Lately, dark clouds seemed to hang over the Lao Qin Family, with faint rumbles of thunder threatening to unleash a lightning strike at any moment.
The source of this thunder was none other than the head of the household, Li Guilan.
Since winter set in, Li Guilan’s temper had been like a Skyrocketing Monkey—igniting at the slightest spark and smoldering even without one. Although the family atmosphere had eased somewhat after earning a bit of money from selling dried radishes, these past few days, Li Guilan had found fault with everyone.
Early in the morning, just because the Old Speckled Hen laid one fewer egg, Li Guilan spent half an hour berating it by its comb until the frightened chicken hid in the woodpile, too scared to show its face again. When Qin Gang was leaving for work and took a moment too long putting on his shoes at the door, she kicked his shoe halfway across the village, calling him a “Dawdling Ghost.”
Even Zhao Hongmei wasn’t spared. If she splashed a bit too much water while washing vegetables, Li Guilan complained that she was washing away the family’s fortune. If she stirred up a little dust while sweeping, Li Guilan accused her of deliberately trying to choke her.
Qin Gang privately tugged at Zhao Hongmei’s sleeve, his dark face twisted into a bitter expression. “Wife, what’s wrong with Mom? Has she been possessed? Just the other day, when she was counting the money, she was as happy as a flower. How did her mood change so suddenly, faster than the weather in June?”
Zhao Hongmei was squatting in front of the Stove Pit peeling garlic. Hearing this, she glanced up at the tightly closed curtain of the main room and shook her head. “Mom isn’t possessed. She’s just reached that age.”
As someone who had lived through it before, she had seen this many times in her past life. When women reach around fifty, the vitality in their bodies begins to wane, but the fire inside them has nowhere to go. Hot flashes, night sweats, palpitations, shortness of breath, irritability toward everyone, and a sense of grievance—this is what menopause brings. In the rural areas of this era, no one understood this term. People simply called it “Old Aberration” or “Fault-finding.”
By evening, this restlessness grew even more intense.
Outside, the north wind howled, while inside, the charcoal fire burned brightly. The family had just finished dinner, and Qin Gang had already retreated to the west room early, afraid of drawing fire to himself. As Zhao Hongmei was clearing the dishes, she heard the sound of Li Guilan rummaging through cabinets in the Main Room, followed by a loud “clang,” as if an enamel basin had fallen to the floor.
Zhao Hongmei wiped her hands and lifted the curtain to step inside.
She saw Li Guilan sitting disheveled on the Kang Head, the buttons of her thick cotton jacket torn open, clutching a Tattered Palm-leaf Fan and fanning herself desperately on this cold winter night. Her face was frighteningly red, her forehead covered in fine beads of sweat, and her eyes betrayed a mix of anxiety and panic.
“Mom, what’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?” Zhao Hongmei asked softly.
“Hot! My heart’s racing! I feel stifled!” Li Guilan gasped for breath, fanning herself vigorously with the palm-leaf fan. “Did you make the kang too hot? Are you trying to burn me alive?”
Zhao Hongmei reached out and touched the Kang Mat. It was only warm, not hot at all. Looking at Li Guilan again, the veins on her neck were bulging, clearly a sign of that restless fire raging inside her body.
“I’ll crack the window open a bit.” Without arguing, Zhao Hongmei turned and propped the window open a sliver. A cool breeze drifted in, and Li Guilan finally calmed down slightly. She leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and groaned softly, as if enduring some kind of pain.
Zhao Hongmei looked at this usually shrewd and sharp-tongued old woman, now deflated like a punctured ball, and the resentment left over from her past life suddenly faded considerably. This was just a pitiful woman worn down by the years. Widowed young and raising children alone, now old and plagued by illness—the bitterness in her heart had nowhere to go, nor could it be put into words.
She said nothing, turned, and left the Main Room, heading straight for the kitchen.
The embers in the hearth cavity were still glowing red. Zhao Hongmei added two handfuls of hardwood firewood, and the flames began licking the bottom of the pot once more.
She rummaged through the cupboard and pulled out an Earthenware Pot. Removing the lid, a rich aroma of wine mixed with sweetness wafted out. This was the Fermented Rice Wine she had made herself a few days ago using leftover rice, perfectly fermented—the grains still distinct, with a pool of clear, sweet wine liquid in the center.
She scooped two large spoonfuls of the Fermented Rice Wine into a small pot and added water to boil.
While waiting for the water to heat, she sliced a few pieces of Old Ginger and tossed in a small handful of Red Dates and Goji Berries.
The brown sugar was bought by Qin Gang last time—the kind of Old Brown Sugar, so dark it was nearly black. She broke off a piece and dropped it into the pot, watching it slowly dissolve in the bubbling water, turning the entire broth a rich amber color.
