The summer heat was at its peak, and a heavy meal of dough and starch could easily feel stifling. Anticipating this, Xie Yuechan had prepared a large pot of sweet mung bean soup, which had now cooled to the perfect, refreshing temperature.
The beans had been simmered until they were blissfully soft, creating a sandy, rich texture that was both sweet and cooling. Xie Yuechan had no intention of eating alone; before leaving the kitchen, she ladled out a bowl for each of her maids.
Jitao and the other dowry maids from the Marquis of Heyang’s manor exchanged wary glances. The Third Madam made this… for them?
Even after Xie Yuechan stepped away, the girls hesitated, staring at the bowls as if they contained a riddle. Their mistress had never so much as dipped a finger in garden-spring water, let alone touched a cooking pot. Why the sudden interest in the hearth?
Is this even safe to drink?
Finally, Jitao steeled her nerves. She picked up her bowl and took a massive, sacrificial gulp. It’s fine, she told herself. The Madam made this with her own hands to show us kindness. I must honor it.
…Wait.
The flavor was incredible. The mung bean paste dissolved effortlessly on her tongue, the sweetness of the rock sugar perfectly integrated. It felt like eating a refined, chilled dessert—cleansing the summer heat without the brain-freeze that usually came from eating too much shaved ice.
This single bowl opened a door to a new world for Jitao. Compared to this, every mung bean soup she had ever tasted was just bean-flavored water!
The other maids watched her with a mix of awe and pity, waiting for a reaction.
“Well?” Xie Yuechan had guessed exactly what was going through their minds. Her voice carried a hint of impatient pride as she looked at Jitao. Hmph. Doubting my cooking skills, are we?
“Oh! Drinking this in the summer is absolutely exhilarating!” Jitao praised her with genuine fervor. “Miss—I mean, Madam—your skill is amazing! This is your first time in the kitchen, yet it’s already better than anything the chefs back at the Marquis’s manor ever made!”
Across the courtyard in the small study, Gu Jing’an received the meal Xie Yuechan had sent over.
While he had slept in the front study the night before, there was also a smaller study within the Falling Snow Residence. It was a side room connected to the main bedroom, separated only by a pair of folding screens. It housed the books he read most frequently; before the wedding, he would often work or read here late into the night, and there was even a low daybed for him to rest on.
On the tray sat a bowl of stir-fried noodles coated in an unidentifiable sauce, a “meat-stuffed bun” wrapped in oil paper, and a large sea-bowl filled with mung bean soup.
If the main kitchen had served lunch, there would have been half a dozen side dishes and various accompaniments. This was shockingly simple by comparison.
And yet, that simplicity was strangely enticing. He stared at the noodles, which were slick with a rich, dark sauce. Gu Jing’an rarely ate food with such heavy seasonings. At home, the meals were light and refined; when he was on duty at the Imperial Academy, he ate in the cafeteria with his colleagues. In public, he would never choose something so likely to splash his robes or stain the corners of his mouth.
However, looking at the reddish-brown luster of the noodles, he decided he could give it a try. After all, it was a gesture of goodwill.
And it did smell wonderful.
Having successfully convinced himself, he pulled the bowl closer. The noodles had already been tossed for him. He lifted a few strands with his chopsticks and took a bite.
His first reaction was heat. Gu Jing’an had never encountered this level of spice. The dish was loaded with cornel berries, their vibrant red skins the source of a fiery sting.
Tears sprang to his eyes instantly. He turned away, coughing uncontrollably.
When burned by spice, the natural instinct is to drown it in tea. Gu Jing’an reached out blindly for a teapot, but his hand found the bowl of mung bean soup instead. Without a second thought, he lifted it and took several deep gulps. Only when the fire in his mouth began to fade did he finally stop.
So that was the purpose of the mung bean soup.
He exhaled a heavy breath, the lingering heat still prickling his tongue, and looked back at the noodles. Despite the aggressive intensity, the combination of the numbing spice and the sweet bean paste had somehow awakened an appetite that had been suppressed by the summer humidity for weeks.
