“No, I can’t,” Su Chi shook his head slowly and explained, “The doctor in town said Father mustn’t catch a chill.”
Xie Yushu didn’t argue, but gave a reasoned explanation: “There’s a medical saying: ‘A door hinge never rusts, and flowing water never grows stale.’ It’s the same with a patient’s recovery—they need fresh, clean air every day to nourish the body and keep things flowing.”
“The ‘no chill’ your doctor mentioned likely refers to drafty winds that bring cold, not natural, circulating air.”
“Your father’s persistent coughing might be because the stagnant air is making his chest tight and breathing difficult.”
“And with the weather so hot now, you wouldn’t want your father to break out in heat rash.”
Seeing Su Chi’s expression was still one of shock and hesitation, Xie Yushu offered a compromise: “Just open half a window—as long as the wind doesn’t blow directly on your father, it should be fine.”
Su Chi’s previously firm resolve began to waver under the weight of Xie Yushu’s knowledgeable words.
And besides, he would never let his father get heat rash—he wiped him down every day.
Truth be told, he didn’t quite understand that saying she’d quoted—something about doors and rot. But she spoke so convincingly and sounded so reasonable that he decided to give it a try.
He gave Xie Yushu a solemn nod, indicating he understood, and said softly, “Thank you.”
Seeing that he was open to advice, Xie Yushu smiled knowingly. “No problem—as long as it helps you.”
Then something else occurred to her. She thought she should explain herself, after all—with his father and him being alone in the household, her barging into his yard uninvited was quite presumptuous.
“I heard a stray black dog barking at your gate and came out to shoo it away. Then I happened to overhear your father coughing and got a little worried, so I came to check.” Xie Yushu looked down at Su Chi apologetically. “I was abrupt just now—entering without your permission. I’m sorry, it was an urgent situation.”
Their eyes met briefly. Su Chi looked up at her, once again unsettled by her words. After a moment, as if waking from a dream, he replied, “Mm, I know you didn’t mean any harm. Anyway… thank you.”
He thought to himself—she’d meant well. He was the one who’d overreacted.
That black dog—it was the one his aunt Su Ping kept. Like owner, like dog—it loved to bark at his house too. Every time it started, Su Chi would come out to check, and then the dog would dash away. Eventually, he’d stopped bothering with it.
Xie Yushu was about to leave, but she turned back and took in the yard Su Chi had tended. With a sweep of her eyes, she couldn’t help but remark, “Your yard…”
Su Chi looked around nervously, scanning for anything out of place. Not finding anything, he stared at her blankly. “Yes?”
“It’s so clean. Everything’s so orderly. You’re really something.”
The yard was modest, but every corner was put to good use.
The two chickens stayed quietly in their coop, with a broom and dustpan set neatly beside it. In the center of the yard stood two drying racks, stacked with bamboo trays full of sun-dried radish peels, daylilies, and what looked like homemade tangerine peel.
The Su family’s farming tools were all cleaned and propped neatly against the wall. A large water vat was full to the brim, polished to a shine, and there wasn’t a speck of moss or dirt around its base. Under the eaves, rows upon rows of firewood were stacked in perfect order.
Even the small patch of ground in the corner had been fenced off and planted with red-head scallions, garlic, and a patch of leafy greens—now lush and green, full of life.
Xie Yushu praised him sincerely: “You go out to your stall early every morning, take care of your father, and still keep your yard this tidy.” She turned to look at him, her gaze warm. “Su Chi, you’re truly skilled and hardworking.”
She genuinely thought he was remarkable. In such a difficult situation, most people would have given up long ago. Yet Su Chi had kept his long-ailing father in reasonably good shape—better than most bedridden patients—and had such a resilient spirit. It was hard not to admire him.
It was just that he took no care of himself and was rather thin.
This was the first time Xie Yushu had called him by his name, and Su Chi’s heart unexpectedly skipped a beat.
Was this person… praising him? He didn’t dare meet her earnest gaze again and looked away.
He’d never thought of himself as half as good as she’d said. It made him feel sheepish.
But on second thought, he realized that maybe this person wasn’t so bad after all—she even understood pathology and had such a warm heart.
He’d also heard the villagers say she could do arithmetic and write, and that she had beautiful handwriting.
She must have studied, which explained why she knew so much.
At this moment, Su Chi felt a mix of gratitude, admiration, and something else he couldn’t quite name.
After Xie Yushu left, Su Chi followed her advice and opened half a window to let in fresh air. Then he set about preparing the evening meal.
—
Another fine day dawned, and the morning market in Songwan Town gradually grew lively under the morning light, bustling with crowds.
Su Chi’s stall was steaming hot, already surrounded by two or three regular customers waiting for their buns.
“Boss, your buns are fragrant and packed with filling—but the variety’s a bit lacking,” one of the waiting customers remarked casually. She was a regular who came almost every day. Ever since she’d first tasted Su Chi’s buns, all the others had lost their appeal.
