With the vegetables and eggs bought from the village, plus the rice and meat from town, and what the village chief had given her earlier, Xie Yushu had enough food to last several days.
She first placed the jars of soy sauce and vinegar on the innermost part of the stove-top, then unwrapped the salt and sugar packets and poured them into their respective seasoning jars, setting them right next to the soy sauce jars.
Next, she opened the hemp sack of rice and poured both the newly bought rice and the previous rice into the rice vat, which filled it halfway. The ropes hanging from the ceiling beams were sturdy and secure, so she hung the newly bought eggs next to the basket that already held the sweet potatoes. She stored the pork in a cool earthenware jar and set the leaf lard on the stove, ready to be rendered later.
The other vegetables and peppers she placed on the wooden table against the wall. The salted fish, being a durable dried good with excellent texture, went into the cabinet for storage.
After Xie Yushu organized everything, the previously empty kitchen was now filled with food, instantly gaining a lived-in, homely feel. This was what a proper household looked like.
Finally, she took out the cleansing creams and bath beans she’d bought from the toiletries shop and examined them.
Bath beans were small cleansing pellets made from bean powder mixed with medicinal herbs.
The one Xie Yushu bought was the cheapest kind—made with soapberry powder and bean powder as a base, with mugwort and tea seed cake added.
The hand cream was different from the pellet-shaped bath beans—it was a paste, made from pig pancreas and vegetable oil, with soapberry (which contains saponin) added so it would lather when mixed with water. To use it, you just scooped out a bit, added water, and washed your hands.
The shampoo was made from similar ingredients.
Xie Yushu took the hand cream out to the yard to try it.
The hand cream came in a wide-mouthed, short jar, about the size of a body lotion jar in her previous life, containing about eight liang (400 grams) of paste—enough to last her a while.
She scooped some water, took a tiny amount of the cream, and rubbed it between her palms. With a little water, it actually lathered up.
She scrubbed her hands until they were clean.
Not bad—Xie Yushu was satisfied. A jar like this would last her two or three months, and thirty wen was well worth it.
With that done, she didn’t rest. She immediately picked up the leaf lard and started preparing to render it.
In her previous life, Xie Yushu knew how to cook—she just couldn’t be bothered. She loved food and understood it well, often swapping recipes and cooking tips with the auntie who cooked for her, and collecting food posts shared by netizens across various platforms. She thought every single one of them was a master chef in the making.
First, she rinsed the leaf lard with water, carefully trimmed off any stray hairs and membranes with the tip of a knife, then rinsed it again. She cut it into small pieces and blanched them in boiling water to further remove any impurities attached to the fat.
She added a couple of slices of ginger to remove any odors, brought it to a boil, then scooped out the pieces and rinsed them once more.
She put the wet, greasy chunks directly into a dry pot, added a bowl of water and a few more slices of ginger to remove the porky smell. Adding water helped prevent the pot from getting too hot and burning the lard, allowing the fat to render more thoroughly and resulting in a whiter, purer final product.
Xie Yushu crouched down and stoked the fire in the stove, turning it up high. She brought the pot to a boil, stirring the fat pieces constantly so they heated evenly. Gradually, the chunks shrank and turned paler in color.
Then she pulled some wood out of the fire, reducing it to a medium-high flame. At this point, the liquid in the pot turned milky white—a mixture of fat and water. After simmering a while longer, the water gradually evaporated. She pulled out more wood to lower the heat further. The final heat level would determine the color of the finished lard—temperature control was crucial.
Once all the liquid in the pot had turned clear, it meant the water had completely evaporated, leaving only pure lard. This was the perfect time to pour off the lard. If she waited until it was fully rendered, the color would darken.
Xie Yushu used a large ladle to scoop the lard into a jar, spoonful by spoonful. As the fat bits turned yellow, she reduced the heat to low, then scooped the remaining oil into the jar. When the bits had turned completely golden, it meant all the fat had been squeezed out.
What remained in the pot were crispy, golden-brown cracklings. She scooped them out into a bowl and set them aside for later.
Xie Yushu estimated that a pound of leaf lard yielded about six to seven liang of oil. So two pounds yielded about 700 grams—one pound and four liang—just enough to fill a jar.
