Around noon, Zhong Jianguo got out of the car and noticed a group of children sitting under a large tree in the distance, standing on their toes and squinting into the distance. He turned around and entered the house.
“Teacher Song, has your son expanded his army again?”
Song Zhaodi was making dumplings and didn’t catch what he said. “Your regiment is expanding? Another war coming?”
“Don’t jinx it. We just had a couple of days of peace and now another war? Aren’t you worried your husband will be exhausted?” Zhong Jianguo spotted a glass of water on the table, picked it up and drank it. “I just saw Dawa with at least ten kids around him. He’s not out there telling stories again, is he?”
Song Zhaodi’s eyelids twitched twice and she looked up. “No way. Zili and Gengsheng are there too. They’ll remind him to keep it under control. Wash your hands and help me make dumplings.”
“These aren’t even as big as eggs.” Zhong Jianguo glanced over. “You’re making them so small. With so many people in our family, how many do we need to make to have enough?”
Song Zhaodi thought for a moment. “About a hundred.”
Cough! Zhong Jianguo quickly covered his mouth. “A, a hundred?!”
Song Zhaodi nodded. “I’ve only made twenty so far. If you still want to eat on time, help me roll out the dough.”
Zhong Jianguo went to wash his hands. When he returned and sat next to Song Zhaodi, he noticed something odd. “Tofu and pork crackling filling?”
“Have you ever had pan-fried buns?” Song Zhaodi asked.
“I’ve heard of them but never eaten them,” Zhong Jianguo replied.
“Do you want to try?” Song Zhaodi asked with a smile.
Zhong Jianguo licked his lips. “Teacher Song, first-time attempt? How can you guarantee they’ll taste good?”
“I can’t guarantee it,” Song Zhaodi said. “I’m just asking if you want to eat them.”
“Stop messing with me. Just tell me how to roll them out.”
“Roll them into circles, slightly thicker than dumpling wrappers,” Song Zhaodi instructed. “By the way, is your mess hall’s pot bigger than our home’s stove?”
Zhong Jianguo nodded. “A two-hundred-pound pig could take a bath in it. Why?”
“Was it bought or custom-made?”
“Of course, it was custom-made. You can’t buy those in stores.”
“Can you order a flat-bottomed pan for me? It doesn’t need to be too big, just fifty centimeters in diameter. Oh and a griddle too.”
Zhong Jianguo stopped and tilted his head at her. “I have to say, in your past life, you were at least a designer in some high-fashion circle and in this life, you’re considered an intellectual. But even I have only seen a griddle once at Dawa’s grandma’s house and still don’t know how to use it. How do you know so much?”
“Because I’ve lived one more lifetime than you,” Song Zhaodi said, pausing for a moment. “Commander Zhong, you’re not suspecting that I wasn’t actually a fashion designer in my past life but a chef, are you?”
“I believe you were a tailor,” Zhong Jianguo said.
“A tailor?!” Song Zhaodi glared at him. “Say that again!”
Zhong Jianguo quickly handed her the dough. “Designer, designer! A master, okay?”
“That’s more like it.” Song Zhaodi nodded in satisfaction, then realised she had spoken too naturally. She quickly explained, “If I had another thirty years, I’d probably be the best in the industry.”
Zhong Jianguo scoffed. “Bragging again?” Then he paused. “So, you’re saying pan-fried buns need a flat-bottomed pan? We don’t have one at home. Won’t making them be a hassle?”
“Yes, it’s a hassle,” Song Zhaodi admitted. “If we had a flat-bottomed pan, we could finish them in two batches.”
“And without one? Ten batches?”
“Something like that.” Song Zhaodi thought for a moment. “I’ll call the kids in. You all wrap and I’ll cook.”
Zhong Jianguo nodded.
Standing at the door, Song Zhaodi called out, “Dawa, Zili, time to eat!”
“What are we eating?” Dawa shoved a dish into Gengsheng’s arms and ran over.
“Pan-fried buns,” Song Zhaodi announced loudly.
“What kind of bun is that, Erwa?” Ma Zhenxing grabbed Erwa.
Erwa shook his head. “No idea. But it’s definitely delicious.”
“Can I eat at your house?” Ma Zhenxing asked.
Erwa answered without hesitation, “No. My mom can make them, so your mom can too. Tell her to make them for you.” Then, he bolted toward home.
By 1 pm, the Zhong family of seven sat down to enjoy white rice porridge, tofu and pork crackling pan-fried buns and smashed cucumbers. They were completely satisfied.
Meanwhile, their neighbour, Chen dasao from the Lin family, was almost fainting with frustration. A hundred meters away, Ma Zhenxing’s mother, Zhou Shufen, was nearly in tears.
At 1:30 pm, Zhou Shufen grabbed her son’s hand. “Let’s go to the Zhong family’s house.”
“Why are we going there?” Ma Zhenxing was confused.
