This period of apprenticeship, which she had expected to be arduous, turned out to be unexpectedly tranquil and peaceful for Zhenzhen, all because of Lin Hong's presence. With him, even the simplest meals and drinks tasted sweet. They didn't even need to be together all day—just hearing his zither music drifting down from the mountain in the morning or catching a distant glimpse of the faint lamplight in his room at night filled her heart with a warm joy.
She loved quietly observing him. He was beautiful when writing or painting, beautiful when burning incense or brewing tea, and even when he did nothing but stand under the eaves with his hands behind his back, listening to the rain, his serene posture was beautiful. Thanks to him, the endless spring rain now seemed almost lovely.
Sometimes, sensing her gaze, he would turn to look at her. Instantly, her cheeks would flush crimson, and she would lower her head. Yet, bathed in his gaze, it felt as though a bud was gradually blooming in her heart.
Beyond honing her culinary skills, she also diligently read books, memorized poetry, and studied every allusion in the texts. This wasn't for future showmanship but rather to draw closer to Lin Hong in spirit, to better understand his words and actions, as well as the deeper meaning behind the dishes he created.
Under Lin Hong's guidance, she became familiar with the preparation of various seasonal vegetarian dishes. However, after the incident with pork, aside from fish and shrimp, she avoided asking him about cooking other types of meat, fearing she might inadvertently upset this lover of vegetarian fare.
Once, she carefully prepared several dishes she had learned from Lin Hong for Xin Sanniang and asked for her opinion. After tasting them, Xin Sanniang praised the food, then, seeing no one else around, whispered to Zhenzhen, "If there's any flaw..." Zhenzhen understood immediately and finished the sentence in unison: "Too vegetarian."
The two exchanged a knowing smile.
Xin Sanniang added, "My son just brought me a few pounds of plump chicken and mutton today. Since I figured the young master wouldn't want them, I left them in my little kitchen. Why don't you come over tonight, and we can cook them for ourselves?"
Zhenzhen agreed. That evening, after confirming Lin Hong had retired to his room, she quietly made her way to Xin Sanniang's kitchen. Thinking other cooking methods would take too long, they decided to skewer the chicken, mutton, and the remaining small mushrooms, chives, and bamboo shoots from the kitchen for grilling.
Xin Sanniang adjusted the stove fire, set up an iron grill above it, and helped Zhenzhen skewer the ingredients. Seeing that Sanniang looked weary after a long day, Zhenzhen urged her to go rest first, promising to fetch her once the food was ready.
Xin Sanniang agreed and returned to her room to rest. Zhenzhen brushed a layer of raw oil over the ingredients and placed them on the iron grill. As the chicken skin and mutton heated up, they soon sizzled, dripping fat into the fire. Flames and smoke rose, intertwining the aroma of meat with the smoke, gradually filling the air.
Noticing the smoke thickening, Zhenzhen opened the windows and doors to ventilate the room. She turned the skewers from time to time, brushing them with sauce and sprinkling salt. This rustic method of grilling food was a skill she had learned as a child—not from her mother or senior sisters, but picked up while playing and having fun with classmates like Yang Shenglin.
The fat continued to drip, and with each sizzle, flames leaped between the grill and the ingredients, sending richer waves of meaty fragrance and smoke into the space above before escaping through the windows and doors.Footsteps echoed from the wooden corridor. Zhenzhen glanced out the window and saw Lin Hong approaching the kitchen. Startled, she quickly gathered both the cooked and uncooked skewers into the iron pot on the stove, covered it tightly with the lid, swiftly removed the wire rack and hid it behind the door, then added a large amount of charcoal to the stove to smother the flames. Hearing Lin Hong’s footsteps drawing nearer, she frantically searched for the stove cover but couldn’t find it in her haste. In a flurry, she placed the iron pot on the stove, hastily straightened her clothes, and stood before the stove, offering a composed smile as Lin Hong entered the kitchen.
Lin Hong surveyed the surroundings and asked Zhenzhen, “What are you doing? Why is the room filled with smoke?”
Zhenzhen had already decided not to tell him the truth. Even her mother and senior sisters considered grilled food crude, let alone Lin Hong. So she tried to make her smile appear flawless and replied solemnly, “I was helping San Niang wash the pot. There was some oily water in it, and I accidentally spilled some onto the fire, which caused the smoke.”
Lin Hong glanced at the iron pot on the stove and asked calmly, “Is it done?”
“Almost. I boiled some water. Once it’s hot, I’ll scrub the pot, and it’ll be finished.”
Lin Hong didn’t press further, but he didn’t leave either. He sat down leisurely on a stool by the table, clearly having come to investigate after smelling the smoke, still holding a book in his hand.
“What are you reading, Teacher Lin?” Zhenzhen asked, seeing that he wasn’t leaving and needing to change the subject.
Lin Hong replied, “Du Fu’s poetry collection… The line ‘cutting spring chives in the night rain’ I mentioned to you earlier—do you remember which poem it’s from?”
