable, generous with portions, and tasty—but it wasn’t without its flaws. Xia Yiyang had discovered with dismay that even when stir-frying vegetables, the chefs would toss in a few Sichuan peppercorns and dried chili peppers to wok-fry the oil.
He liked spicy food, but he was wary of Sichuan peppercorns—mainly because the ones in Sichuan and Chongqing were numbingly potent! If you accidentally bit into one, your lips would go numb all the way down to your throat, and your brain would start buzzing.
So every time he ate cafeteria food, he had to be extra, extra careful—treating it like navigating a minefield—to avoid being taken down by a peppercorn.
“What are you all doing for New Year’s Eve?” a roommate across the table asked. Without waiting for answers, he announced his own plan: “I’m meeting up with some high school friends to watch the light show at the Twin Towers—the official account said they’re even setting off fireworks!”
“I’m heading back to Chongqing. We don’t have class after noon on the 31st anyway, and it’s only an hour by high-speed rail. No way I’m staying at school,” another classmate said.
The third classmate, slurping up his bowl of peas-and-noodles, complained: “I want to go to Chunxi Road, but my old man won’t let me—he insists I come home for dinner. No fun at all.”
Three of the four in their dorm were from Sichuan or Chongqing. They either had plans with old classmates or were going home for a reunion dinner, leaving only one lone sprout in the dorm.
All three turned to look at Xia Yiyang: “Xia Yiyang, where are you going for New Year’s?”
“Huh? Me?” Xia Yiyang had been focused on tackling the stir-fried dish in his bowl. To avoid the minefield of peppercorns in the greens, he’d specially ordered scrambled eggs with tomatoes. After inspecting it back and forth for ages, he’d finally felt safe enough to scoop a big spoonful onto his rice.
He mumbled: “I’m not going anywhere—just staying at school. Finals are coming up, and I still haven’t figured out calculus or physics.”
“You’re being way too modest. You’ve aced all the pop quizzes so far. If even you think calculus and physics are hard, then no one in our class would pass,” his roommates remarked. “But you’ve got it easy—even though you’re from Beijing, your brother’s shop is right by the school gate, so you can see him anytime. At least you don’t have to miss home.”
Xia Yiyang made a vague sound of agreement, scooped up a big mouthful of tomato-and-egg rice, and shoved it in—blegh!
He was ambushed by a Sichuan peppercorn hidden inside the egg, instantly turned into a peashooter, and coughed uncontrollably.
Oh great! Why did they put Sichuan peppercorns in scrambled eggs with tomatoes?!
…
Xia Yiyang rarely stayed in the dorms. He told his roommates that his brother ran a dessert shop on the snack street just outside the school’s north gate—selling ice powder in summer and tangyuan in winter—and that he went to his brother’s place after class every day.
As for why this “brother” looked nothing like Xia Yiyang and had a different surname—that was a whole other story.
As the year-end approached, Sheng Lin’s shop was doing booming business with ginger-infused tangyuan and fermented rice egg soup. He planned to close up early on New Year’s Eve and give his staff the day off.
When Sheng Lin brought this up with Xia Yiyang, the young man was noticeably distracted.
“Yiyi, are you feeling unwell?” Sheng Lin asked with concern. “You keep spacing out.”
“I’m fine.” Xia Yiyang shook his head, sounding listless. “I just had a bad plate of scrambled eggs with tomatoes at lunch.”
Sheng Lin found it amusing and ruffled his hair like he was comforting a little kid: “Scrambled eggs with tomatoes is just scrambled eggs with tomatoes—how bad could it be?”
“No, not just bad—it was terrible!” To Sheng Lin’s surprise, Xia Yiyang’s emotions suddenly spiraled. He slapped Sheng Lin’s hand away, his voice rising: “The cafeteria chef must’ve lost his mind—he put Sichuan peppercorns in the scrambled eggs! And chili peppers in the stir-fried greens! I like spicy food, but I don’t want to eat it every single second!!”
In the six months they’d known each other, this was the first time Sheng Lin had seen the young master lose his temper over such a trivial thing.
The young master’s cheeks puffed up with anger, his eyes shimmering with hurt—as if he might cry at any moment over how awful the scrambled eggs were.
But he quickly realized his reaction was overblown. Xia Yiyang turned his head away, sniffled hard, swallowed back the inexplicable wave of bitterness rising in his throat, took two deep breaths, and apologized: “…Ling Ge, I’m sorry. I’ve just been really stressed about finals.”
