In the afternoon, with few customers, Zhou Yunniang left the door slightly ajar, leaving only a crack.
The three of them sat around the only square table in the main hall, with today’s copper coins spread out on it. Piled into a small hill, they gleamed a yellowish hue. Zhou Yunniang carefully stacked them, stringing one hundred coins together.
“The porridge and noodles from the morning market brought in three hundred and twenty coins,” she said in a hushed voice, as if afraid someone might overhear. “The midday meals brought in four hundred and eighty coins. Altogether…”
Her fingers trembled slightly as she counted twice before getting it right: “Exactly eight hundred coins.”
Eight hundred coins.
Su Mo quickly calculated in her mind. Rice, flour, oil, salt, firewood, meat, fish, vegetables… all the costs added up to about four hundred coins. A net profit of four hundred coins. In one day, four hundred coins.
She looked up and saw her mother’s eyes shining brightly, her lips trembling slightly. Her father sat across from them, not looking at the money but staring down at his own rough, thick-knuckled hands, which were also trembling faintly.
“Nian He,” Zhou Yunniang grabbed her daughter’s hand, holding it tightly, “did you hear that? Eight hundred coins! In the past, we’d make at most two hundred coins a day, and that was on a good day…”
Su Mo squeezed her mother’s hand back and nodded. “Mother, I heard.”
“Tomorrow,” Zhou Yunniang said eagerly, “tomorrow we’ll prepare more! The Spring Trio Delicacy—let’s make thirty plates! No, forty plates! I saw how much the customers loved it!”
“We can’t make that many,” Su Mo said. “We don’t have enough bamboo shoots. The old farmer today said he only digs up so many each day, and he sold them all to me. The bamboo shoots from other places aren’t as good as his.”
“Mother, rarity increases value. If we only sell a limited amount each day, the customers will remember it. If we sell too much, it won’t be as precious.”
Zhou Yunniang paused for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Yes… that makes sense.”
“Besides,” Su Mo continued, “we can’t rely on just one dish. The Spring Trio Delicacy is a seasonal dish—once the season passes, it’s gone. I was thinking, tomorrow we could add a soup, made with bamboo shoots, salted pork, and tofu knots. It’s light and flavorful. And we could also make a cold tossed Indian aster—it’s tender this time of year. That way, a table of dishes would have stir-fried, stewed, and cold options, which would be just right.”
Zhou Yunniang said, “Indian aster grows along the ridges of fields and by the river. I’ll go pick some this afternoon—it won’t cost anything.”
“Mother, let me go instead. We don’t need to prepare new dishes this afternoon. I’ll take a walk and see if there are any new ingredients.” Su Mo thought for a moment before replying.
As evening approached, Su Mo went out carrying a small bamboo basket. This time of year, Indian aster was tender, growing in clusters with deep green leaves tinged with purple on the underside. She crouched down and used a small shovel to dig close to the ground, pulling up the roots, shaking off the soil, and placing them in the basket.
By the river, women were washing clothes, the sound of wooden paddles beating against the fabric echoing dully, one after another. Children were wading in the shallow water, searching for snails, barefoot with their pant legs rolled up to their knees, laughing and playing. The setting sun dyed the river golden, shimmering with ripples.
Su Mo focused on digging the wild vegetables. Indian aster had to be tender; if it was old, it would be tough. She picked the ones with thick, vibrant leaves and soon had half a basket’s worth. Enough for two large plates.
Back at Su Ji, Zhou Yunniang was washing the newly bought bowls. They were coarse porcelain bowls, white with blue rims—rough but intact, without any chips. She washed them carefully, drying them one by one and stacking them in the cupboard.
Su Dashan was sharpening a knife. The whetstone was propped on a long bench, and he squatted, holding the vegetable knife, grinding it against the stone with a scrape-scrape sound. After a while, he tested the blade with his finger and continued grinding. The edge gleamed coldly in the sunset.
Su Mo poured the shepherd's purse into a wooden basin and scooped water to wash it. There was fine sand on the backs of the leaves, so she rinsed them again and again until the water ran clear. Once washed, she blanched them, drained them, squeezed out the water, and cut them into sections. Salt, a little sugar, a few drops of sesame oil, mixed well. She tasted a bite—refreshing, slightly bitter, with a sweet aftertaste, the flavor of spring fields.
"Dad, Mom, try this."
"Shall we sell this tomorrow, three coins a plate?" Zhou Yunniang's eyes lit up again.
Su Mo thought for a moment. "Two coins. The cost is just a bit of salt and sesame oil. Small profits but quick turnover."
"Alright, we'll listen to you."
Su Dashan also came over to taste a bite. He didn't speak but nodded.
Dinner was simple: leftover Spring Three Delicacies from lunch reheated, freshly mixed shepherd's purse, and a bowl of porridge for each. The porridge was made by boiling leftover rice from lunch with water, thick and comforting, eaten with the side dishes.
After dinner, the sky had darkened completely. Zhou Yunniang lit an oil lamp, its bean-sized flame flickering and swaying, casting the shadows of the three onto the wall, stretching them long.
Su Mo sat under the lamp, took a piece of charcoal, and wrote tomorrow's menu on the back of an old ledger. Yangchun Noodles, Fish Slice Porridge, Spring Three Delicacies, Salted Pork and Bamboo Shoot Soup, Cold Mixed Shepherd's Purse. When she finished, she looked up. "Dad, Mom, what do you think?"
Zhou Yunniang leaned over to look. "Fine, fine," she nodded repeatedly.
Su Dashan glanced at it and said, "Fine, we'll listen to you. Go to bed early."
"Alright."
Su Mo returned to her room. Without lighting a lamp, she could see the simple furnishings by the moonlight from the window: a bed, a cabinet, a small table. On the table lay that blurry bronze mirror.
She sat by the bed, took off her shoes, and lay down. The quilt was old, carrying the scent of sun-dried warmth. She was exhausted, her bones feeling as if they had fallen apart, but her mind was wide awake.
Tomorrow, she would have to wake up even earlier. She needed to pick more shepherd's purse, buy shrimp and bamboo shoots, cook porridge, knead dough, stir-fry dishes…
As she thought, her consciousness gradually blurred.
Outside the window, the sound of the night watchman drifted from afar, one beat, two beats. Then came the barking of dogs, and then nothing more. Su Mo turned over, buried her face in the pillow, and fell asleep.