The aroma of rice gradually wafted out—the simplest, sweetest fragrance of grain, mingling with steam, spreading through the kitchen. Su Mo lifted the clay lid to check: the rice grains had already slightly expanded, and the water had turned milky white.
“It’s ready. Now cover it, leaving just a small gap.” She placed a wooden spoon across the mouth of the pot and tilted the lid on top. “This way, the steam can slowly evaporate, and the congee will thicken without boiling over.”
While the congee simmered, Su Mo began preparing the ingredients. She sliced ginger into extremely fine shreds—ginger could remove the fishy and cold properties of the fish, but some people disliked biting into ginger chunks, so shredding it made it easier to pick out. She used only the green parts of the scallions, cutting them into thin rings.
Then, from a clay jar in the corner, she fished out a small handful of homemade pickled radish and diced it. This radish was Zhou Yunniang’s handiwork—dried autumn radishes, pickled with salt, sugar, and five-spice powder, salty yet sweet, crisp and appetizing.
“By the way, does Dad still have any pork cracklings left? I rendered some yesterday, but there isn’t much left.”
“Yes, from the day before yesterday, in the cupboard.”
Su Mo’s eyes lit up. She fetched a small plate of golden, crispy pork cracklings and crushed them into coarse bits with the back of a knife. Pork cracklings were the poor man’s meat—sprinkled over the congee, they would half-melt from the heat, adding a layer of savory richness.
About half an hour later, a rich rice aroma seeped from the edges of the clay pot lid. Su Mo lifted the lid to find the congee had thickened, its surface floating with a delicate layer of “rice cream”—the essence of the rice, most nourishing.
“Time to add the fish slices.”
She slid the marinated fish slices one by one into the boiling congee, moving quickly and gently. The fish slices changed color as soon as they entered the congee, turning from translucent to milky white. She gently separated them with chopsticks to prevent sticking.
“The fish slices shouldn’t be cooked for long—no more than ten counts.” Su Mo counted silently in her mind. At eight, she added the shrimp. The shrimp cooked even faster, curling and turning red as soon as they were done.
Finally, she added the whole shrimp, cooking them briefly until their bodies turned a translucent amber red.
She sprinkled in the ginger shreds, scallion rings, and diced radish.
“Mom, bring the bowls!”
Zhou Yunniang had been watching, mesmerized. Hearing this, she hurriedly fetched four large coarse porcelain bowls. Su Mo ladled the congee with a wooden spoon, first scooping the base, then arranging the fish slices and shrimp on top, and finally placing a whole shrimp in each bowl. The red and green garnishes made for a beautiful presentation.
The finishing touch: a few drops of sesame oil and a small sprinkle of crushed pork cracklings.
“Dad, Mom, try it.” Su Mo brought out two bowls and held one herself.
Zhou Yunniang scooped a spoonful first, blew on it, and took a bite.
The moment the congee entered her mouth, her eyes widened slightly.
The rice grains had completely bloomed, melting into the broth, smooth as silk. The temperature was just right—warm but not scalding. The fish slices—oh my, were those fish slices? She had never tasted fish so tender and smooth, melting on the tip of her tongue with only sweetness and not a hint of fishiness. The shrimp were springy, carrying the fresh sweetness unique to river delicacies. Occasionally, she bit into a crisp piece of radish or a half-melted pork crackling, adding layers of texture.
“This… is this congee?” Zhou Yunniang scooped another spoonful, this time examining it carefully. The congee was milky white, with rice cream floating on the surface. The fish slices resembled white jade, the shrimp like pink crystals, the scallion rings a vibrant green, and the whole shrimp a bright red. Color, aroma, and flavor—all were exquisite.
Su Dashan initially took a reluctant bite, but then followed with a second, a third, eating faster and faster. Having eaten for decades and worked as a cook for half his life, he could judge a bowl of congee with just one taste.
“This rice cream…” Su Dashan stared into his bowl. “My congee has never had such a thick layer of rice cream.”
