Su Mo thought for a moment before saying to Zhou Yunniang, "Mother, how about we stew some soup and make Yangchun Noodles for lunch?"
Zhou Yunniang considered it. Yangchun Noodles were a simple dish, and her daughter had likely seen her father make them while helping in the kitchen before, so there shouldn’t be any mistakes. She replied, "Alright. Do you need me to help you?"
"Then please help me pick some vegetables to add to the noodles as toppings."
Su Mo walked over to the flour jar, opened the lid, and took a look. The flour in the Su household was ground from coarse wheat, slightly yellow in color, with a natural wheat aroma. She scooped two large bowls into a clay basin and rubbed it between her fingertips—the texture wasn’t fine enough, but it had good elasticity, making it suitable for hand-pulled noodles. Seeing this, Zhou Yunniang handed her a large coarse porcelain bowl. Su Mo scooped half a ladle of well water and slowly added it to the flour, starting to knead the dough.
Zhou Yunniang picked vegetables nearby, but her eyes couldn’t help glancing toward her daughter. She saw Su Nianhe roll up her sleeves, revealing a section of fair forearm, and plunge her hands into the flour, mixing it with salt before gradually adding small amounts of cold water to knead the dough. Her movements were unhurried yet deliberate—pressing with her palms, turning her wrists, her whole body swaying slightly as she kneaded the dough into a smooth ball. The entire process flowed seamlessly.
"Nian He, your kneading technique…" Zhou Yunniang hesitated, "who taught you?"
Su Mo paused her hands. Memories from her past life surged—during her apprenticeship, the eighty-year-old master pastry chef had taught her: "Kneading dough is like practicing Tai Chi—soft yet firm, firm yet soft. Dough has life. Only when you treat it with care will it yield its elasticity to you."
"Mother, when I fell into the water, I had a long dream. In the dream, a white-bearded old man taught me many cooking methods. He said that Su Ji is in trouble and that I must learn well to come back and help you and Father." She had prepared this explanation long ago—half-truth, half-fabrication, the easiest way to gain trust.
Upon hearing this, Zhou Yunniang repeatedly murmured, "It’s the Kitchen God’s blessing! The Kitchen God is watching over us!" Her eyes reddened, "It must be because you’re usually so filial that the Kitchen God sent you this dream to teach you. This afternoon, this afternoon I’ll buy incense and candles to properly thank the Kitchen God!"
Su Mo breathed a sigh of relief and looked into her mother’s eyes, "Mother, I will make Su Ji thrive again. I will make sure you and Father live a good life."
A quarter of an hour later, the dough was as smooth as a baby’s skin. She covered it with a damp cloth to let it rest, then turned and walked toward the stove.
Soup is the soul of a bowl of noodles. Su Ji Eatery didn’t have a dedicated broth. When Su Dashan cooked, he mostly used water with seasonings for the sake of speed. Su Mo scanned the kitchen—in a bamboo basket in the corner were some chicken bones, leftovers from buying a chicken the day before; in a wooden basin was a small crucian carp, given as an extra by the fishmonger that morning; and there was also a small basket of shrimp shells saved from peeling shrimp the previous day.
"All of these?" Zhou Yunniang was stunned as she watched her daughter bring the chicken bones, fish, and shrimp shells to the counter.
"All of them."
Su Mo worked efficiently. She chopped the chicken bones into small pieces, scaled and gutted the fish, and washed the shrimp shells. She boiled water in a large pot, first blanching the chicken bones and fish to remove the scum. After removing them, she changed to a fresh pot of water and added the ingredients to cold water.
"Broth should be started with cold water," she explained as she worked, as if teaching a student, "so the umami flavor slowly infuses. If you start with boiling water, the flavor gets locked inside."
Zhou Yunniang listened, utterly bewildered.
Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce to a simmer. The pot began to bubble, gradually forming a milky-white broth foam. Su Nianhe skimmed off the scum and added a few slices of ginger and a section of scallion white. Without cooking wine, she poured in a small spoonful of yellow wine—something Su Dashan only used sparingly when making braised pork.
Su Mo covered the pot. "Let the broth simmer while we prepare the rest."
She turned to handle the dough. The rested dough was rolled into long strips, cut into small portions, and each portion was rolled again into evenly thick, long strips. A coarse porcelain dish was brushed with oil, the noodles placed inside, and another layer of oil brushed over the surface before letting it rest for a while—this was the key to ensuring the noodles could be stretched without breaking.
"Mother, do we have pork lard?" Su Mo asked.
"We do, but what do you need it for?"
"To make scallion oil."
Scallion oil was the finishing touch for Yangchun Noodles.
A small bowl of pork lard was cut into small pieces and rendered in a pan. As the fat melted, it gradually turned clear, with cracklings floating to the surface and a fragrant aroma beginning to spread. Su Nianhe scooped out the cracklings—these were a treasure, edible with a sprinkle of salt or usable in other dishes. Once the oil temperature had cooled slightly, she grabbed a handful of scallions, using only the section where the white and green parts met, cut them into inch-long pieces, and added them to the pan.
Sizzle—the scallion pieces tumbled in the hot oil, gradually turning golden brown, their fragrance fully released. The richness of the lard and the pungent aroma of the scallions blended and intensified under the heat, filling the entire kitchen.
"So fragrant…" Zhou Yunniang couldn’t help but inhale deeply.
Su Mo poured the scallion oil into a small clay jar she had washed and dried earlier when she first entered the kitchen. The golden oil and aromatic scallion pieces would become even more concentrated after resting.
Now, everything was ready.
The broth had been simmering in the pot for over half an hour, turning milky white and exuding a savory aroma. Su Nianhe lifted the lid and used a spoon paired with fine gauze to strain it, transferring the clear broth into another pot. The broth was clear in color but rich in flavor.
Su Mo took a large coarse porcelain bowl from the cupboard. Since the household had no shrimp roe soy sauce at the moment, she had to make do with regular soy sauce. She poured a small spoonful of soy sauce into the bowl, along with a spoonful of the prepared lard-scallion oil and a pinch of salt. Ladling in the piping hot broth instantly released a burst of fragrance.
Taking out the rested dough portions, she pressed them flat with her hands, pinched both ends, and gently stretched them evenly, folding and repeating the process several times. The stretched noodles were sprinkled into boiling water. Long chopsticks gently separated them to prevent sticking. Watching the noodles tumble in the water, turning soft and transitioning from white to translucent, she knew they were almost done. She scooped them out and dipped them briefly in cold boiled water—this removed surface starch, making the noodles smoother and preventing residual heat from softening them further. Using long chopsticks, she folded the noodles three times into the bowl, arranging them neatly without a single strand out of place, forming a "Guanyin head."
She poured the boiling clear broth over the noodles, just enough to cover them. Finally, she sprinkled finely chopped scallions—using only the green parts of small fragrant scallions, minced extremely finely.
Su Mo had made a bit more dough, thinking she could sell some noodles in the evening. With the broth and scallion oil already prepared, she wasn’t worried about being unable to keep up. Even if no customers came to the shop, it would still be a fine meal for the family.
Su Mo cooked three bowls of noodles. Zhou Yunniang urged her to eat first, citing her incomplete recovery, and seeing that Su Dashan was still busy at the front, she thought she could finish quickly and relieve him. The noodles were indeed as fragrant to eat as they were to smell. Thinking they were made by her daughter, Zhou Yunniang was even more delighted, her eyes crinkling with joy as she ate and praised them.
Su Dashan was wiping the last table in the front hall, the aroma having wafted for nearly half an hour.