With grandmother and granddaughter working side by side, a large basin of soybeans was soon picked clean. These were all dry beans and would need to soak overnight before they could be ground into milk and made into tofu the following day. The basin was as large as a washbasin and when full of water would have been far too heavy for Grandmother Chen to lift.
She knew well enough that her strength had faded with age. And so she set the beans upon an old table in the kitchen, took up a gourd ladle from the water vat beside it, and filled the basin little by little until the water stood roughly nine parts deep. Then she covered it with a wooden board to keep out dust and insects. There was little Shushu could do to help with this part. She could only follow closely behind Grandmother Chen like a little shadow.
“Does Shushu wish to drink soybean milk?” Grandmother Chen asked once she had finished and turned to notice the small figure trailing in her wake.
“Yes.” Shushu nodded her head eagerly, her voice soft and sweet. She had supposed Grandmother Chen meant to grind the beans the next day. Though still very young, she had watched the villagers make tofu often enough to know that the beans must soak for a very long time beforehand.
Instead, Grandmother Chen lifted the lid from the pot atop the stove. There sat a basin of warm soybean milk and a plate of fresh tofu. The tofu was in one whole uncut block, clearly made that very morning. The soybean milk too was fresh, set aside when the tofu was prepared at dawn. It seemed the Niu family had already made tofu once that day. Only this little amount remained because most had been exchanged away. News traveled fast in a village.
By midday every household knew who had prepared tofu that morning. Families who wished to have some would bring their own containers and a small measure of beans to trade. In these times, this was how most people obtained tofu. Only on special occasions such as weddings or festivals when large quantities were needed would people bring extra beans and money to ask those skilled at the craft to make tofu on their behalf. That was considered custom work.
Sugar had already been added to the soybean milk to just the right sweetness. Grandmother Chen poured a bowl and handed it to Shushu to hold. But Shushu had her own ideas.
“Put it here.” She pointed to the edge of the stove. The bowl was too full and too heavy for her small hands. Grandmother Chen set it down carefully. Shushu leaned forward, supporting herself against the stove edge with both hands, stood upon tiptoe, and sipped the milk directly from the rim.
Once the level had fallen enough she lifted the bowl with both hands, tilted it gently, and drank deeply. By the time she finished her belly was pleasantly rounded. She placed her empty bowl neatly in the wooden basin used for washing dishes and followed Grandmother Chen out to the vegetable plot to gather ingredients for the evening meal.
The Niu family’s vegetable plot lay not within the front or back courtyard but just outside the gate, around a bend. It was a neat rectangular plot enclosed by bamboo fencing, laid out in orderly rows with every kind of vegetable growing in its proper place. Grandmother Chen handed Shushu a small basket.
“Pick whatever Shushu likes best to eat.”
“Very well.” Shushu was already quite practiced at this task. She took the basket and trotted nimbly between the rows. Here she pulled up a plump radish, there she plucked an eggplant. Before long the basket was overflowing. It was only when she tried to lift it that she realized it was far too heavy. She had gathered too much. After a moment’s pause she called out for assistance.
“Grandmother Chen! Grandmother Chen! It is too heavy! Please help your little one.”
“I am coming.” Grandmother Chen, who had been snipping long beans nearby, came over at once. She dropped the beans she held into the already full basket and lifted it effortlessly. “Come then. Let us go home and prepare supper. There is more than enough here for two or three days.”
“Shushu will help cook too.” Shushu trotted beside her, head bobbing earnestly.
“Dear me, does our clever Shushu know how to cook?” A neighbour tending the adjacent plot had overheard and laughed warmly, teasing the little girl.
“Shushu does not cook. Shushu helps wash vegetables.” Shushu explained seriously.
The neighbour laughed aloud. “Then would Shushu like to come to my house tomorrow and help wash vegetables for me?”
“Shushu does not know where she will stay tomorrow.” Shushu replied honestly. Though she moved from home to home each day, no one had ever told her in advance which household she would be staying with next.
It was perfectly reasonable. She was barely more than two years old. No matter how bright, she could scarcely be expected to remember the rotation schedule across more than two hundred households. No one had thought to explain it to her.
“Would Shushu like to come to my house first?” The neighbour hinted hopefully, hoping to slip ahead in the rotation.
Shushu shook her head firmly. “No. Grandfather Village Chief says we must take turns fairly.” She had already been taught that cutting in line was not allowed, otherwise everyone would quarrel over who got to have her.
“Ah, very well.” The neighbour sighed in disappointment. She pressed a freshly plucked tomato into Shushu’s hands. “Here. This is for you. Freshly picked. Very sweet.”
“Thank you, Auntie.” Shushu received it with both hands and held it carefully against her chest. It was a large fine specimen, bigger than her two hands together. Her fingernail grazed the skin and juice welled up, promising delicious flavour.