“You wanted to eat that crispy thing, those pan-fried buns, right?” Zhou Shufen said. “We’ll go eat at the Zhong family’s house.”
Ma Zhenxing shook off her hand. “If you want to go, go yourself. I’m not going.”
Zhou Shufen turned to her younger son. “Do you want to eat them?”
Ma Zhengang nodded. “Yes. Mom, you can’t make them?”
“I’ve never even heard of pan-fried buns. How would I make them?” Zhou Shufen glared at her older son, who always wanted to eat whatever he saw others eating. “I’ll go learn how to make them from Teacher Song.”
Ma Zhenxing thought about it and said, “Then I’ll go with you.”
Seeing Zhong Jianguo rubbing his stomach but still eyeing the remaining buns, Song Zhaodi rolled her eyes. “It’s not like this is some rare delicacy. It’s just tofu, pork cracklings, eggs and flour. You can have them whenever you want. Do you have to act like you don’t know when your next meal will be?”
“The ingredients are common, but making them takes effort.” Zhong Jianguo glanced at her. “You always say cooking depends on your mood. I have a feeling I won’t get these again until Mid-Autumn Festival.”
Song Zhaodi handed him the plate. “Eat them all?”
“No, no, I’m full,” Zhong Jianguo said. Then, seeing Dawa’s movement, he slapped his hand. “Put that down.”
Dawa yelped and clutched his hand. “Dad, what are you doing?”
“You ate too much,” Song Zhaodi said. “Your dad is afraid you’ll burst your stomach. Wait a while before drinking water.”
Dawa looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Dad.”
“You’re all a bunch of gluttons.” Song Zhaodi pointed at her row of sons. “Your dad only ate about ten, but each of you devoured ten.” She sighed. “How did I end up with such foolish sons?”
“I’m not foolish!” Sanwa held up his fingers. “Mom, I ate six, not ten. Zili ge ate, hic…”
Zili’s face turned red and he instinctively lowered his head, thinking that if he didn’t make eye contact, Song Zhaodi wouldn’t notice him.
Song Zhaodi shook her head and sighed. She picked up two plates and looked up, startled. “How do you walk so quietly?”
“You just didn’t hear me.” Zhou Shufen walked in. “Those are pan-fried buns, right? Put them down and let Zhenxing have a taste.”
“No!” Erwa shouted.
“It’s fine,” Song Zhaodi said. “Later, go to Zhenxing’s house and see what’s in their vegetable garden. Pick something and I’ll cook you something tasty.” She set the plates down and handed chopsticks, reversed side, to Ma Zhenxing and Ma Zhengang.
The brothers instinctively looked at Zhou Shufen.
She nodded.
Ma Zhenxing smiled shyly. “Thank you, Teacher Song.”
“Did your family not cook lunch?” Song Zhaodi asked.
“Steamed cornbread and fish,” Zhou Shufen replied. “They didn’t want fish. They just kept begging for pan-fried buns. If you just said ‘pan-fried buns,’ I wouldn’t have been so confused by the name.”
“Then why don’t you make it for Ma Zhenxing?” Dawa asked.
Zhou Shufen choked for a moment.
Zhong Jianguo chuckled and patted Dawa on the back of his head. “Don’t be rude. It’s time for your nap.”
“I can’t sleep,” Dawa said. “Dad, don’t touch me, it’s uncomfortable.”
Zhou Shufen thought of what she had just heard. “Did you eat too much?”
“These kids are all gluttons,” Song Zhaodi said. “Whenever there’s something delicious, they eat until the food is practically stuck in their throats before they finally put their chopsticks down.”
Zhou Shufen glanced at the five Zhong children. “They do seem pretty foolish.”
“You’re the foolish one!” Sanwa retorted. “You don’t even know how to make pan-fried buns.”
Zhou Shufen’s breath hitched. “Believe it or not, I’ll smack you, Sanwa.”
“My mom is right here.” Sanwa wasn’t afraid at all. He tilted his head and challenged, “Try hitting me.”
Zhou Shufen, furious, smacked the table.
Song Zhaodi laughed. “Why are you arguing with him? He’s not even five yet.”
“I’m telling you, your kids are way too good at riling people up,” Zhou Shufen said, glancing at Dawa. “If they were mine, I’d be giving them three beatings a day.”
Dawa snorted. “You don’t even know how to make pan-fried buns and you still have the nerve to hit people? Poor Ma Zhenxing.”
Zhou Shufen choked again.
Song Zhaodi sighed and laughed. “What are you even doing this for? Zhenxing, Zhengang, don’t eat too much. I’ll get you some scorched flatbread later.”
“Thank you, Teacher Song,” Ma Zhenxing quickly said.
Song Zhaodi got up and went to the kitchen, taking out four pieces of scorched flatbread and placing them in front of the two brothers. “These things are easy to make if you have flour and oil at home. When you have free time, you should make some for them so the kids don’t end up drooling over someone else’s food.”