“It’s okay.” Sheng Lin immediately took his hand and comforted him. “Freshman final exams really are packed—eight subjects in one week. Don’t be too nervous. If you need help reviewing, I’m available anytime.”
The young man gave a half-hearted nod, not fully present.
That night, they went to bed early. Xia Yiyang’s textbooks were still scattered on the desk, scratch paper everywhere, left untidied. Sheng Lin stacked them neatly. When he returned to the bedside, he found Xia Yiyang still clutching his phone.
The screen was bright, but the young man had long since fallen asleep.
Sheng Lin gently pried the phone from his palm and was about to turn off the screen when his gaze was caught by the text on it.
[Round-trip Flight Search]
[Departure: Rongcheng]
[Destination: Beijing]
[Dates: 2025.12.31 – 2026.01.03]
Sheng Lin finally understood what Xia Yiyang’s sudden distress was really about.
He hadn’t thrown a tantrum because of a plate of tomato-and-egg with Sichuan peppercorns—he was just homesick.
…
The school really wasn’t doing them any favors—they’d scheduled an 8 AM class on the very last day of 2025. Everyone’s mind was elsewhere, all of them looking forward to the upcoming 2026. If this class hadn’t been the one where the professor was going to highlight the key points for finals, everyone probably would’ve already bolted.
The professor could tell they were restless too. He finished going over the key points early and spent the last five minutes letting the students pack up while making small talk.
“Look at you all—can’t sit still. What are your plans for tonight? What are you eating?”
“Going to Chunxi Road!”
“Going to the Twin Towers!”
“Hotpot!”
“Hotpot, of course! What else would Sichuan people eat?”
Xia Yiyang thought: exactly. Just like Beijingers ate dumplings for every holiday, Sichuanese people ate hotpot for every occasion, big or small.
Tonight, Sheng Lin was sure to bring out a steaming pot of spicy hotpot.
The bell finally rang. Students wished each other “See you next year!” and happily ran out of the school gates.
Xia Yiyang caught some of their joy too. Even though he couldn’t go home to Beijing, he had a little home here in Rongcheng.
The ice powder shop was only open for half a day today. When Xia Yiyang got back, the shop had already closed, but the aunties hadn’t left yet—the shop always provided lunch, and whatever Sheng Lin prepared was what everyone ate.
To his surprise, the aunties were gathered around the stove making dumplings!
A bowl of pre-mixed filling sat to the side. Sheng Lin gently took the proofed dough out of the bowl, rolled it into a long log, cut it into small pieces, and then rolled each piece into a wrapper with a rolling pin.
It was clearly his first time rolling dumpling wrappers—he was all over the place, producing wrappers of uneven sizes and odd shapes.
The aunties watched anxiously: “If you ask me, we should’ve just bought ready-made wrappers. We’re not Northerners—how are we supposed to know how to roll dough?”
But Sheng Lin said: “If we’re going to eat dumplings, we should do it properly. Hand-rolled wrappers taste different from machine-pressed ones.”
“Ling Ge!” Xia Yiyang dropped his bag, rolled up his sleeves, and hurried over. “I’ll roll the wrappers! I’m the wrapper-roller at home!”
“You’re done with class?” Sheng Lin’s hands were covered in flour, but he still gave him a hug with his arms—holding them high to keep from getting flour on the young man. “You sure you can do it?”
“Of course!” Xia Yiyang brandished the rolling pin with swagger. “Rolling dumpling wrappers is a mandatory skill every Beijing kid is born with!”
Even though he was a little young master who’d never done chores at home and rarely lifted a finger, when it came to New Year’s dumplings, there was no way he’d just watch.
Making dumplings was a family affair: his dad mixed the filling, his uncle-in-law kneaded the dough, his aunt cooked the dumplings, his mom wrapped them, and he and his sister had the two most important jobs—his sister flattened the dough pieces into disks, and he rolled them into wrappers.
The little dough pieces were barely bigger than a one-yuan coin. With a press of the palm, they became thick discs. The discs flew into Xia Yiyang’s hand, his left hand holding the disc, his right hand pushing the rolling pin—a push, a turn, a press, a roll—and the dough piece became a wrapper that was thick in the middle and thin at the edges.
With wrappers like that, no matter how much filling you put in, it wouldn’t burst. The thin edges were like a delicate veil, perfect for pinching into all sorts of decorative shapes.
“I never knew Xiao Xia had this talent!” The aunties praised him so much he felt like he was floating, his tail practically wagging with pride.
While rapidly churning out dumpling wrappers, Xia Yiyang asked: “What made you decide on dumplings today? I thought we were having hotpot.”