"Dad, do you often lift the lid to check when cooking porridge?" Su Mo asked with a smile.
"Of course, how else would I know if it's burning?"
"It's precisely because you keep lifting the lid that the steam escapes, and the rice oil can't be extracted," Su Mo explained. "You need to cook it in one go, simmering it over low heat to slowly release the starch from the rice grains into the broth. If you lift the lid midway, the sudden change in temperature causes the rice oil to recede."
Su Dashan stared blankly at his daughter, then looked at the bowl of porridge. After a long moment, he set down the bowl—the bottom was completely clean. He looked at his daughter, his eyes brimming with irrepressible pride.
At the beginning of the Chen hour, the first pot of fish slice porridge was ready, and the first batch of dough had also finished resting.
Su Mo hung a small wooden sign outside the door, written in charcoal: "Morning Market: Yangchun Noodles, three wen per bowl, four wen with an egg; Fish Slice Porridge, four wen per bowl."
In the faint morning light, the bowl of Yangchun Noodles from the day before had already caught the attention of several regular customers. This morning, seeing a large pot of steaming porridge set out, they all gathered around. Old Li strolled over with his hands behind his back and chuckled at the sight: "Hey, there's porridge too! One bowl of porridge and one bowl of noodles, please!"
"Brother Su, is this something new?" Zhao Si, the frequently visiting dock foreman, craned his neck to look.
Soon, the small dining room was packed. The aroma of Yangchun Noodles and the savory sweetness of fish slice porridge mingled in the damp morning air, drifting far and wide. Passersby couldn't help but stop, peek inside, take a sniff, and then walk in: "Shopkeeper, a bowl of noodles, please!" "Give me a bowl of porridge too!"
Su Mo was bustling nonstop in the back kitchen. Boiling noodles, ladling porridge, sprinkling scallions, drizzling sesame oil… her movements were quick yet orderly. Su Dashan assisted on the side, and seeing she was truly overwhelmed, he took over the noodle cooking—having watched his daughter cook once the day before, he had already grasped the method, and the noodles he cooked were nearly perfect.
Zhou Yunniang weaved through the dining area, serving noodles and porridge, collecting money, and giving change, a smile never leaving her face. It was a genuine, triumphant smile, one filled with hope for the days ahead.
In a brief pause between cooking noodles, Su Dashan glanced up at his daughter.
Su Mo was gently stirring the porridge pot with a long ladle, her profile hazy in the steam, but her eyes were focused and bright. Morning light streamed in through the window, casting a soft golden halo around her.
In the front dining area, Zhao Si scooped up a spoonful and, without even blowing on it, shoved it into his mouth. He gasped from the heat but couldn't bring himself to spit it out: "Fresh! So fresh! How is this fish so tender?"
At the neighboring table, Shopkeeper Sun from the cloth store had also ordered a bowl. After a few bites, he suddenly looked up: "Shopkeeper Zhou, is there… shrimp oil added to this porridge?"
Zhou Yunniang was somewhat surprised—Shopkeeper Sun certainly knew his stuff. "Yes, it's oil made from shrimp heads."
"No wonder!" Shopkeeper Sun clapped his hands. "I've had something similar down south, but that porridge was too fishy. Yours is savory without the fishiness. Brilliant!"
In no time, several other customers ordered porridge. Zhou Yunniang was flustered collecting money, but her face blossomed into a smile—how long had it been since the eatery had been this lively?
Across the street, Old Chen, who sold steamed buns and mantou, peered over for a long while and muttered, "What's Su Ji up to? So many people this early in the morning?"
His wife tugged at him: "What are you looking at? Hurry up and knead your dough! Jealous of their good business?"
Old Chen sheepishly pulled his head back, but he thought to himself: Maybe I should go try that Yangchun Noodles tomorrow? It really does smell delicious…
Further away, Butcher Zhang, who had just gotten up, opened his window and smelled the fragrance drifting in the wind. He patted his belly and said, "Wow, Su Ji is open in the morning too? I'll cut two ounces of pork later and go get a bowl of porridge."