After closing up shop, Su Mo found Zhou Yunniang and asked, "Mother, do we have any Mugwort here?"
"Mugwort?" Zhou Yunniang thought for a moment. "We do have some, but it has a medicinal smell. What do you need it for?"
"To make Qingtuan," Su Mo said. "Made with Mugwort, the flavor is authentic."
"That stuff is bitter. Can it be tasty?"
"If prepared well, it won't be bitter. It'll even be fragrant."
Zhou Yunniang was skeptical, but seeing her daughter's determination, she said, "Then I'll ask around the neighborhood to see who has some."
Thinking about finding Mugwort, the family washed up and went to bed early.
The next morning after breakfast, Zhou Yunniang asked along half the street, but no one had any. Everyone said Mugwort was medicine, not something to eat. Su Mo was unwilling to give up. Over the next few days, after the market closed, she took a basket and went to search the wild fields outside the city. She remembered that Mugwort liked to grow on ridges and riverbanks. Its leaves were gray-green, with a grayish-white underside, and had a strong, slightly bitter medicinal scent.
After searching for three days, she finally spotted a few clusters on an abandoned ridge west of the city. She pinched a leaf, crushed it, and smelled it—yes, it was Mugwort.
Her heart lifted with joy. Carefully, she pinched the tender tips and filled half the basket. Returning home, she washed them and blanched them—the blanching time had to be short. Once the water boiled, she put them in, stirred them twice, and immediately fished them out, plunging them into cold water. This way, they would stay bright green and lose some of their bitterness. After squeezing out the water, she placed them in a stone mortar and pounded them. The Mugwort leaves slowly turned into a paste under the stone pestle—dark green and thick with juice. That medicinal scent, mixed with the freshness of the grass, spread through the air, unique and distinct.
Su Mo kneaded the Mugwort paste together with glutinous rice flour. The flour was white, the paste dark green, and as she kneaded, it gradually turned a pale green. She added warm water, little by little, kneading until it became a smooth, soft dough. The dough was pale green, carrying the distinctive fragrance of Mugwort. She prepared two types of fillings. One was sweet red bean paste: adzuki beans soaked overnight, boiled until soft, sieved, then mixed with sugar and lard, and slowly stir-fried over low heat until glossy and shiny. The other was savory: spring bamboo shoots, dried tofu, and salted pork, all diced, stir-fried in lard until fragrant, and seasoned with soy sauce and sugar.
She pinched a piece of dough, flattened it in her palm, scooped a spoonful of filling, and slowly sealed it, rolling it into a ball. The Qingtuan rolled around in her hands, gradually becoming smooth and round, pale green like pieces of fine jade. She arranged them one by one in a steamer lined with a damp cloth and placed it over the pot. Steam hissed upward, and white vapor seeped from the edges of the lid. After about a quarter of an hour, she lifted the lid—hot steam rushed out, and the Qingtuan in the steamer had turned a deeper color, glossy like pieces of dark jade. The aroma had changed too: the fragrance of glutinous rice mixed with the unique medicinal scent of Mugwort, along with the sweetness of the red bean paste or the savory freshness of the filling, drifted into her nostrils in delicate wisps.
Su Mo picked one up with chopsticks, blew on it, and took a bite. The skin was glutinous and soft, the bitterness faint, almost imperceptible, which instead highlighted the fresh fragrance.
"Father, Mother, try some," she said, placing a few on a coarse porcelain plate.
Su Dashan had been doing accounts. Hearing her, he set down his abacus, picked up a savory one, and took a bite. He chewed, his brow furrowing at first—the Mugwort flavor was too distinctive, and he wasn't used to it. But as he chewed, his brow relaxed, and he took another bite.
Zhou Yunniang tried a sweet one, her eyes lighting up. "This flavor… it's truly unique! Bitter yet fragrant, and the more you chew, the more flavorful it becomes!"
