Chapter 2: Exquisite Cook Chapter 2: Skill

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Protagonist:

Song Miao

Hearing the three words "Wu Yuanwai," Song Miao's face immediately darkened.

The original owner had been driven to such a state, and this so-called Wu Yuanwai had also contributed his fair share.

Song Dalang had been buried yesterday morning; "Song Miao" had just returned home when an old steward hired by the food shop arrived at the door.

This man spoke of nothing but heartache for the old customer's only child, knowing that Song Xiaoniangzi had been raised in pampering and had no means of livelihood; coincidentally, there was a Wu Yuanwai in Chengdong who was very wealthy, with seven or eight shopfronts on Ma Xing Street alone, not to mention countless fields.

It was a pity that his first wife was in poor health and had borne only one daughter; wanting a son, he had taken several concubines, but none bore children, so he was determined to find a proper concubine of good family, preferably one who could read and write, to help manage the business in the future.

Searching here and there, he happened to ask that steward.

The steward had served the Song family for many years and had seen Song Xiaoniangzi's appearance, feeling that these conditions were drawn according to her likeness, so he told the Yuanwai; when the Yuanwai happened to pass by during the funeral today and took a look, he was indeed very satisfied, and immediately had him come to negotiate.

Knowing the Song family owed many debts, he promised not to mistreat her, intending to wait until after the First Lunar Month, then take her back in a sedan, and upon entering the door, help pay off the debts on the other side, treating it as her bride price.

Once hired help, now using power to oppress, Song Xiaoniangzi felt as if struck by a bolt from the blue; wanting to refuse, debt collectors blocked the door ahead, and in the blink of an eye she would be driven out of the house, without even a place to stand.

But if she agreed, she would be tormented by the master's wife in the future, truly calling to heaven with no answer and calling to earth with no response.

With no choice, caught between a rock and a hard place, and with her fiancé's family coming to break the engagement, she finally had no choice but to hang a white silk from the beam.

If she had not been too weak to kick over the chair she stood on...

Thinking of this, Song Miao's voice turned cold, and she said: "Uncle, I am the daughter of a respectable family; if that day truly comes, I can only pay with my life."

She spoke decisively; lifting her head, a circle of conspicuous bruises around her neck, blue with purple, frightened the two into not daring to move.

They wanted money; if they really drove someone to death, it would be a case of chickens flying and eggs breaking, with not a single coin gained.

Seeing this, Song Miao immediately said: "I have hands and feet, can read and write, and have some cooking skill; why don't you two be flexible? Tomorrow I will push a cart to sell food on the street, and occasionally help cook in people's homes; once I have silver and grain, I will pay back monthly—at the shortest two years, at the longest three to five years, there will surely be a day to clear the debt!"

The old man sneered: "Cooking skill? What cooking skill? Do you think cooking is just grabbing a ladle and messing around? The streets are full of food sellers; you were raised at home and probably can't tell rice from flour; what do you have to compete with others? You think too simply!"

Better to do than to say.

Song Miao did not argue, but turned and walked to the stove by the door, rummaging through various things.

There was no oil or flour on the stove, most likely taken by someone, but on the ground there was half a pot of leftover rice from yesterday's funeral; a basket to the side was blocked by a pot lid and luckily missed, inside lay several wilted mustard greens, several shriveled radishes, a finger-sized piece of old ginger, and several eggs.

She also found two fallen shiitake mushrooms in a corner of the stove counter, and half a broken salt jar—inside remained a layer of salt stuck fast to the bottom.

It was barely enough to make a meal.

She turned and asked: "I suppose neither of you has had breakfast yet?"

Neither of the two made a sound.

"Then sit for a moment; it just so happens you can see my skill."

Before the two could refuse, Song Miao bent down and opened the stove door.

Some embers from yesterday remained in the stove, along with several burnt pieces of firewood.

She added firewood and stoked the fire; once it burned, she began scrubbing the pot and washing bowls, washed the mustard greens and radishes, and poured half a bowl of water to soak the shiitake mushrooms.

By now the pot was already hot.