Back home Grandmother Chen washed the tomato, cut it into slices, arranged them upon a plate and sprinkled them with sugar. She set it upon the table in the main room for Shushu to enjoy at her leisure.
Shushu’s belly was still full of soybean milk. She ate only two slices then wandered away to sit upon the threshold, watching tiny insects crawl busily across the ground, so absorbed that she lost all track of time. Only when the savoury aroma of cooking wafted to her nose and the sound of voices rose from outside did she realize the Niu family had returned from work.
Captain Niu was a man well into his fifties. He and his wife had raised three children, two sons and one daughter.
The eldest son was thirty, married yet without children. The youngest son was twenty-three and unmarried. Their daughter was twenty and also unwed. All three remained unmarried or childless far longer than was usual for the village, a source of such worry that Captain Niu and his wife often lay awake at night.
In his past life the youngest son had longed to join the army but was prevented by his grandmother’s sudden illness. In this life, given a second chance, he had resolved not to let his dream slip away. Without telling anyone he left to enlist. Now he served far away upon the border. Only one or two letters arrived each year to reassure the family that he was safe. Beyond that they could do nothing.
The eldest son had married young, yet after ten years of marriage he and his wife remained without children. His wife had tried every remedy and folk cure she could find in her past life, striving desperately yet without success. Overcome with guilt she had nearly asked for a divorce.
Only because her husband loved her too deeply to let her go, and because the elder Nius had spoken gently in their favour, had the marriage held together. In time they had ceased their efforts and found peace.
Their only daughter was another source of sorrow. She had been turned down and openly mocked by a matchmaker’s suitor for her plain appearance. Stung by the insult she had refused ever to meet another suitor and had remained single all her life. In that past life, it seemed, the Niu family line would have come to an end. The youngest son too had never married.
No one knew why. Had Shushu not grown wealthy in later years and purchased pensions for every elder in the village, establishing a fund to support the lonely and aged, their twilight years would surely have been ones of hardship and destitution. For this reason the entire Niu family loved Shushu more dearly than if she had been their own flesh and blood.
Captain Niu stepped through the gate and saw Shushu sitting upon the threshold. He strode forward laughing heartily, swept her high into his arms, and lifted her upon his shoulders. “Ride the great war horse!”
Shushu adored this game. She clung happily to his head and laughed aloud. Captain Niu’s wife stood anxiously behind him, hands raised ready to catch the child should she fall. “Be careful! Go slowly!” she called repeatedly.
The eldest son and his wife stood close by watching with equal alarm. It was no wonder. Having no children of their own and having depended upon Shushu in their old age, they loved her as their very own. The thought of any harm coming to her filled them with dread.
“You foolish man! Put her down at once!” Grandmother Chen emerged from the kitchen to see her son behaving so recklessly. Snatching up a carrying pole she gave him several sharp whacks upon the back. Captain Niu winced and lowered Shushu gently to the ground.
Shushu had seen him punished. Much as she would have enjoyed another ride she dared not ask again. She ran instead to the eldest son’s wife and nestled comfortably against her embrace. It was not Captain Niu and his wife, nor Grandmother Chen, nor any of the three siblings who loved her most dearly in this house. It was Jiang Lai, the eldest son’s wife. Children always know instinctively who loves them best, and Shushu was no exception.
Jiang Lai lifted Shushu in her arms, pressed her cheek tenderly against the child’s soft fragrant face, and carried her inside to change her clothing. After a long day spent playing her dress had grown soiled. It was time to eat and far better to be clean. All of Shushu’s clothes had been stitched lovingly by Jiang Lai’s own hands. Now Jiang Lai frowned slightly as she helped her into one garment.
“It has grown too small.” She turned the hem up thoughtfully. “I must let it out.” Jiang Lai had made the dress only half a year earlier at the beginning of the year, and it had fit perfectly then. Now Shushu had grown so fast her wrists and ankles showed plainly beyond the cuffs.
Jiang Lai had anticipated this. She had generously left extra seam allowance when cutting the cloth, knowing how swiftly children grow. With a few deft snips of her scissors she unpicked the hems at sleeves and trouser legs, let out the extra fabric, and re-stitched everything neatly. Her needlework was second nature, done with speed and skill. In moments the dress was altered and Shushu was dressed once more.
When Shushu was carried out to the main room the family gathered for supper. Grandmother Chen had prepared fragrant pan-fried tofu, tofu soup with chicken rice, and eggplant stewed with long beans, served alongside hearty coarse grain buns. Jiang Lai broke Shushu’s bun carefully into small pieces, soaking half in the soup to soften it and leaving the other half for her to hold and nibble.
Each bun was as large as a man’s fist, dense and satisfyingly chewy. Shushu ate all the soft pieces soaked in broth. When she could manage no more of the dry crust she held it out naturally to Jiang Lai, who accepted it with a smile and finished it in two bites, without the slightest hesitation.