The lard hadn’t solidified yet. Freshly rendered, it was clear with a faint yellow tint. Once set, it would become a snowy white paste—perfect for stir-frying, adding a wonderful fragrance. It could also be used in pastries and desserts, substituting for butter in baking. Xie Yushu was eager to try.
But she didn’t have an oven, so that would have to wait. No need to rush.
She left the lard to rest, planning to cover it once it cooled. After washing her hands again, she returned to the room to count her remaining money.
She’d started with fourteen guan, three qian, and two wen. Today’s purchases had cost her four hundred and two wen—four qian and two wen—leaving her with thirteen guan and nine qian.
She put away the rest of the money: thirteen guan was to stay untouched, while nine qian would be set aside for daily expenses. That nine qian should last her a long time. Vegetables in the village were cheap, and everything else she’d bought would last months—no need for new purchases anytime soon. Quite economical.
As for how to make more money, she already had a plan.
She hadn’t yet dealt with Luo Qi or her aunt Zhai Yan—no hurry.
—
Su Chi arrived home while the sky was still bright. His buns had sold quickly today, and as soon as they were gone, he packed up and headed back.
His stall was a wooden frame assembled with mortise-and-tenon joints, easily disassembled. He usually kept the dismantled pieces, along with his steamer pots and bamboo trays, at the sesame oil shop across the street.
He knew the husband who ran the shop, and for two wen a day, he rented a small corner of their store to store his wooden frames and cookware. The next day, he could quickly reassemble it at his spot in town, saving him the trouble of carrying everything from home each time. He traveled light.
The shop owner was happy too—an extra sixty wen a month for doing nothing.
The night before or early that morning, Su Chi would prepare the fillings for the buns and store them in clay jars. He’d also prepare the fermented dough and pack everything into his carrying basket. Then he’d catch the earliest ox-cart to town and set up his stall. This saved him a great deal of time—by the time he arrived, he just had to wrap the buns, put them in the steamer, and start selling.
As usual, Su Chi’s first task at home was to check on Wang Wen, then sweep the yard, clean the chicken coop, and mix wheat bran with leftover vegetable leaves to feed the two remaining chickens.
He took out the jars that had held the fillings, washed them, and set them out to dry. Then he prepared the ingredients for his father’s meal.
There was still some meat and vegetables at home, but those couldn’t be touched—they were reserved for the bun fillings. However, the red beans and vermicelli were running low, so he needed to buy more. Su Chi grabbed some copper coins and headed out.
He knew how to make vermicelli himself, but it was quite labor-intensive. He’d rather buy it and spend the extra time caring for Wang Wen and supporting the villagers’ businesses.
His father had once patted his head and told him: get along with the villagers. If he was gone one day, Su Chi would still have a place in the village.
He knew what the villagers said about his family. They didn’t say it to his face, but they kept their distance, afraid of catching his family’s sickness. Still, some genuinely cared—like the village chief and a few kind aunts and uncles.
But none of that mattered. He had no time to care about others’ opinions. All he wanted was for his father to get better. He’d endure any hardship gladly.
“Aunt Zhang, the usual—twenty jin of red beans.”
“Coming right up.” The robust-voiced woman set down her work as soon as she saw Su Chi and went to weigh out the red beans.
She gave him a generous measure—plenty, if not more—packed them in a hemp sack, and handed them over, smoothly taking the fifty copper coins from his hand.
Su Chi went to another house and bought ten jin of vermicelli at eight wen per jin, paying eighty wen.
Both red beans and vermicelli were long-lasting staples, so he bought in bulk.
The red beans were grown by Aunt Zhang herself, sold to fellow villagers at a fair price.
The sweet potato vermicelli was also made from locally grown sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes were cheap, but after several processing steps to dry them into vermicelli, the price went up a bit.
Su Chi and Wang Wen lived frugally. His bun business made a small profit—enough to support the household these past two years. These purchases weren’t a major expense.
What really drained their finances was Wang Wen’s medicine. He scrimped on food and clothing for that very reason.
But despite all the medicine, his father’s condition showed no sign of improvement. Su Chi’s heart was heavy with worry.