“We’ll have hotpot tonight.” Sheng Lin smiled. “You haven’t had dumplings in a while, have you? Today’s dumpling day.”
Xia Yiyang’s mouth watered: “What’s the filling?”
“Take a look?”
Xia Yiyang peered into the bowl. Mixed into the meat filling was a vegetable that every Beijinger knew well but was rarely seen in Rongcheng—little green sprouts, fuzzy and sticking out in all directions, giving off a distinctive fragrance.
“FENNEL!!!!!” Xia Yiyang almost screamed. “Where did you get this?”
It was fennel! His absolute favorite!
Before Sheng Lin could answer, one of the aunties chimed in: “When the boss said we were making fennel dumplings today, I was shocked. I thought fennel was for braising meat—how could you put it in dumplings? But when the boss brought it back, I realized—oh! So this is also called fennel!”
In the North, “fennel” referred to a leafy green vegetable that could be stir-fried but was mostly used as dumpling filling. In the South, what Northerners called “fennel” was known as “star anise”—a spice exclusively used for braising meat.
Xia Yiyang hadn’t had fennel dumplings in six full months. He’d gone to the market and supermarkets with Sheng Lin a few times before and had never seen Northern fennel. He had no idea how much effort Sheng Lin had put into getting a familiar market vendor to source it for him.
With fennel as the hook, Xia Yiyang slobbered and rolled at top speed, sending out sheet after sheet of white dumpling wrappers, which the aunties turned into plump, white dumplings.
“Oh no!” The young master stared at the leftover filling, then at the remaining dough. “Ling Ge, you made too much dough. We can’t use all of this.”
It was Sheng Lin’s first time kneading dough for wrappers, and he hadn’t estimated the flour ratio right—leaving nearly half a bowl of dough leftover. It would be such a waste to throw it out.
“No worries—we’ll put the extra dough in the fridge and have zhajiang noodles tomorrow,” Sheng Lin replied.
The young master’s hands paused. He looked up in disbelief: “Did you say ‘zajiang’ noodles or ‘zhajiang’ noodles?”
Zajiang noodles—a Sichuan-style noodle dish made with minced meat and Pixian broad bean paste, often served with a spoonful of mushy peas, making the beloved “wanza” noodles.
Zhajiang noodles—a Beijing-style noodle dish made with fried diced pork and fermented yellow bean paste, topped with finely shredded cucumber and sweet radish. One bowl and you’d trade it for nothing, not even the gods’ offerings.
“Zhajiang noodles, of course.” Sheng Lin raised an eyebrow. “The fried sauce is already in the fridge, waiting for the little Beijing emperor’s review.”
Xia Yiyang let out a cheer, dropped the rolling pin, and ran straight to the kitchen.
He opened the fridge—sure enough, there was a large jar of fried zhajiang sauce sitting deep inside. Through the clear glass, he could see a thick layer of oil separating on top of the dark brown sauce. Under the cold temperature, the oil had solidified into a milky white. Chunky pieces of pork sat nestled in the sauce—it couldn’t have looked more authentic.
Xia Yiyang couldn’t help but unscrew the lid and take a deep sniff.
That familiar savory aroma… familiar… just like his mother’s cooking.
On the other side, the dumplings had already been dropped into the boiling water. The water had been pre-boiled, and the shop’s stove had powerful flames. After three rounds of sinking, floating, and adding cold water, the dumplings were perfectly cooked.
The aunties preferred their dumplings in soup. They’d prepped the broth with various seasonings—chili oil, soy sauce, vinegar, sesame oil, sesame seeds… The piping hot dumplings were ladled into the bowls along with the broth, creating a spicy, fiery soup that made eating dumplings feel like eating giant wontons.
Xia Yiyang was a dumpling purist. He didn’t like soup dumplings—he preferred them dry, straight out of the strainer, dipped only in vinegar. If he could have two cloves of emerald-green laba garlic on the side, that would be heaven.
Unfortunately, laba garlic required half a month to prepare, and the shop only had vinegar. But Xia Yiyang was already more than satisfied.
He didn’t even bother sitting down. With one hand holding his bowl and the other wielding his chopsticks, he snatched a plump dumpling straight from the strainer and bit into it impatiently.
“Hot—! So hot, hot, hot!” It scalded him, but he couldn’t bear to spit it out. “Mmm—fennel dumplings! My absolute favorite!!”
Sheng Lin quickly handed him a glass of cold water. Xia Yiyang swallowed the dumpling and chugged the water, finally soothing the burning sensation on his tongue.
