The embers in the stove still glowed. Su Mo stood with her back to him, washing her hands by the water vat. Amid the splashing sounds, she heard footsteps and turned around, wiping her damp hands on her coarse apron.
"Father," she called, her voice calm.
Su Dashan grunted in response, his eyes sweeping over the stove area. The cutting board was clean, the kitchen knife was back in its place, the small earthen jar of lard was tightly sealed, and the bamboo tube of fine salt was properly corked. Everything was in perfect order, even neater than when he cooked.
His gaze finally settled on his daughter's face.
It was the same face—the eyes and brows resembled his, the nose and lips took after Yunniang—the daughter he had watched for sixteen years. But the look in those eyes was different. Once timid, always avoiding his gaze, now they met his openly, clear and bright.
"Did you make the noodles?" Su Dashan asked, his voice slightly hoarse.
"Yes," Su Mo replied.
"Kneading the dough, letting it rest, rolling it out, pulling it into noodles—all by yourself?"
"Yes."
"How did you learn?"
Su Mo had prepared for this question. "I… I don't know either. It was… when I fell into the water, while I was drifting in and out of consciousness, it felt like… like there was an old man with a white beard, speaking to me in a dream. He told me many… many ways to cook."
She had used this explanation once before, after waking up, to account for her sudden "enlightenment" and knowledge of strange things. Now, repeating it, she still lacked confidence, her voice growing softer and softer.
Zhou Yunniang had followed him in and, hearing this, quickly stepped forward to smooth things over: "Dashan, why ask so many questions? The child was ill—maybe she received some kind of opportunity? Perhaps the Kitchen God enlightened her! The important thing is that the noodles are delicious! If the customers eat them, they’re sure to like them!"
Su Mo thought for a moment and added, "Besides, watching you cook, Father, I learned over time." She paused, then added, "When you knead the dough, you always use a bit more strength with your right hand than your left. After the dough rests, the right side is always chewier. Today, I tried to use both hands evenly."
Su Dashan was stunned. He had kneaded dough for most of his life and had never noticed this habit of his. Yet his daughter had pointed it out, so casually, so confidently.
"The broth…" he swallowed, "your mother said you only used water, lard, soy sauce, and salt. I tasted it—it’s savory. How did you make it?"
Su Mo walked over to the stove and lifted the lid of the small pot she had used to simmer the broth. It was clear to the bottom, revealing the coarse texture of the earthenware.
"You…" Su Dashan’s throat tightened. Finally, he looked at Su Mo again, his expression complicated. "Did you really… just learn it in a dream?"
Su Mo raised her head, meeting her father’s scrutinizing gaze. In his eyes, she saw shock, confusion, bewilderment, and a depth she couldn’t quite understand. She took a deep breath, thinking of their struggling little eatery, and tried to keep her voice steady: "Father, why would I lie to you? I just… wanted to try. Seeing how tired you and Mother are every day, and our family’s business… I thought, if I could make something with a different flavor, maybe…"
She didn’t finish, but her meaning was clear.
Zhou Yunniang’s eyes reddened as she walked over and wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. "Silly child, it’s nothing for your father and me to work hard, as long as you’re safe and sound…"
Su Dashan turned his back, not speaking for a long time. The kitchen was silent except for the occasional crackle of firewood in the stove.
After a while, he spoke hoarsely, "This noodle… let's try selling it tomorrow morning."
Zhou Yunniang was overjoyed. "Dashan, you agree?"
Su Dashan neither nodded nor shook his head, only saying, "One bowl of noodles, just a try. If… if no one eats it, then from now on…"
"Won't happen, Dad!" Su Mo's eyes lit up, and she couldn't help but step forward. "People will definitely like it! This noodle nourishes the stomach, perfect for breakfast! We can price it cheaply, three coins a bowl, four coins with an egg!"
Her words spilled out with a natural familiarity, as if she had been thinking about it for a long time.
Su Dashan turned around and looked at the light dancing in his daughter's eyes—a vibrant, hopeful glow he had never seen on her face before.
Since she woke up, although quiet and sensible, there had always been a hint of gloom between her brows, different from the timid little girl she used to be. But now, talking about this bowl of noodles, about the restaurant's business, she seemed to be glowing all over.
Something struck Su Dashan's heart, heavy and a bit sore. This child, from a young age, had rarely stepped into the kitchen. Occasionally, he would ask her to tend the fire, wash vegetables, or pass things. He never let her touch the chopping board or the kitchen knife. In these times, women cooking was only for poor families who had no choice or for those working as servants in wealthy households. He had always thought of saving more money to find her a well-off family in the future, so she wouldn't have to endure smoke and fire. Her hands should be for embroidery, not covered in calluses and grease like his.
But now…
Su Dashan turned and walked toward the door, his back to her. "But only for the morning market. The lunch and dinner shifts are not for you to take charge."
The door curtain fell, swaying slightly.
With that, Su Dashan walked out first, his back straight but his steps heavy.
Zhou Yunniang patted Su Mo's hand and whispered, "Your father is just like this, but in his heart… he's actually happy. This noodle is really good." She followed him out.
Only Su Mo remained in the kitchen. She stood there, slowly letting out a breath. In her palm, she realized she had broken into a light sweat. She knew that the kitchen door, closed to her for sixteen years, had finally cracked open today.
Even if it was just a crack.
She watched her parents' retreating backs and then looked at the broth that was almost cold. Slowly, she exhaled, and her tense shoulders relaxed.
Su Dashan walked to the table and looked at the bowl of noodles that had clumped a little but still had a clear, bright broth. He picked up his chopsticks again and slowly finished the remaining noodles, bite by bite. He even drank every last drop of the soup.
Then he put down the bowl and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Zhou Yunniang anxiously grabbed her husband's arm and lowered her voice. "Well? Say something!"
"Yunniang," he said, "add another half-kilogram of flour for the noodles."
Zhou Yunniang nodded repeatedly, wanting to say something but not knowing what.
Su Dashan had already walked toward the backyard with his hands behind his back, his posture straight but his steps heavy.
Zhou Yunniang turned to look toward the kitchen, where the door curtain hung quietly. She walked over and lifted a corner of it.
Su Mo was still standing by the stove, head bowed, looking at her hands. Sunlight slanted through the window, illuminating half her face, which looked calm and resolute.
In the backyard, Su Dashan stood by the old well. He just stood there, gazing at his blurred reflection in the water for a long time.
Then he suddenly raised his hand and wiped his face. Something inside him, scalding hot, burned all the way up to his eyes. He took a deep, sharp breath, forcing back the sour ache, then turned toward the kitchen and called out in a muffled voice, "Nian He, I saw there's leftover dough in the kitchen. Make another bowl of noodles for your father tonight."