Distributing a basketful of crispy fried pork eased the tension in the courtyard. With their mouths now greased by the treat, the relatives who had earlier made sarcastic remarks felt too embarrassed to speak loudly, though their eyes kept darting toward the hearth.
After all, frying pork was a straightforward task—anyone could make it fragrant if they were generous with oil and seasoning. But hosting a banquet was all about the sequence: “first cold dishes, then hot dishes, followed by soups, and finally steamed dishes.” The real test lay in the substantial dishes yet to come.
Zhao Hongmei paid no mind to those glances. She handed the fried pork to her second sister-in-law to arrange and turned to pull out a large enamel basin from under the cutting board. Inside were dozens of pounds of skin-on pork, soaked in cold water.
This was the ingredient for the steamed pork dish.
In those days, steamed pork was the centerpiece of any banquet. Whether the host family could save face depended entirely on how tightly the pork was arranged in the bowl and how skillfully it was sliced.
Li Guilan had just finished gnawing on a piece of crispy pork, her mouth still glistening with grease. Seeing Zhao Hongmei about to lift the large basin of meat onto the cutting board, her heart tightened again. This meat had cost a fortune—it was the most valuable item at today’s banquet. If her daughter-in-law ruined it with poor slicing, there would be no turning back.
“Hey… Hongmei,” Li Guilan couldn’t help but step closer, wanting to snatch the basin away. “This meat is no joke. Why not… why not let Second Uncle slice it? He used to butcher pigs—he has a steady hand.”
Zhao Hongmei didn’t pause her movements, replying calmly, “Mom, Second Uncle uses a butcher’s knife, but this is a slicing knife—they’re two different things. If you’re worried about the meat, just watch from the side. If I ruin even one slice, you can scold me then.”
With that, she pulled a clean piece of gauze from the chopstick holder and meticulously wiped the kitchen knife.
Slicing the pork strips earlier had been a swift, decisive task, but cutting the pork for steaming required a calm mind.
The dozens of pounds of pork had been boiled to medium doneness, the skin gleaming and still emitting faint steam. This partially cooked meat was the hardest to slice—too soft to hold its shape, too firm and it would slip easily.
Zhao Hongmei pressed down on the meat with her left hand and raised the knife with her right. She didn’t rush to make the first cut but closed her eyes briefly, as if searching for the right feel.
“Putting on airs,” a distant aunt muttered under her breath.
Before the words faded, Zhao Hongmei’s knife moved.
“Thud, thud, thud…”
At first, the sound was slow, almost tentative. But within two or three breaths, the rhythm of the slicing changed. It was no longer the dull thud of chopping but a rhythmic “swish, swish, swish,” so fast it blended into a continuous, dense patter like a sudden downpour.
Everyone in the courtyard was stunned.
Zhao Hongmei didn’t even look down at the blade. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, but her wrist moved as flexibly as if it were mounted on bearings. The heavy iron knife felt as light as a goose feather in her hand, rising and falling so swiftly that only flashes of the blade were visible, not the knife itself.
The sliced pieces of meat fell obediently to the left like well-drilled soldiers, instantly forming a neat, long row.
“My goodness gracious…” Second Uncle, who had been smoking his pipe, forgot to inhale, the mouthpiece nearly burning his lips. “These knife skills… truly impressive!”
Zhao Hongmei’s hands indeed barely hovered over the meat, and she hardly even looked at it, as if she already knew in her mind exactly where the piece of meat in her hand was thick or thin, and where there was a tendon.
In less than the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, a large slab of pork belly had been transformed into a row of uniformly thin slices.
Zhao Hongmei set down the knife and casually picked up one slice, holding it up to the midday sun overhead.
The slice was as thin as paper, with the red and white marbling clearly visible. Sunlight filtered through the meat, casting a translucent red glow. How steady must her hands be, how precise her eyesight?
“Mom, the basin.” Zhao Hongmei reached out without turning her head.
Li Guilan was staring in a daze, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes fixed on the translucent meat slice.
At her daughter-in-law’s call, she shuddered all over, completely forgetting all the scolding words she had prepared. Reflexively, she grabbed an empty aluminum basin nearby and handed it over with both hands: “…Ah, put it here, put it here.”
