“Thief! Hongmei’s stealing my dowry! She’s trying to take my lard!”
Su Hongxia’s shout was sharp and loud, filled with a reckless defiance that immediately drew everyone’s attention.
Li Xiulian, who was holding the money bag and discussing with Su Jianguo how to present a wife to their son Su Hongbing, turned green at the sight.
She rushed to the doorway and saw Su Hongxia clutching the treasured jar of lard, while Su Hongmei frantically chased after her, fuming.
“Mom! Look at her! She’s stealing our lard!” Su Hongmei cried, both angry and panicked, tears welling up in her eyes.
The neighbors around began whispering again, pointing fingers.
“Oh, so the second daughter of the Su family even steals her sister’s dowry?”
“I’ve seen that jar of lard before—it’s hidden like a treasure. Turns out it was meant for the eldest daughter’s dowry?”
“Tsk tsk, what a thing! The eldest just sold for two hundred yuan, and the younger sister’s already eyeing the profits.”
Li Xiulian felt her face burn with embarrassment—she wished she could sink into the ground.
Her dignity ruined, she lunged forward—not at Su Hongxia, but smacked Su Hongmei across the face.
“Smack!”
“You shameless little brat! Steal what? Let her take the lard! Better than leaving it here for you greedy cats to devour!” Li Xiulian no longer cared about appearances; she just wanted this troublemaker gone.
Su Hongmei clutched her face, shocked and humiliated, as tears poured down.
Su Hongxia hugged the jar of lard, inwardly smirking.
She was going to claim this lard as her dowry in front of everyone, making it impossible for anyone to dispute it later.
Lu Huaizhou sat in his wheelchair, watching the entire commotion. His deep, unreadable gaze swept over Su Hongxia’s seemingly foolish but actually sharp, cunning face, lips pressed into a colder, harder line.
This woman… she was even more troublesome than he had imagined.
..
The wedding itself was extremely simple.
Under the witness of the village secretary, Su Hongxia carried the big iron pot, her torn quilt, her two patched clothes, and the jar of lard. She climbed onto a tractor borrowed by Lu Huaizhou and left the Su family village with a loud “putt-putt-putt.”
No firecrackers, no feast, not even a single red garment. She was like a piece of cargo, handed over to another place.
The tractor brought them to a quiet courtyard on the edge of the county town.
This was where Lu Huaizhou was temporarily staying to recover, planning to return to the military compound once he healed.
The courtyard was small, with two brick houses—far better than Su’s mud-brick home—but the rooms were empty, exuding a cold, uninhabited feel.
Lu Huaizhou wheeled himself into the house, never saying a word to Su Hongxia, and pointed toward the small western room.“You stay there.”
Then he entered the eastern main room, slammed the door, and cut off all communication.
Su Hongxia got a face full of disappointment but didn’t care.
She examined the place that would soon become her “canteen.”
The western room had only a bare wooden bed, not even a pillow.
She put down her belongings and went to the kitchen.
The kitchen was even emptier. Aside from an empty rice bin and a few bundles of firewood, there was only a water container.
Looks like this Lu commander lived a rougher life than she imagined.
She was about to boil water to wash her face when a muffled groan came from the east room.
Su Hongxia paused, listening carefully. Then another groan followed, this one mixed with heavy breathing.
She walked to the east room door and asked softly through the door:“You… okay?”
No answer—just the growing sound of labored breathing.
Hesitating, she pushed open the door.
What she saw made her heart tighten.
Lu Huaizhou was leaning against the bed, pale as paper, sweat beading on his forehead.
He gritted his teeth, one hand gripping his injured left leg, veins bulging, body trembling from pain.
The injury had flared up again.
“You…” Su Hongxia was about to step forward.
“Out!” Lu Huaizhou spat through clenched teeth, eyes like a wounded beast—guarded, resentful.
He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, especially this newly “purchased” woman.
Su Hongxia stopped in her tracks.
She understood: a man freshly fallen from the clouds, his pride more important than life itself. Any attempt to touch him now would only intensify his resistance.
She silently stepped back and gently closed the door.
..
Back in the kitchen, Su Hongxia looked at the treasured jar of lard in her arms and the brand-new iron pot on the stove. An idea formed in her mind.
No pain could not be soothed by a steaming bowl of good food. If one bowl isn’t enough, then two.
She sifted a small handful of white flour from the bottom of the rice bin—just enough for a single bowl, though it was yellowed and old. Carefully, she poured it onto the board and scooped a large spoon of solidified lard from the jar.
No scallions, no vegetables, not even salt.
After searching the corners, she finally found a few grains of salt in the bottom of a broken bowl.
Enough.
She set up the new pot, boiled water, and began kneading the dough. The water-to-flour ratio, the kneading force—everything in her hands became an art.
Soon, a smooth, soft dough formed.
Without a rolling pin, she used a cleaned firewood stick instead.
The dough was rolled thin as cicada wings, then cut into strands as fine as hair with a cleaver.
The water in the pot boiled. She dropped in the noodles, boiled briefly, then lifted them into a chipped large ceramic bowl.
The crucial moment had arrived.
She dropped a spoonful of lard into the heated iron pot.
“Sizzle!” White lard melted instantly, releasing an intensely rich aroma that filled the cold, empty room.
She sprinkled the tiny bit of salt into the hot oil, then poured in a large ladle of hot noodle water.
“Whoosh!”
The collision of noodle water and hot oil created a complex, indescribable fragrance.
The originally plain noodles became milky, rich, and aromatic.
A simple bowl of Yangchun noodles—one of the most basic yet demanding dishes—was complete.
No green onions, no soy sauce—just the pure scent of flour, lard, and perfectly balanced seasoning.
Su Hongxia carried the steaming bowl and pushed open the east room door again.
Lu Huaizhou, having survived the worst of the pain, was leaning against the headboard, eyes closed, face still pale and grim.
The overpowering aroma lifted his eyelids slightly.
“Eat something,” Su Hongxia said softly, placing the bowl on the small table beside him.
He stared at the plain white noodles, frowning.
Pain made him unwilling even to drink water; there was no appetite.
“Take it away,” he spat coldly.
Su Hongxia didn’t move or speak, just stood silently.
The intoxicating aroma invaded Lu Huaizhou’s nose like an invisible hand.
His stomach growled softly, almost unnoticed by him in the quiet room.
His face froze, and a hint of red crept up his ears.
Su Hongxia acted as if she hadn’t noticed, offering the chopsticks:“Just made, still hot.”
Silence. Deep, dead silence.
Finally, under the dual assault of hunger and aroma, Lu Huaizhou relented.
He snatched up the chopsticks, irritated and impatient, grabbed a bite of noodles, and shoved it into his mouth.
He had expected nothing more than a bowl of bland, lazy noodles.
But when the smooth noodles touched his tongue, and the rich, fragrant broth exploded on his taste buds, the pure flavor awakening every sense—
Lu Huaizhou’s hand froze mid-grip on the chopsticks.
He slowly raised his head. For the first time, his eyes—usually icy and sharp—revealed unbelievable shock.
He stared at this so-called “foolish wife” as if seeing her for the first time.
This… how was it possible?