Wang Shi held the newly acquired bolts of brocade, tears still brimming in her eyes, murmuring repeatedly about making new clothes for the children.
Su Xiucai leaned against the bed, a long-lost look of contentment spreading across his face.
Su Qingyan watched this warm, happy scene, but the tight string in her heart did not loosen in the slightest.
Ten guan of money sounded like a fortune, but for the grand plan in her mind, it was barely a drop in the ocean.
Moreover, this tiny courtyard, this little stove, had become the biggest bottleneck limiting their growth.
Relying on just her and her mother, producing a hundred buns and two hundred baozi a day was already their maximum capacity. The Red Date Egg Cakes were profitable, but ultimately a niche luxury, incapable of supporting the entire family.
What she needed was scale, a stable cash flow.
“Father, Mother, Mingxuan, Mingyue,” Su Qingyan’s voice was soft but firm, immediately silencing everyone in the room.
She took a deep breath, placing the heavy money pouch in the center of the table, along with the two taels of silver deposit brought by Steward Fu from the Xie Mansion.
“We have money now, but it’s still far from enough.”
Her words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing the sparks of joy in everyone’s hearts.
“Sis?” Su Mingxuan looked at her, puzzled.
“We cannot live merely by making pastries for the Xie Mansion,” Su Qingyan’s gaze swept over each family member. “We must build Su Ji into something bigger. So, starting today…”
She walked to her father’s bed, picking up the paper and brush he usually used for calligraphy, and handed them to him respectfully.
“Father, your scholarship is vast, your accounting far beyond mine. From today, you shall be the chief accountant of Su Ji.”
“Chief accountant?” Su Xiucai was stunned. He looked at his weak legs, despair crossing his face. “Qingyan, I am no more than a cripple now… how can I—”
“Who says you’re a cripple?” Su Qingyan interrupted firmly. “You are our backbone! Every day, you must record how much we sell, how much we spend, what ingredients we purchase, item by item. Which products sell best, which earn the most—profit or loss—it’s up to you. This is far more important than lamenting yourself from your sickbed!”
Su Xiucai’s hand trembled as he held the brush, but a light returned to his cloudy eyes.
Next, Su Qingyan turned to Wang Shi and Su Mingyue.
“Mother, Mingyue, you both are skilled and meticulous. From now on, all the trivial tasks—washing ingredients, cutting, pitting the red dates—will be your responsibility. For our products to sell, every leaf and every grain of rice must be spotless. You are the first checkpoint of Su Ji, our quality control officers!”
Wang Shi and Su Mingyue didn’t fully understand, but hearing the fresh, solemn title of “quality control officer” made them straighten their backs.
“Mingxuan,” Su Qingyan looked at her brother, “you won’t just deliver to the Xie Mansion. The regulars on Shui Gui Street, the students at the Grand Academy—they all need our goods. You will be our logistics chief, ensuring the freshest products reach every customer!”
Su Mingxuan’s little chest puffed up with pride, his face beaming.
Finally, Su Qingyan scooped up the still-playing Su Mingyao, tickling her tiny nose.
“You are the cutest, Mingyao. From now on, I’ll dress you in the prettiest red jackets. You’ll sit beside our stall and smile at everyone who comes—you will be Su Ji’s living signboard!”
Little Mingyao giggled, her baby voice squeaking out, “Okay!”
A simple family meeting had been turned by Su Qingyan into a creative “appointment of officers.” Those seemingly odd titles became sparks, igniting hope and motivation in each family member.
And then, they got to work.
With the money they had saved, Su Qingyan bought a larger pot and two giant steamers. The tiny courtyard was restructured into a clear production line: washing, cutting, kneading, forming, steaming—all systematically organized.
The next morning, neighbors on Maichaoxiang Lane were surprised to see the Su household opening their old courtyard before dawn.
The whole family wore freshly dyed blue cotton jackets, clean white cloths wrapped around their heads.
Su Xiucai was propped under a tree in the courtyard, a small table in front of him with an abacus and ledger. Though unable to walk, his mind was sharp, his pen never stopping, muttering calculations under his breath.
Wang Shi and Su Mingyue sat on small stools—one quickly pitting red dates, the other carefully washing scallions—both working efficiently and attentively.
Su Qingyan acted as general, focused on core tasks: preparing the fillings and monitoring dough fermentation. The secret seasoning formula, retrieved from her private space, remained her own work, the soul of Su Ji, never entrusted to anyone else.
Steam rose, fragrance filled the air.
When the first batch of plump pork and scallion baozi emerged, the entire Su courtyard was suffused with a stimulating, joyful aroma.
Daily output increased steadily—from a hundred buns to five hundred!
At the stall on Shui Gui Street, the scene was transformed.
The wooden sign “Su Ji” gleamed, spotless. Little Su Mingyao, in her bright red jacket, sat on a small stool like a figure from a New Year painting, holding a baozi and eating with a messy little mouth—cuter than any shouting or sales pitch.
The new team, the refreshed operation, brought remarkable efficiency.
By dusk, as they closed the stall, Su Mingxuan carried the empty food boxes and dumped a heavy bag of copper coins on the table.
“Clatter—clatter—clatter—”
Su Xiucai adjusted his glasses, picked up the abacus, and his fingers flew over the beads with crisp, continuous clicks.
After a moment, he looked up, his voice trembling with disbelief:
“Today, we sold a total of 512 baozi and buns. Subtracting all costs—flour, meat, vegetables, firewood—230 wen, net profit… net profit is 650 wen!”
One day, just selling buns and baozi, they earned 650 wen! And this didn’t even count the income from delivering Red Date Egg Cakes to the Xie Mansion.