As the initial fire receded, he found the noodles were supple yet firm, possessing a satisfying chew. They were slick with a rich, aromatic oil made from cornel berries and fermented black beans; he even detected the faint, savory funk of fermented bean curd. The bowl was a riot of color, packed with bits of scrambled egg, crisp celery, and tender chicken.
Unbeknownst to him, Xie Yuechan had prepared a hand-pulled noodle version of Xinjiang stir-fried rice noodles.
He picked up a piece of chicken. The breast meat, which usually tasted dry and bland, was now burstingly flavorful and succulent.
One bite followed another. Gu Jing’an, who had intended to take only a polite taste before ordering a proper meal from the main kitchen, found himself staring at a clean bowl. He even felt a twinge of disappointment that the portion was so small; he hadn’t quite had his fill.
His eyes drifted toward the meat-stuffed bun.
The bread—a Roujiamo—had been griddled until both sides were toasted golden brown. The crust crackled slightly, while the layered interior was thoroughly soaked in savory meat juices. Xie Yuechan had been generous; the bun was stuffed so full of meat it looked ready to burst.
It was still hot to the touch. Upon taking a bite, he realized it was pork.
The Old Matriarch found pork to be gamey and difficult to prepare, so it was rarely purchased for the manor. He immediately guessed that Xie Yuechan must have sent someone to buy the ingredients from the market herself.
He didn’t harbor a prejudice against pork—the Imperial Academy served it occasionally—but the flavor usually paled in comparison to mutton. Or so he thought. He took another large bite, getting a perfect mouthful of crispy crust and tender filling.
He tasted coriander, spring onion, ginger, and just a hint of cornel berry. The meat was incredibly tender, without a trace of the “gamey” scent the Matriarch so detested.
By the time he finished the entire bun and drained the last of the mung bean soup, he sat in a stunned, solitary silence.
Why? Xie Yuechan certainly didn’t seem like the type of woman who knew her way around a stove.
He hadn’t enjoyed a meal this thoroughly in years. The last time he had felt this kind of rustic satisfaction was during his travels, when he’d stayed with a farming family who served simple, hearty mountain fare.
Gu Jing’an had always maintained a strict habit of eating only until he was eighty percent full at lunch to avoid afternoon sluggishness. Today, however, he had eaten until he was stuffed. Consequently, he spent the entire afternoon in a daze, staring at his books without absorbing a single word.
Meanwhile, Xie Yuechan made her way to Maple Listening Residence to discuss the kitchen arrangements with Lady Zhu.
The courtyard was bustling. Gu Jun had only one concubine, Lady Chen, who had originally been Lady Zhu’s dowry maid. Lady Zhu, ever the virtuous and magnanimous wife, had suggested elevating her status herself once the girl became pregnant. Since Chen had no children of her own, she lived a quiet, unassuming life in her own wing.
Lady Zhu’s two daughters and younger son, Gu Cong, were currently gathered around the courtyard’s central pond, teasing the koi fish that Gu Jun raised. Her eldest son, Gu Jue, was away studying at the Qinglu Academy and only returned home once a year. The youngest brother, Gu Changsheng, was there as well.
When Xie Yuechan appeared, a flicker of confusion crossed Lady Zhu’s eyes, though she masked it instantly with a warm, welcoming smile. She stepped forward to take Xie Yuechan’s arm. “Third Younger Sister-in-law!”
She shooed the children inside to play and ordered the servants to replace the sugary snacks the kids liked with more refined lotus-seed crisps and tea cakes.
“Switch the milk tea to Longjing,” Lady Zhu commanded a maid.
Xie Yuechan quickly interjected. “Please, don’t go to any trouble, Eldest Sister-in-law. Actually, I prefer milk tea. I’ve never quite developed a taste for the bitterness of Longjing.”
Lady Zhu maintained her polite smile, but inwardly, she felt a surge of disdain. She’s a noble daughter of a Marquis’s house, yet her tastes are so childish? And she doesn’t even have the sense to hide it in public.
Lady Zhu was more than ten years older than Xie Yuechan. Her eldest daughter, Yuanhui, was already eleven—a year older than little Gu Changsheng. It seemed she had long forgotten that she, too, had once hated the astringency of tea and loved the sweetness of milk as a young girl.