Carrying the two bags home, he noticed two people peering into his yard. His expression immediately turned cold.
It was his aunt’s husband and her youngest daughter.
His aunt, Su Ping, was his mother Su Hui’s younger sister—her only sibling—and lived in the same village, though his family was at the end and hers at the head. Over the years, they’d constantly come demanding this and that. Su Chi felt sick just seeing them.
Cai Zhi, his aunt’s husband, was delighted to see him back. He led his little daughter forward with a smile: “Chi-ge’er, you’re back! Oh, carrying quite a bit, I see.”
He pushed the little girl in front of Su Chi and pretended to scold her: “Your little sister’s been craving your meat buns and tofu buns. She made such a fuss at home that I had to swallow my pride and bring her over to ask for some.”
Actually, he’d heard from people returning on the ox-cart that Chi-ge’er’s buns were incredibly fragrant. His whole family hadn’t tasted Chi-ge’er’s thin-skinned, generously filled, savory meat buns in ages, and they were all craving them. So he’d brought his daughter along to ask.
Su Chi walked straight past them, his tone cold: “Sold out.”
Cai Zhi pressed on with a grin: “No problem—we can wait a bit. Otherwise, your little sister might start crying again.”
“There’s no meat left, no vegetables either. The butcher shop is closed now, and the village butcher isn’t slaughtering today. The dough needs to be fermented and kneaded—it can’t be done quickly. I can’t make any now.” Su Chi couldn’t be bothered to come up with a proper excuse—he gave a mix of truth and lies.
Realizing they weren’t getting the buns, the little girl glanced at her father’s expression. Without needing a cue, she promptly burst into tears—loud and tearful, clearly determined to take home a big meat bun.
Cai Zhi was secretly pleased with his daughter’s cleverness, though he made a show of scolding her: “Your brother said there aren’t any, so there aren’t. No big buns today. Come on, let’s go home and eat dry steamed buns.”
“I don’t want dry steamed buns! Don’t want them!”
The commotion woke Wang Wen, who had been sleeping inside. Su Chi set down his things and went into the inner room to soothe his father.
“Xiao Chi, is it… them again?” Wang Wen knew who it was as soon as he woke up—that piercing voice made it impossible to rest.
Su Chi gently patted his father’s back, calming him down. “It’s nothing, Father. I’ll handle it.”
He went out to chase them away—only to find they were gone. He looked around and spotted them in the kitchen. His heart sank.
As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, Su Chi saw Cai Zhi holding the large fish head he’d planned to stew with radish for dinner, examining it with obvious delight, as if ready to take it home right then.
Cai Zhi held up the fish head with a smile and said, “Chi-ge’er, this fish head is nice and plump. Why not make some soup for your little sister? The poor child hardly gets any meat all year. Our family’s poor—not like yours, eating meat every day. She’s growing, and you’re her big brother—be generous and let her have it.”
Su Chi, suppressing his anger, snatched the fish head right out of Cai Zhi’s hand. “This is for Father’s nourishment. If you want your daughter to have some, go buy it. There’s a fresh batch at the town market every morning—go early. This fish has been dead for days—it’s not fresh.”
“Looks perfectly fresh to me—” Cai Zhi reached for it again, but Su Chi dodged, and he grabbed nothing but air.
“So you won’t give it, Chi-ge’er?”
“No.”
Cai Zhi’s smile vanished, his face dropping. His tone turned harsh: “No buns, no fish. For a younger generation, you’re awfully stingy. Fine—I don’t have enough face to move you. Should I go get your aunt, then?”
The Su Ping family had grown used to taking things from Su Chi’s house. Hardly ever did they leave empty-handed. When Su Hui was alive, they’d held back a little, putting on a warm, friendly front. But after she passed, they clung to Su Chi’s family like leeches, sucking them dry.
Su Chi didn’t want to engage—or cause a scene that would worry his father. He just wanted the father and daughter to leave. But these two wouldn’t go without getting something.
Cai Zhi dropped all pretense of being a kind elder and was about to point his finger at Su Chi’s nose when a crisp, impatient voice came from the kitchen doorway.
“So noisy.”
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