Song Miao looked around; nothing else usable could be found, only the offerings from Song Dalang's funeral yesterday had not been taken—no money for the three sacrificial animals, not even a chicken, only half a piece of boiled pork.

Song Dalang died inauspiciously; this half piece was an offering, and it was pork udder besides.

Pork udder is the mammary part of a sow, fatty and loose, impossible to cut, impossible to boil soft, impossible to chew, the lowest quality.

Perhaps for this reason, no one wanted it.

On the cutting board was only a knife with half its handle broken; Song Miao did not choose, cut the udder into small pieces and threw them into the pot, added a little water, and slapped that piece of old ginger in.

The stove in the front hall had previously been used to boil noodles; it was deep with a strong fire, and soon the water in the pot was boiled dry, slowly rendering out lard.

When the lard was rendered about seven or eight parts, she ladled out a bowl, then poured more than half a bowl of beaten egg liquid into the hot oil in the pot.

With a "hiss," the egg liquid expanded in the oil the moment it hit the pot, puffing up into large bubbles; when Song Miao flipped it, the back was already fried golden yellow, with a bit of just-right char.

The rich aroma of fried eggs and lard spread everywhere.

The old man from the Fish Workshop and the woman from the Meat Shop stood to the side and, without prior agreement, swallowed their saliva.

The water boiling on the side stove had by now boiled; Song Miao quickly ladled several bowls and poured them into the pot.

The boiling water and grease collided, and almost instantly half a pot of white soup boiled out.

She added salt, let the soup boil on its own, wrung dry the shiitake mushrooms, did not remove the stems, only sliced the mushroom caps into thin pieces, and cut the stems into fine shreds.

Shiitake mushrooms and mustard greens were added to the pot one after another; though the amount was small, they still contributed their bit, adding three parts of fragrance and color to this pot of soup.

By the time the soup was ladled out, it was already a pot of milky white, looking fragrant and rich; no one could tell it was just two eggs boiled.

Song Miao washed the pot, added oil again, and poured most of the remaining rice in.

With a continuous "tearing" sound, she gently pressed and stirred the rice, slowly stir-frying; seeing smoke rise from the pot and the oil temperature return, she then added a bit of the bottom salt.

Strong fire, hot stove; in no time the rice was jumping in the pot, full of fragrance.

There were only three eggs; she beat the last one and poured it over the rice, letting the egg liquid mix finely with the fried rice, and continued to stir-fry quickly without stopping.

The egg liquid absorbed water and oil; in no time the rice coated with egg liquid in the pot turned yellow, grain distinct.

In less than the time of an incense stick, a meal of rice and soup was set before the old man and the woman.

Without Song Miao telling them, they consciously took bowls and chopsticks; after tasting the first bite, heedless of the heat, they both shoveled rice into their mouths in large mouthfuls.

No other reason: it was too fragrant.

Rice fried in lard, with eggs added, and stir-fried over a strong fire, steaming hot with the wok's breath; it was already hard to taste bad, let alone that both were hungry, and let alone Song Miao's skill.

The woman finished a bowl and wanted more, but found she was a step too slow; the last half bowl of fried rice was actually ladled away by the old man beside her.

She was angry and hurried, wanting to curse someone, but suddenly came to her senses and hurriedly grabbed the ladle to serve the soup.

With a "gurgle," as the first spoonful of soup slid down her throat into her belly, her eyes involuntarily narrowed.

Fragrant and rich, mixed with the unique aroma of shiitake mushrooms, an indescribable flavor, different from fish soup and chicken soup; although the ingredients were simple, the taste was not simple.

On such a cold day, having walked this road with an empty belly through the snow, being able to sit down and drink a mouthful of this soup was truly too comfortable.

She drank the soup, then ate the vegetables.

The pan-fried egg was loose and fragrant, with a bit of chew when eating; the mustard greens were thoroughly cooked yet soft; occasionally biting into a shiitake, the cap meat was soft and fatty, the stem had resilience, and carried the unique fragrance of mushrooms—all three had soaked up the soup juice from long boiling—that soup was already rich and fragrant—making them even more delicious.

The two of them almost fought over dividing the remaining bit of soup.