Only after handing over the basin did Li Guilan realize what she had done. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she wanted to say something harsh to make up for it, but looking at the neatly arranged meat slices, she couldn’t bring herself to open her mouth. This skill—forget that Wang Dapang, even the master chef at the state-run restaurant in town might not be this good!
With the meat sliced, it was time for the cold dish.
Although autumn cucumbers aren’t as crisp as summer ones, they’re a treasure for cutting through greasiness at banquets. Usually, cucumbers are either smashed and tossed in a cold salad or sliced for dipping in sauce.
Zhao Hongmei picked up a long cucumber, still with its flower and prickles, and placed it on the cutting board. This time, she changed her cutting technique.
Holding the knife at a slight angle, she cut into the cucumber at a forty-five-degree angle, each slice going four-fifths of the way through—cutting it open but not severing it completely. The precision required was such that even a millimeter’s deviation would ruin it.
Everyone held their breath as the blade danced up and down, the rapid chopping sounds sending shivers down their spines.
After finishing one side, Zhao Hongmei flicked her wrist, flipping the cucumber over on the cutting board. She repeated the same technique, but this time with straight cuts.
All the movements flowed seamlessly, without a single pause.
When she set down the knife, she gently pinched both ends of the cucumber and pulled them apart.
“Whoa—!”
A collective gasp erupted from the crowd.
The cucumber, originally only a foot long, had stretched to more than twice its length! The slices remained connected, uniform in thickness, stretching out like a green accordion or a coiled dragon swaying in midair, showing no sign of breaking.
“What… what kind of trick is this?” Even Qin Jianguo, a man who had served in the military and seen the world, was stunned.
“Raincoat cucumber,” Zhao Hongmei said calmly, gently arranging the stretched cucumber on a plate like a blooming green peony. “In the old days, wealthy families were particular about this dish. It’s all about the knife skills—it absorbs flavor quickly and stays crisp.”
As she spoke, she drizzled the prepared garlic-vinegar sauce over it. The liquid seeped into the dense cuts of the cucumber, instantly releasing its refreshing aroma.
At this point, the courtyard fell completely silent.
If the crispy pork earlier was luck, then the translucent meat slices and the unbreakable cucumber were undeniable skill. This was no ordinary village daughter-in-law—she was clearly a master artisan hiding her talents!
Qin Gang stood by the hearth, still clutching a handful of wheat stalks.
He watched the figure bustling before the cutting board. The timid, submissive wife who used to cry whenever she was wronged was gone. Now, Zhao Hongmei, with her sleeves rolled up and a few stray strands of hair hanging by her ears, wore no particular smile on her face, yet the brisk efficiency radiating from her very bones warmed his heart.
This woman had been forced to step up because of his incompetence.
A complex, indescribable feeling surged in Qin Gang’s chest—part guilt, part pride.
He said nothing, silently stuffing the wheat stalks in his hand into the hearth cavity. Then he stood up and, without a word, took off his old but cleanly washed Zhongshan jacket, folding it neatly and placing it on a nearby stool.
The autumn wind was quite chilly. Wearing only a faded tank top, his sturdy arm muscles were exposed.
He walked to the corner of the yard, picked up the heavy splitting axe.
Thud!
A dull sound echoed as a thick, hard log was split cleanly in two with a single swing.
He didn’t complain of tiredness, nor did he ask Zhao Hongmei what else she needed. He simply kept his head down and split wood. The rhythm of his axe falling unexpectedly synchronized with the sound of Zhao Hongmei chopping vegetables.
The fire in the hearth cavity burned brighter and brighter, casting a warm, reddish glow on both their faces.
Zhao Hongmei was busy plating the dishes when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the man sweating profusely in the wind. She pursed her lips slightly and handed over a freshly cut piece of cucumber.
“Gangzi, taste this. See if the seasoning’s right.”
Qin Gang stopped swinging the axe, wiped his sawdust-covered hands on his pants, and without ceremony, leaned over to take the cucumber from his wife’s hand, biting into it.
“Mmm… Crisp! Tastes good!” He grinned, revealing a set of white teeth, looking as simple and honest as a child.
In that moment, neither spoke, but when their eyes met, some things didn’t need to be said. It was a tacit understanding.