“Nobody else can make my kids drool like yours can,” Zhou Shufen said sourly. “From now on, every Sunday, I’ll just lock them in the house and see if you can still tempt them.”
Song Zhaodi disapproved. “They’re kids, not prisoners. You can’t do that.”
Zhou Shufen was just speaking out of frustration. She noticed Dawa’s new clothes. “I’ll grab some fabric when I go home later. Can you cut two sets for me?” She pointed at Dawa’s outfit.
Song Zhaodi nodded. “Sure, but don’t let anyone see.”
“I know,” Zhou Shufen agreed. She never would have guessed that Song Zhaodi had orchestrated this whole situation on purpose, stirring up the kids just to create some chaos.
By four in the afternoon, Song Zhaodi had finished cutting two sets of clothes for Zhou Shufen. Carrying her basket, Zhou Shufen left, leaving behind five tomatoes for Song Zhaodi.
That night, Song Zhaodi made tomato scrambled eggs and steamed some rice. Her whole family ate well, bathed and went to bed. Meanwhile, in some other military households, parents were still complaining about food.
If Song Zhaodi had made pork or chicken, the kids wouldn’t have dared to complain at home, because they all knew how hard it was to buy meat.
But she had made scorched flatbread and tofu buns, the most common things. So, in some houses, five- or six-year-old children started thinking their stepmothers were kinder than their own moms.
Teenagers, like Lin Zhong’s age, started thinking their own mothers were just incompetent, unable to make something as simple as tofu pan-fried buns.
In a time of scarcity, even a single meal with meat could make a child the envy of their peers.
Song Zhaodi didn’t need to ask around to know how much of a ripple effect her actions had caused. But whether it was parents arguing in one household or complaining in another, Teacher Xiao Song remained unbothered, if she wasn’t happy, she made sure no one else was either.
By the end of August, summer vacation was over and Duan dasao had left for a trip.
She had gone to take care of Liu Ping, who had given birth prematurely. Since Liu Ping and her husband weren’t well-matched, no one thought much of it.
With Duan dasao gone, no one was cooking at home and Commander Liu moved into the barracks. No one was around to eat the vegetables in their garden.
One day, Chen dasao saw Song Zhaodi and sighed, “It’s such a shame for the tomatoes and cucumbers to rot like that.”
Song Zhaodi replied, “It’s not a shame, Duan dasao gave me the key before she left.”
The next morning, while Chen dasao was washing vegetables in the yard, Song Zhaodi deliberately took out the key, went into Liu’s courtyard and picked a whole basket of tomatoes and cucumbers right in front of her.
Zhong Jianguo was hanging laundry and saw Song Zhaodi coming back with a full basket. Instinctively, he stepped forward to help her carry it. But when he turned and noticed Chen dasao’s sour expression, he whispered, “Did you block her again?”
“No,” Song Zhaodi said. “She had her eye on Aunt Liu’s vegetables. Now that I picked them first, she’s probably going to be upset for days.”
Zhong Jianguo was confused. “Their family is just three people. They can’t even finish what they grow, can they?”
“Some people like to take advantage and still complain,” Song Zhaodi said. “Forget about her. What do you guys want to eat?”
“Just make whatever,” Zhong Jianguo replied. “It’s stuffy today, not much of an appetite, don’t make too much.”
Song Zhaodi thought for a moment, then sliced the cucumber and chopped the long beans into small pieces. She decided to make stir-fried cucumber with eggs and stir-fried long beans with eggs, along with a pot of plain white porridge.
When the two dishes, a mix of yellow and green and the steaming white porridge were placed on the table, they looked fresh and appetising. Zhong Jianguo swallowed his saliva, patted his stomach and said to Song Zhaodi, “Give me a steamed bun. Porridge alone won’t fill me up.”
Song Zhaodi replied, “No warm steamed buns.”
“Why not?” Dawa asked, confused.
Song Zhaodi explained, “Your dad said the weather is stuffy and he has no appetite.”
“Dad!” Zhong Dawa turned to Zhong Jianguo, “You may not have an appetite, but we do.”
Zhong Jianguo cleared his throat, looking a bit embarrassed. “Your mom did it on purpose. She just enjoys watching you all gang up on me.”
“Dad, I heard you talking to Mom.” Erwa chimed in. “Good thing she didn’t listen to you and made a pot of porridge. Otherwise, we’d have nothing to eat.”
Dawa sighed and shook his head. “Erwa, stop talking. This is our real dad, if someone overheard, they’d think he was our stepdad.”
Zhong Jianguo grumbled and said, “If you two keep ganging up on me, Zili and Gengsheng will finish all the food.”
Zhong Dawa turned his head and gasped, part of the stir-fried long beans with eggs was already missing! He quickly grabbed his chopsticks, stuffing his cheeks like a hamster before finally slowing down.
In the blink of an eye, the entire plate of stir-fried long beans with eggs was gone. Song Zhaodi let out a long sigh. “Am I raising sons or five little tigers?”
Leave a Reply