Free Web NovelChapter 457: Chapter 240: Finally Moved In
When Madam Yang heard Zheng Changhe ask who the blue bricks belonged to, she quickly told him.
Zheng Changhe was happy to hear this. He carried the yams into the cellar, then turned back to Madam Yang with a grin. "Once Dashuan moves in, I’ll be able to have drinks with him all the time."
Madam Yang was displeased that he’d heard the news and immediately thought of drinking instead of Juhua and Zhang Huai. She couldn’t help but shoot him a look. "Is wine really that good? Don’t you know drinking too much is bad for you? You’re not twenty anymore. You’re an old man, but you’re still as greedy as a little kid."
Zheng Changhe didn’t get angry. He just smiled and asked, "Is our Juhua back? Did she get any water bamboo shoots?"
Juhua had finished stir-frying the vegetables and set the rice to simmer. She came out and said to Zheng Changhe, "Dad, are you hungry? I boiled some water bamboo shoots. They’re nice and mealy and fragrant. Have a few to tide you over. Dinner will be ready soon."
Zheng Changhe’s face softened into a benevolent smile at the sight of his daughter. He replied obediently, "Dad will just have a few. I’ll save room for dinner." With that, he went into the kitchen, grabbed a handful of water bamboo shoots, and sat down on a small stool under the eaves to eat them.
Madam Yang finished gathering the corn and dusted herself off. She went to the well, drew some water to wash her face and hands, and smiled at Juhua. "Juhua, you’re getting faster and faster at cooking. It feels like no time has passed. How is everything ready already?"
Juhua looked proud at the mention of this. She told Madam Yang that proficiency in tending the fire was essential. Whether stir-frying or making rice, the heat had to be just right. An inconsistent flame wouldn’t do, and adding too much or too little firewood was even worse—add too much, and the rice would burn and the vegetables would turn to mush; add too little, and the rice would be undercooked and the dishes would lack flavor.
"And that’s not even mentioning stir-frying," she continued. "Different dishes require different levels of heat and cooking times. It’s not something you can explain in a single sentence. It’s all based on personal feel and experience—something you can only grasp intuitively, not explain with words!"
Take cooking rice, for example. She was an absolute expert now.
She would toss in a few handfuls of kindling to bring the pot to a rolling boil. If the fire got too hot, she’d wait a moment for the rice to swell. Then she’d check the water level. If there was too much, she’d ladle out some of the starchy water. If it was just right, she’d feed one or two bundles of thatch into the stove. Once she heard the faint CRACKLE of the rice crust forming at the bottom of the wok, she’d stop adding fuel. The residual embers were all that was needed to slowly steam the rice to perfection. After just a short wait, the rice would be cooked through—not too soft, not too hard—and the crust at the bottom would be golden-brown, crisp, and fragrant.
Juhua talked until her mouth was dry, while Madam Yang and Zheng Changhe listened with rapt attention.
Madam Yang watched her daughter’s slightly smug expression and found it amusing. ’She’s still just a kid,’ she thought, ’getting so excited just talking about her forte in the kitchen. Still, I’m happy for her. Juhua’s only a teenager, but she learns so quickly. It’s clear she puts her heart into it. I try my best, too, but I’m just not as clever as my daughter.’
In truth, Juhua wasn’t proud of her cooking skills so much as her mastery over the fire. With a large wok and an earthen stove, everything depended on controlling the heat. It had taken her a long time to understand it well enough to manage it with such ease and confidence! When her mother asked about it today, she couldn’t resist showing off a little.
After a bit more cheerful conversation, Juhua went to serve the meal. As promised, the rice was cooked perfectly, neither too soft nor too firm. The spicy water bamboo shoot dish was incredibly fragrant. Zheng Changhe was delighted, and his highest form of praise was to eat three full bowls.
After a hectic ten-odd days, the shop in Xiatang Market was finally finished, and Qingmu and Zhang Huai returned to the village.
But before they could even catch their breath, a whole new series of tasks descended upon them: building the workshop, gathering acorns, picking wild chrysanthemums, the Zhang family’s house construction, and harvesting the late rice. They were even busier than in years past.
The Zhang family built their house in a whirlwind, finally fulfilling Zhang Huai and Juhua’s dream of being neighbors. And why a whirlwind? Because all four of Huai Zi’s maternal uncles and their wives came to help, and with villagers like Zhao San and Zheng Changhe pitching in, the house was up in just a few days.
Next came sorting out the yard, digging a well, and building a kitchen, a pigsty, and pens for the chickens and ducks. Even with so many helping hands, the whole process was a chaotic affair that took the better part of two weeks.
One day, Zhang Huai came over to invite the Zheng Family for dinner. He said that with all the recent busyness, they hadn’t had a chance to properly host them. Now that things had finally settled down, his father wanted to have a drink with Uncle Zheng.
Zheng Changhe accepted immediately without a word of polite refusal—the two families were well past the need for such formalities.
Juhua hadn’t wanted to go. It wasn’t for any particular reason, except that the acorns drying in the courtyard were finally ready, and she wanted to shell them while they were still warm and brittle.