Su Chi didn’t respond, just smiled quietly, his hands never pausing as he shaped the buns.
Of course, he wished he could offer more variety. He had over a dozen filling ideas in mind—sweet, savory, spicy, sour—all of them.
But with only himself running the stall—from kneading the dough to preparing the fillings to wrapping each bun—his energy was limited. He could only offer the most popular flavors.
Besides, his stall was small; he couldn’t fit any more jars of filling on the counter. There simply wasn’t room to spread out.
He thought that once his father’s health improved, he’d save up, and when he had more cash on hand, he’d rent a proper shop in town. Then it would be time to expand the menu. No rush.
The more he thought about it, the more eager he became—he just prayed his father would get better.
An older woman took several freshly steamed red bean buns from Su Chi’s hand. She bit into one and, delighted by the sweet, soft, sticky goodness, squinted her eyes in praise. “Boss, your red bean filling is way better than other places’. My kids love it—they always pester me to buy more.”
Anyone who’d tried Su Chi’s red bean buns came back for more. It wasn’t for nothing—his red bean paste was finer, silkier, and had a better texture than any other shop’s.
Other places had dry, gritty paste—or if it was sweet, it was cloyingly so, overpowering the bean’s natural flavor. Some had no bean taste at all and were just dry and bland. And the dough and filling were like strangers—the filling wouldn’t stick to the skin, and the flavors never melded together, losing a whole dimension of taste.
Su Chi’s red bean filling was something else entirely.
Fresh out of the steamer, his buns were warm and soft in the hand. A gentle split revealed a deep, dark crimson paste, glossy and rich. Even before taking a bite, the wonderful bean aroma wafted out.
His paste was incredibly smooth—you couldn’t taste a single bean particle, just a moist, fine, sandy texture. The sweetness from the sugar didn’t mask the bean’s natural flavor but complemented it, bringing out the subtle, clean sweetness. Under Su Chi’s careful cooking, the paste also carried a deep, mellow bean fragrance.
And the filling clung tightly to the soft, chewy outer skin. The sweet paste and the hearty wheat aroma of the dough merged perfectly, melting on the tongue with a gentle press. The sweet, rich bean flavor spread through the mouth, leaving a faint, lingering sweetness after each bite.
Su Chi was proud of his red bean paste. The recipe had been passed down from his mother, and he’d improved it over time. This version was now the perfect flavor and texture.
The first thing he did after buying red beans from Aunt Zhang was to check for any spoiled ones. Aunt Zhang’s beans were high quality—almost every single one was good—so inspection was quick and easy.
He measured out the amount needed for each day’s stall, soaked the beans in warm water with a pinch of alkali to speed up softening.
The beans needed to soak for three to four hours—ideally overnight—until they were plump and could be easily pinched apart between thumb and forefinger.
He added water at a 1:4 ratio of beans to water and brought it to a boil.
During the simmer, Su Chi added a few slices of his own dried tangerine peel—a key step that set his buns apart from others.
The peel, with its slight bitterness and sweet undertone, added a subtle fruity depth that enhanced the bean’s aroma.
The peel was from oranges he’d dried himself, from last autumn’s harvest, and he still had some left.
Every year, Su Chi dried several bamboo trays of tangerine peel. Once the peel was hard and brittle, with a crisp, citrusy fragrance, he stored it in jars. Good peel could last for years.
He’d bought the oranges from Aunt Liu, who had offered to give him the peels for free. But Su Chi couldn’t accept that.
At the time, money was tight—his pockets and his home were completely drained, and he had to stretch every copper as far as it would go. Even so, he refused to take things for nothing. He paid a reduced price for half a basket of slightly spoiled oranges from the Liu family.
He composted the bad peels and flesh for a few days to make fertilizer for the vegetable plots. The good peels he washed and dried on a clear, sunny day. The edible flesh he stewed with pear to make a soothing drink for Wang Wen’s throat.
Nothing went to waste.
The red beans bobbed and tumbled in the boiling water. When they were cooked through, one by one, they split open, filling the kitchen with a rich bean aroma.
Su Chi scooped out the soft, fully cooked beans into a large bowl and used a wooden pestle to grind them into a smooth, fine paste.
He transferred the paste to a wok and cooked it over low heat, stirring constantly. From his lard jar, he scooped out a piece of snowy white lard and melted it into the paste. The oil turned clear and blended seamlessly with the bean paste.
The lard gave the paste a silkier mouthfeel and a deeper fragrance—and once fully cooked, you couldn’t taste the pork at all.
Then came the sugar. Su Chi sprinkled in the exact proportion he’d long since memorized, letting the heat dissolve it into the bean paste and lard.
He stirred the paste with a long-handled wooden spatula, always in the same direction, cooking off the moisture until the paste turned glossy as fine dark silk, neither sticking to the wok nor the spatula.
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