Morning light was faint, the fire in the stove casting a warm glow across Li Lanxiang’s calm profile.
She carefully measured two small bowls of white rice, rinsed them clean, and poured them into a pot of boiling water.
The grains bobbed and floated, gradually releasing a gentle, sweet fragrance.
She then washed the mountain yams brought back yesterday, peeled them, and cut them into large chunks.
Once the rice began to swell and soften, she added the yam pieces to cook together.
It was rare for the household to eat purely fine-grain porridge, and even the air seemed softened by the rice’s fragrance.
From the basket of eggs, she picked five evenly sized ones, washed them, and placed them in a small pot with water to gently cook beside the stove.
The pickled vegetable bits were sliced thin and drizzled with a few drops of fragrant oil—an unusual little indulgence—tossed lightly, and set in a small dish.
When breakfast was brought to the table, everyone’s eyes lit up. The thick white porridge contained golden chunks of yam, steam rising softly.
Each person had a peeled boiled egg, smooth with a clear, yellow yolk.
“Today we’re eating so well?”
Wang Shizhu exclaimed, staring eagerly at the porridge.
“Your father and brother have heavy work today; they need a proper meal,” Li Lanxiang explained, first serving Liu Xinghua a generous bowl.
“Xinghua, eat more, so you have enough milk.”
Wang Dashan said nothing, taking a large sip of the porridge.
The warm, thick rice slid down his throat, the yam’s sweetness and soft texture melding with it, soothing his stomach.
He peeled his egg, stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, chewing slowly, savoring this rare abundance.
After breakfast, Wang Dashan took Wang Tiezhu to the pigpen in the backyard.
Li Lanxiang could faintly hear the pigs’ shrill cries, the low calls of father and son, and the sounds of tools clanging.
She didn’t go to watch, only reminding Shizhu to heat a large pot of water in case it was needed.
About half an hour later, the pigpen fell quiet.
Though Wang Dashan and Tiezhu still carried the scent of blood, they quickly cleaned themselves with the hot water Li Lanxiang had prepared.
The half-grown black pig lay listless in the pen, grunting weakly, yet it still struggled to get up and eat the freshly prepared feed.
“All done,” Wang Dashan said to Li Lanxiang in a plain tone, as if it were nothing more than ordinary farm work.
The father and son then began processing the mountain rats brought back yesterday—skinning and gutting them efficiently.
The purple-red meat was firm, cut into small chunks, and soaked in water to remove blood.
Li Lanxiang called Shizhu, placing the clothes that had soaked overnight into a large wooden basin. Shizhu carried it on a shoulder pole, while she took a mallet and soapberry, locked the courtyard gate, and walked to the small river by the village.
The autumn river was much shallower now, but still flowed steadily, the water lapping over stones with a clear, gurgling sound.
A few women had already arrived to do laundry, the thumping of mallets on clothes rising and falling, mingled with snippets of village gossip.
Li Lanxiang found a quieter spot downstream, set the basin down, and instructed Shizhu:
“Go gather some dry firewood. Bring it back when we leave. Don’t wander too far—just near the riverside woods.”
She sent the boy off, rolled up her sleeves, and squatted by the chilly river to wash the clothes.
The coarse fabrics soaked in water, heavy in her hands.
She pounded them with the mallet repeatedly, the soapberry powder forming rich suds, lifting away grime and sweat.
The icy river water stung her fingers, but watching each garment emerge clean and bright, she felt a rare sense of satisfaction.
The rhythmic pounding, the fresh river air, and the faint chatter of other women all blended into the vibrant, earthy rhythm of daily life.
Once the laundry was done, she laid it on the large stones along the riverbank to dry, waiting for the sun to partially set it before collecting.
Shizhu had gathered a small bundle of dry firewood. Mother and son packed their things and headed home, the sun already high.
Lunch was stewed mountain rat.
The soaked meat, blanched to remove blood, was stir-fried with a bit of badger fat to release ginger aroma, then simmered in water.
No extra seasoning was needed—just salt—yet the meat carried its own wild flavor and rich fat. Stewed tender and eaten with coarse-grain flatbread, it had a surprisingly savory taste.
Wang Shizhu’s mouth glistened with oil as he kept exclaiming it tasted even better than chicken.
In the afternoon, Wang Dashan and Tiezhu only rested briefly before taking tools and ropes back into the mountains.
Autumn in the hills was generous, yet harsh; to store up enough for winter, one had to make the most of these final days.
Li Lanxiang saw them off, then did not return indoors.
She went to the small vegetable plot behind the house.
The garden was modest but neat, with well-defined rows.
At this season, the main crops were radish and cabbage, with some hardy wild vegetables.
The cabbages had formed heads, green outer leaves surrounding pale inner leaves, looking fresh.
Radish greens were lush, but the roots were still small—only slightly thicker than a thumb, far from harvestable.
She crouched, pulled out weeds, and watered some drier patches.
Her fingers brushed the rough leaves of the radish greens, silently planning.
The crops seemed sparser than she remembered from her past rural life.
In the original owner’s understanding, winter relied mostly on cabbage, radishes, stored yams, and dried beans, eggplants, or wild vegetables.
Chilies? She faintly remembered no one planted or ate them here. That was fine—less to worry about.
Looking at the radishes still growing, she thought that after the first frost they would be sweeter and crisper. There was no rush now.
Cabbage could be harvested gradually.
She wondered what else could supplement the diet—perhaps next time Wang Dashan should visit town for vegetable seeds, or maybe hardy wild vegetables from the mountains could be transplanted.
The autumn wind swept over the garden, carrying a chill. She straightened, brushing the soil from her hands.