"I want to sell these," she said. "Around Qingming Festival, to match the season. Sweet ones for three coins each, savory for four."
"Alright!" Zhou Yunniang nodded. "Tomorrow I'll write up a sign!"
The next day, a new wooden sign hung on the wall of Su Ji Eatery: "Fresh Mugwort Qingtuan, sweet three coins, savory four."
A regular customer came in, saw the sign, and asked curiously, "Made with mugwort? Isn't that stuff medicine? Can you eat it?"
"Made with fresh mugwort, not bitter, and fragrant!" Zhou Yunniang introduced cheerfully. "My daughter specially went outside the city to pick it—fresh as can be! Want to try?"
"Give me a sweet one to try."
Su Mo picked one out from the steamer, wrapped it in oiled paper, and handed it over. The customer took a bite, chewed, and widened his eyes. "Hmm! It's special! Has a medicinal aroma, but not unpleasant—actually quite fragrant!"
"Give me another savory one!"
"I'll have a sweet one too!"
For a time, Su Ji's new snack, Qingtuan, gained great fame. Many other eateries, hearing about it, also found mugwort to make and sell themselves, setting their prices lower than Su Ji's. As a result, the Qingtuan business suffered some impact, and Zhou Yunniang grew somewhat worried. Su Mo, however, was quite open-minded and comforted her, saying, "It's fine. We only planned to sell them for a few days anyway—it's not a long-term business. Let them learn if they want. It doesn't matter."
One afternoon, rain began to patter down again. At this hour, there weren't many customers; only two or three tables were occupied in the main hall.
The door curtain lifted, and a young lady entered. She wore a goose-yellow spring blouse and a water-green skirt, with a moon-white thin cloak draped over her shoulders. Her hair was neatly combed, adorned with a silver hairpin topped with a small pearl. Her face was oval-shaped, with fair skin and delicate features, though the slight upward tilt of her eyebrows carried an air of pride.
Behind her followed a young maid, also dressed neatly, carrying a food box.
Zhou Yunniang hurried forward to greet them. The young lady ordered two sweet Qingtuan, a portion of Spring Three Delicacies, and a bowl of fish slice congee. She sat upright and proper; the maid wiped the stool with a handkerchief before she sat down.
The Qingtuan were served, dark green and glossy, placed on a white porcelain plate. She picked one up, brought it close to smell, and her brows almost imperceptibly furrowed—the mugwort scent was too distinctive. But after taking a small bite, her brows relaxed, and she took another bite.
Just then, the door curtain lifted again, and Lin Wenxuan walked in. He went to an empty table by the wall, sat down, and ordered a bowl of Yangchun Noodles.
The young lady's gaze fell upon him. She saw his lean profile, his slightly furrowed brows, and those distinct, knuckled hands resting on a book. Her heart suddenly beat a little faster.
She recognized him—Lin Wenxuan from the County School, known for his literary talent.
Lin Wenxuan noticed the gaze, looked up at her, recognized her as the magistrate's daughter, nodded slightly, then turned back to wait for his noodles.
The young lady's face warmed, and she quickly averted her eyes. After finishing her congee, she paid the bill. As she stood up, she glanced at him once more. He was focused on eating his Yangchun Noodles and didn't look up.
She bit her lip and left with her maid. At the doorway, she looked back at Su Ji's signboard. Though old and worn, in her eyes at that moment, it seemed much more pleasing.
In the main hall, Lin Wenxuan slowly finished his noodles. He set down his chopsticks, stared at the empty bowl for a while, then took out three coins, placed them on the table, picked up his book, and stood to leave.
At the doorway, he paused and glanced back. The kitchen curtain swayed, and the sound of stir-frying could be heard from within—fragrant and warm. He withdrew his gaze, turned, and stepped outside. The rain had started again, fine and dense. He tightened his collar and quickened his pace. The emptiness in his heart lingered, like this rain—persistent and unyielding.