As the water boiled, the sweet, warm, slightly wine-scented steam spread across the hearth, pushing back some of the chill in the room.
Zhao Hongmei turned the heat down and gently cracked two Poached Eggs into the pot. There was a trick to this—the eggs had to be placed close to the water’s surface to avoid breaking the yolks. The heat couldn’t be too high, or the eggs would overcook; they needed to be gently cooked in water that was barely simmering.
After three to five minutes, the egg whites had solidified like white jade, enveloping the soft, runny yolks, floating and sinking in the reddish-brown syrup.
She ladled it out and poured it into the Large Coarse Porcelain Bowl with Blue Rim that Li Guilan usually used.
Carrying the tray carefully, Zhao Hongmei entered the Main Room.
At that moment, Li Guilan’s hot flash had just passed, followed by chills. Wrapped in a quilt and shivering, she heard footsteps and was about to open her mouth to scold, but her nose caught a sweet, fragrant scent first.
“Mom, sit up and have some soup.” Zhao Hongmei placed the bowl on the Kang Table.
Li Guilan opened her eyes and looked at the steaming bowl. Red broth, white eggs, plump Red Dates, bright Goji Berries—just the sight made her stomach rumble.
“I’m not hungry… Wasting things again in the middle of the night,” Li Guilan muttered stubbornly, but her body involuntarily straightened up.
“This isn’t a meal; it’s medicine.” Zhao Hongmei handed her a spoon. “Old Brown Sugar warms the womb, Fermented Rice Wine promotes blood circulation, and ginger slices dispel cold. You have a weak body with excessive internal heat. Drinking this will help you sweat and sleep soundly tonight.”
Li Guilan paused, looking at Zhao Hongmei. Under the lamplight, her daughter-in-law’s face showed no trace of ingratiation—just calm and composed, as if stating something perfectly natural.
Hesitantly, she took the spoon and scooped a mouthful of soup.
Hot. Sweet. Spicy.
The scalding syrup slid down her throat, instantly warming her stomach and bringing immense comfort. The sharp spiciness of the ginger seemed to push out the sticky, clammy sweat from her body. Taking a bite of the Poached Egg, the tender egg white gave way to the runny yolk, mixing with the sweet wine broth—a flavor so delightful it made her want to sigh.
Li Guilan’s previously tense shoulders slowly relaxed.
She drank sip after sip, the room quiet except for the slurping sounds of her drinking the soup.
By the time she finished, her body felt warm and cozy, and that heart-pounding anxiety that had been driving her mad had somehow vanished without her noticing. Li Guilan held the empty bowl, head lowered, and remained motionless for a long while.
Zhao Hongmei thought she had finished drinking and reached out to take the bowl. “Mom, there’s more in the pot. Would you like—”
Before she could finish, she saw a drop of water fall into the empty bowl with a soft plop.
Then came a second drop.
Li Guilan was crying.
This woman, known throughout the village for her fiery temper, had never shed a tear even when she was widowed and bullied, fighting back with a kitchen knife. But now, facing an empty bowl, her tears fell like broken strings of pearls.
In her lifetime, she had served her in-laws, raised her children, and cooked for the entire family. She had always been the one asking others if the food was too salty or too bland. Who had ever specially cooked her such a heartwarming, stomach-soothing soup in the middle of the night?
Before, she had thought this daughter-in-law was too cunning, not like family. But today, this bowl of soup—the eggs cooked tenderly, the ginger slices sliced evenly—showed genuine care.
“Mom, what’s wrong? Is it too hot?” Zhao Hongmei was startled.
Li Guilan sniffled, wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, and placed the bowl heavily on the table, trying to muster her usual sternness. But her voice was hoarse, carrying a rare softness.
“Nothing! Just got sand in my eyes!”
She turned her face away, not daring to look at Zhao Hongmei, but her hands fidgeted on the quilt. After a long pause, she squeezed out a whisper so faint it was like a mosquito’s hum:
“This soup… tastes alright. You… you should get some rest too. Don’t just stand there wasting electricity.”
Though she still sounded like she was fretting over money, it was the first time in her life that Li Guilan had spoken to Zhao Hongmei with a touch of warmth.
Zhao Hongmei carried the tray out of the room, unable to suppress a slight smile at the corner of her lips.
She knew that this bowl of Brown Sugar Fermented Rice Wine Eggs had managed to melt a crack in the iron-hard shell of this menopausal old woman. Life, after all, is slowly simmered through bowls and chopsticks, through cold and warmth.
Outside, the wind was still blowing, but in the Qin family’s small courtyard tonight, they could finally sleep peacefully.