Lu Minggui wanted to take advantage of the fact that few people were out gathering vegetables now, and collect more while she could.
Even if she couldn’t get to the vegetable market connected to the White House, she could still dry and store them for the famine years.
Of course, selling them at the market would be even better.
It was April, the prime season for purslane, tender and fresh, perfect for cold dishes or soups.
She discovered several areas where purslane grew abundantly, but today she mainly observed, collecting just over a jin.
Walking further, she found a large patch of malantou (Amaranth leaves).
To Lu Minggui, malantou tasted even better than purslane—crisp, fresh, with a distinct aroma.
Now was the season for it; in a month or so, the leaves would get tough.
She hadn’t heard the red-lipped woman mention malantou before, so she didn’t know if it would sell. Regardless, she decided to pick it first.
Malantou didn’t need a knife—just pinch with your nails, especially while tender. The rest would keep growing in the field.
Her hands moved constantly; soon the bamboo basket was full.
Tonight, she thought, she could make malantou egg soup, with black wheat buns on the side—a filling meal.
She glanced toward the nearby mountain. Yongfeng Village backed onto the Great Pine Mountain, which must have wild vegetables and fruits aplenty.
Villagers did go up, but mostly along the outskirts, cutting pig fodder or collecting firewood. Few ventured deep into the mountains, which held wild beasts like bears.
Ever since her husband, Old Song, was killed by a bear while hunting, villagers rarely went into the mountains.
During the famine, desperate villagers would have risked the mountains, leaving them bare—but she hadn’t heard of any bears attacking since. She didn’t know if the bear had died or moved away.
Lu Minggui wanted to explore, but hesitated—she never fully decided, instead wandering in the fields, busy.
Besides purslane and malantou, she also picked some Xiangchun shoots.
Some loved Xiangchun; others disliked its strong aroma. Yet generally, it was appreciated—after all, “Xiangchun shoots, first cut chives, top flower cucumber, fallen flower lotus root”—the four freshest delicacies, with Xiangchun reigning supreme.
After covering a large area, her basket was full.
Feeling sore and tired, her age showing, she stopped working.
Seeing the late hour, she considered trying to reach the vegetable market later.
Just then, a boy came running—half-grown, panting.
It was Zhao Yuan, the eldest grandson of Mrs. Zhao, neighbors of the Song family.
“Grandma Lu! There you are! We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Uncle Dazhi and Aunt Cuihua are fighting!”
“Grandma Lu asked me to tell you to come back!”
“Fighting?!” Lu Minggui was surprised—first day of leaving the household in her hands, and they were already at it?
“Yes! You better come and see.”
Lu Minggui nodded: “Alright, you go home first. Grandma’s old; she walks slowly.”
At this, Zhao Yuan dashed back.
Lu Minggui, however, thought it was just as well—they were fighting! With her old arms and legs, why bother? Watch the show, perhaps.
In her memory, every time Song Dazhi and Hu Cuihua quarreled, she had to calm things by buying some meat or other treats.
Hmph, these two were purposely causing trouble for her!
When Lu Minggui slowly returned home, the courtyard was quiet.
Entering the main room, the floor was a mess.
Song Dazhi and Hu Cuihua had fought, leaving bowls and chopsticks scattered on the table.
A bench, missing a leg, lay toppled—looking as if bandits had been through.
Lu Minggui inspected everything with a cold face—fortunately, none of the bowls were broken, which eased her slightly.
Seeing the eldest son’s room door open, she went over and saw Song Dazhi lying motionless on the bed.
“Why haven’t you gone to the fields this afternoon? Just lying around?”
Hearing her, Song Dazhi jumped up, his face blackened with scratches from Hu Cuihua’s nails.
Fuming, he complained: “Mother, look what that shrew did to my face! She scratched me all over!”
“That damned woman! Always demeaning me!”
“Out like this, everyone in the village will laugh at me!”
Lu Minggui didn’t sympathize. She was in high spirits and only asked: “What did you fight about this time?”
“After fighting, no one cleaned up? Am I supposed to deal with this mess?”
Song Dazhi, realizing his mother wasn’t concerned about his face but scolding him for not tidying the room, became annoyed.
“Mother, this is your fault!”
“You told Cuihua and me to work in the fields all morning, we were exhausted, came back to no hot meal, of course she got angry!”
“If you’d cooked the meal, she wouldn’t have fought with me.”
Lu Minggui didn’t reply. She asked: “Where’s she?”
“Back at her mother’s, with the three kids.”
Song Dazhi lazily replied, then continued complaining: “Mother, what’s going on with you today?”
“We both went to the fields, why didn’t you cook for us?”
“Cook?” Lu Minggui sneered. “Am I supposed to, because I didn’t go out to work?”
“Should I cook for you? You’d still eat fine without me!”
She turned toward the kitchen to prepare dinner. After surviving the famine, skipping a meal left her anxious.
Song Dazhi, stunned by his mother’s words, quickly followed her to the kitchen.
“Mother, Cuihua taking the kids back isn’t right! Won’t the villagers gossip?”
Lu Minggui busily prepared the meal: “Isn’t this better? The house is quiet!”
Song Dazhi was incredulous: “Mother, didn’t you always like Cuihua and the kids? Now you say the house is peaceful?”
“Other families like a lively household, but you—grandsons gone, and you call it peaceful?”
“Other families like it? Then go to them!” Lu Minggui said expressionlessly.
“Quick, clear the table and dishes, or I’ll do it myself!”
She disliked the eldest household and had no love left for them.
Who could love people who harmed her?