“Yes, ‘cutting spring chives in the night rain, cooking fresh millet with yellow rice’—it’s from Du Fu’s poem ‘To Hermit Wei the Eighth,’” Zhenzhen answered, unable to help thinking of the chives in the iron pot and silently praying that the chive leaves wouldn’t burn too quickly from the stove’s heat.
“Can you recite the entire poem?” Lin Hong asked.
Zhenzhen was taken aback and blurted out, “It’s too long.”
Lin Hong gave her an encouraging smile. “Give it a try. If you can’t remember, I’ll help you.”
Reluctantly, Zhenzhen began reciting the 120-word poem line by line: “Life seldom brings us together, / Like stars at opposite ends of the sky. / What night is tonight, / That we share the light of this candle? / How long can youth and vigor last? / Our temples are already streaked with gray. / Half of our old friends are now ghosts; / My heart burns with cries of shock. / Who would have thought after twenty years, / I’d step again into your hall? / When we parted, you were unmarried; / Now your children stand in rows. / Joyfully they greet their father’s friend, / Asking where I’ve come from. / Before our questions and answers end, / Your children set out wine and food. / Cutting spring chives in the night rain, / Cooking fresh millet with yellow rice. / Our host declares it’s hard to meet, / And urges us to drink ten cups. / Ten cups do not make me drunk; / I’m moved by your lasting friendship…”
Finally, she reached the last line, “Tomorrow mountains will part us, / The world’s affairs vast and vague,” and breathed a sigh of relief. But then Lin Hong asked, “What is this poem about?”
It seemed Teacher Lin was determined to play the role of a strict scholar for the evening. Zhenzhen rubbed her forehead, feeling cold sweat about to trickle down. Her mind was preoccupied with the skewers in the pot, and she wanted to answer quickly to send the teacher away. However, haste made waste—her thoughts were jumbled, and her answer came out fragmented: “Mr. Du was reuniting with an old friend after a long separation… lamenting how difficult it is to meet… um, very difficult… Last time they met, his friend wasn’t married, but now, upon meeting again, his children are old enough to grill meat…”
“Hmm?” Lin Hong raised a slight question, the corner of his lips curling.
“Ah, no, no!” Zhenzhen quickly corrected herself. “His children are old enough to pour wine for them.”
“Right,” Lin Hong smiled, casually reciting the relevant lines: “Before our questions and answers end, / Your children set out wine and food.”Seeing Zhenzhen struggle to answer, Lin Hong explained to her himself: "This poem was composed in the spring of the second year of the Qianyuan era, when Du Fu was traveling from Luoyang back to Huazhou and encountered his reclusive friend Wei Ba, the retired scholar. It was during the An Lushan Rebellion, a time of great turmoil. Meeting an old friend unexpectedly, Du Fu felt as though life were a dream, as if separated by an entire lifetime..."
Zhenzhen listened absentmindedly until Lin Hong mentioned how Wei Ba treated Du Fu to fresh leeks and yellow rice, at which point she snapped back to attention. She echoed her teacher's sighs and sentiments to cover up the sizzling sounds coming from the pot on the stove.
After Lin Hong finished speaking, Zhenzhen sincerely expressed her joy at having gained new knowledge, then gathered her words to see him off. Unexpectedly, Lin Hong spoke again: "Since you listened so attentively, why not recount it to help reinforce your memory?"
Smoke was already rising from the pot. Zhenzhen felt like crying but had no tears left, while Lin Hong remained composed, waiting for her to recite. Clearly, in his eyes, she was like a crystal-clear glass figure—transparent, unable to hide anything. Since she wouldn't tell the truth, he was determined to play along.
Just as Zhenzhen was agonizing over whether to confess to her teacher, a moth suddenly came to her rescue.
The moth flew toward the candle flame on the table, bumping into Lin Hong's hand as he held the book.
Startled, Lin Hong stood up, frowning as he brushed off his hand where the moth had touched it, his expression showing clear disgust.
A flash of inspiration struck Zhenzhen. She immediately picked up a cotton cloth used for wiping tables and walked quickly toward Lin Hong, feigning concern: "Teacher, come, let me wipe your hand."
Lin Hong stared at the approaching cloth, his face pale, and retreated repeatedly. He threw out a "No need" before turning and fleeing the scene.
Zhenzhen let out a long sigh of relief and immediately rushed to the stove to lift the lid. A cloud of moist steam rose, carrying an indescribably enticing aroma that gradually spread before her eyes. The chicken skin and mutton fat in the pot had long since rendered, overflowing in the iron pan, while the other vegetables, soaked in the rich oil, glistened with a warm luster distinct from boiling or steaming.
Because the fire had been covered with charcoal earlier, reducing the heat, only a few vegetables in the pot had burned. Zhenzhen picked up a small mushroom and tasted it. The mushroom, fried in oil, melted in her mouth, and she experienced a wonderfully smooth, fragrant, and tender texture unlike any cooking method she had tried before, infused with the rich aroma of fat.
(To be continued)
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