Miao Chu

Chapter 2 Craftsmanship
Upon hearing the name "Master Wu," Song Miao's face immediately darkened.

The original owner was forced into such a predicament, and this so-called Master Wu also contributed a real amount of effort.

Song Dalang's funeral was held early yesterday morning. "Song Miao" had just returned home when an old manager hired by the restaurant came to her door.

The man's words implied that he felt sorry for the only son of his old customer's family. He knew that Miss Song had been pampered since childhood and had no way to make a living. Fortunately, there was a wealthy man named Wu in the east of the city. He had seven or eight shops on Ma Xing Street alone, as well as countless fields.

Unfortunately, his wife was in poor health and only gave birth to a daughter. He wanted a son, but after taking several concubines, he still couldn't have one. So he was determined to find a good-looking concubine, preferably literate, so that she could help manage his business in the future.

After searching around, they happened to ask the manager.

The steward had been with the Song family for many years and had seen Song's young lady's appearance. He felt that the conditions were drawn based on her likeness, so he told the wealthy man that the wealthy man happened to pass by during the funeral procession today. He took a look and was indeed very satisfied, so he immediately asked him to come and negotiate.

Knowing that the Song family owed a lot of debt, he promised not to mistreat them and planned to take them back in a sedan chair after the first month of the lunar year. As soon as they entered the house, he would help them pay off the debts as payment for their marriage.

The former servants are now bullying and oppressing her. Song Xiaoniangzi was struck dumb. She wanted to refuse, but creditors were blocking her door. In the blink of an eye, the day would come and she would be kicked out of the house, leaving her with nowhere to stand.

But if you agree, and then suffer mistreatment from the mistress of the house, you'll truly be left with no one to turn to for help.

She was at her wits' end, caught between a rock and a hard place, and then her fiancé's family came to break off the engagement. In the end, she had no choice but to hang a white silk ribbon from the beam.

If she weren't so weak that she couldn't kick over the chair she was using as a footrest...

Thinking of this, Song Miao's voice turned cold, and she said, "Uncle, I am also a daughter of a good family. If that day really comes, I can only pay with my life."

Her words were resolute, and when she looked up, a conspicuous bruise, bluish-purple in color, appeared around her neck, which frightened the two men so much that they dared not move.

They want money. If they really drive someone to their death, they'll lose everything and won't get a single penny.

Seeing this, Song Miao immediately said, "I have hands and feet, I can read and write, and I also have cooking skills. Why don't you two be lenient with me? Tomorrow I will push my cart to the street to sell some food, and occasionally I will help out in people's kitchens. Once I have the money, I will pay back the money monthly—it will take at least two years, and at most three to five years, until I can pay it all off!"

The old man sneered, "Cooking skills? What cooking skills? Do you think cooking is just about grabbing a spatula and fiddling around? There are food vendors everywhere. If you'd been raised at home all your life, you probably wouldn't even be able to tell the difference between rice and flour. How are you going to compete with others? You're too naive!"

Actions speak louder than words.

Song Miao didn't bother to explain, but simply turned and walked towards the stove by the door, rummaging through various items.

There was no oil or flour on the stove, most likely taken away, but there was still half a pot of leftover rice from yesterday's funeral on the ground. A basket on the side, blocked by the pot lid, had luckily slipped through, containing a few wilted cabbages, a few wrinkled radishes, a piece of ginger about the size of a finger, and a few eggs.

In addition, two fallen shiitake mushrooms and half a broken salt jar were found in a corner of the stove. There was only a layer of sticky salt left in the jar.

They could barely scrape together a meal.

She turned to him and asked, "You two probably haven't had breakfast yet, have you?"

Neither of them said a word.

"Then why don't you sit for a while and take a look at my cooking skills?"

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

There were still a few embers left in the stove from yesterday, along with a few burnt pieces of firewood.

She added firewood and tended the fire. Once the fire was burning, she started washing the pots and dishes, cleaned the cabbage and radishes, and then soaked the shiitake mushrooms in half a bowl of water.

The pot was already hot by then.