He stuck out his tongue—the tip was bright red from the heat. He fanned it with his hand like a little puppy.
Sheng Lin teased him: “Is it really that good?”
Xia Yiyang’s chopsticks were already aimed at the next dumpling: “Of course!”
He gobbled down half of it in one bite, squinting as he examined the filling peeking through the wrapper—finely minced meat embracing the green fennel, completely fused together. The seasoning was spot on too—not too salty even on its own.
Stuffing his face, he mumbled: “This filling tastes amazing—almost like my dad’s recipe.”
Sheng Lin said nothing, only smiled at him: “Really? How close?”
“Really! Would I lie?” Xia Yiyang swallowed another big dumpling, his cheeks bulging. He didn’t look like a puppy anymore—more like a little squirrel. “At least seven… no, eight out of ten! If my dad weren’t in Beijing, I’d swear he made it—”
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening.
He slowly turned his head, his dark round eyes fixed unblinkingly on Sheng Lin. Half a dumpling slipped from his chopsticks and plopped back into his bowl, splashing vinegar everywhere.
He thought of the jar of zhajiang sauce in the fridge that tasted just like his mother’s.
He tasted the dumplings before him that tasted just like his father’s.
“Our Xia Yiyi really does have a remarkable tongue—you actually tasted it.” Sheng Lin gently revealed the answer. “I contacted your parents in advance and got their ‘secret recipes.’ I tried to recreate them. Looks like I’m a quick learner—first try, and I got it eight out of ten.”
The aunties chimed in: “Xiao Xia, the boss was on a video call with your parents the whole time he was making the sauce and mixing the filling! You know, you really do look just like them!”
Xia Yiyang’s fingers trembled. Before he could say a word, tears came flooding out.
Sheng Lin hadn’t expected such a big reaction. He quickly took the bowl and chopsticks from him and pulled him into a comforting hug: “Alright, alright—it’s a holiday, why the tears? It’s just dumplings and zhajiang noodles, no need to be so moved. Look, you’re getting ugly from crying.”
Xia Yiyang thought between sobs—he was born beautiful, crying only made him look like a rain-soaked flower, there was no way he could ever be ugly!
“Ling Ge, why are you so good to me? Making me fennel dumplings and zhajiang noodles…”
“What can I say? I hired a little emperor to work for me. He’s not all that diligent at his job, but his stomach is a bottomless pit. If one meal doesn’t hit the spot, his lips pucker up like a hanging oil jug.”
Xia Yiyang refused to admit he’d been throwing tantrums: “It’s all the cafeteria’s fault—who puts chili peppers and Sichuan peppercorns in scrambled eggs with tomatoes? That’s just malicious!”
“You’re right, it’s all the cafeteria’s fault.” Sheng Lin naturally played along. “Let me tell you another good news—I bought an authentic copper pot. Tonight’s hotpot won’t be spicy—how about we have copper-pot shuan mutton instead?”
Xia Yiyang cried even harder.
How could Sheng Lin be so calculating? Knowing he was homesick, he’d contacted his parents in advance, learned their recipes for the sauce and fennel filling, and secretly prepared this surprise. And now, on top of the zhajiang noodles and dumplings, he’d even gotten a copper hotpot!
He was always so good to him—it made the young master more and more greedy, more and more unable to let go.
“Not enough, not enough, still not enough.” The young master indulged his greed, because he knew Sheng Lin would always satisfy him. “You’re still missing the most important thing.”
Sheng Lin asked: “What else?”
Xia Yiyang: “I want scrambled eggs with tomatoes—no chili, no Sichuan peppercorns—”
Sheng Lin chuckled: “What’s so hard about that? Any time you want it, I’ll make it for you.”
Xia Yiyang: “—but with sugar.”
Sheng Lin: “?”
Xia Yiyang emerged from his embrace and looked up at him.
The young man’s nose and eyes were red from crying, like a big tomato washed clean—vibrant, dewy, and crimson.
And then the young master, spoiled and utterly unapologetic, declared: “In Beijing, scrambled eggs with tomatoes must have sugar! Today’s the last day of 2025, Ling Ge—surely you can grant me this one little wish?”
Sheng Lin: “…”
Fair enough.
The little young master born in Beijing had a picky palate.
Tofu pudding had to be topped with gravy; zongzi had to be red bean paste; mooncakes had to be five-nut; and scrambled eggs with tomatoes had to have sugar.
This was the first wish Xia Yiyang made for the New Year, and of course, Sheng Lin would do everything in his power to grant it.
Not just today, not just tomorrow—but forever.
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