Song Miao looked around, but couldn't find anything else usable. The only thing left was the offerings from Song Dalang's funeral yesterday—there was no money to buy the three sacrificial animals, not even a chicken, only half a boiled pork.

Song Dalang's death was unlucky, and this half of the offering is both an offering and a sachet.

The udder is the sow's mammary gland; it is fatty, loose, and cannot be cut, cooked, or chewed, making it the lowest quality.

Perhaps that's why no one wanted it. There was only a knife with a broken handle on the cutting board. Song Miao didn't care. She chopped the pork ribs into small pieces, threw them into the pot, added some water, and then smashed the old ginger into it.

The stove in the front room was originally used for cooking noodles. The stove was deep and the fire was strong. Soon the water in the pot was boiled away and lard slowly seeped out.

Once the oil was almost fully rendered, she ladled out a bowl and poured most of a bowl of beaten egg liquid into it along with the hot oil in the pan.

With a sizzle, the egg mixture expanded in the oil the moment it hit the pan, forming large bubbles. When Song Miao flipped it over, the back was already golden brown with a perfect touch of caramel color.

The aroma of fried eggs and lard filled the air.

The old man from the fish market and the woman from the butcher shop stood to the side, both swallowing hard.

The water in the stove had already boiled, and Song Miao quickly ladled out several bowls and poured them into the pot.

When boiling water and oil collide, half a pot of white soup is produced almost instantly.

She added salt and let the soup boil on its own. She wrung out the shiitake mushrooms without removing the stems, and sliced ​​the mushroom caps into thin slices and the stems into thin strips.

Shiitake mushrooms and cabbage were added to the pot one after another. Although the amount was small, they still contributed their little bit, adding a touch of aroma and color to the soup.

When the soup was served, it was a pot of milky white, so fragrant and rich that no one could tell it was made from just two boiled eggs.

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

As the sizzling sound continued, she gently pressed the rice and slowly stirred it. When she saw smoke rising from the pan and the oil temperature rising again, she added a little salt.

With the stove heated by a strong flame, the rice was quickly stir-fried until it bounced around in the pan, releasing a wonderful aroma.

There were only three eggs. She scrambled the last one and poured it over the rice, letting the egg mixture mix with the fried rice, while constantly and quickly stirring it.

The egg wash absorbs water and oil, and soon the rice coated in the egg wash in the pan turns yellow, with each grain distinct.

……

In less than the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, a meal and a soup were laid out in front of the old man and woman.

Without Song Miao's prompting, the two of them took bowls and chopsticks on their own initiative. After tasting the first bite, they didn't care that it was scalding hot and started shoveling rice into their mouths.

No other reason than that it smells amazing.

The rice was fried with lard and eggs, and it was cooked over high heat. It was piping hot and had a strong wok hei (the smoky aroma imparted by a hot wok). It was hard for it not to taste good, especially since the two of them were hungry, and Song Miao's cooking skills were also excellent.

The woman finished her bowl and wanted to ask for another, but she realized she was too slow. The old man next to her took the last half bowl of fried rice.

She was so angry that she wanted to yell at someone, but then she realized what she was doing and quickly grabbed the soup bowl.

With a "glug," as the first sip of soup slid down her throat and into her stomach, her eyes involuntarily narrowed.

It is fragrant and rich, with the unique aroma of shiitake mushrooms. It is a difficult flavor to describe. It is different from fish soup and chicken soup. Although the ingredients are simple, the taste is not simple.

On such a cold day, having walked this far in the snow on an empty stomach, it's so comforting to be able to sit down and have a sip of this soup.

She drank the soup and ate the vegetables.

The fried egg is fluffy and fragrant, with a slight chewiness when you eat it. The cabbage is cooked through but soft. Occasionally you bite into a shiitake mushroom, the cap flesh is soft and plump, the stem is chewy, and it has a unique mushroom aroma. All three of them have absorbed the broth because they have been cooked for a long time—the broth is already rich and fragrant—making them even more delicious.

The two practically fought over the last bit of soup.

(End of this chapter)