The afternoon sun lazily spilled into the small courtyard, warm and gentle.
Li Lanxiang and Wang Shizhu dumped the fern roots they had carried back into a large wooden basin in the corner, then fetched several buckets of well water to begin cleaning them.
The roots were caked with black mud and fine tendrils, making the washing a painstaking task.
Li Lanxiang rolled up her sleeves, picked up an old brush, and carefully scrubbed each fern root.
Wang Shizhu handled the rinsing, repeatedly pouring clean water over the roots until the basin water ran clear.
“Mother, why wash these so carefully? In hard times people used to just rinse and mash them, bitter and astringent, made your throat sore.”
Shizhu asked while scrubbing, eyes wide as he watched the dark brown roots gradually reveal their original yellow-brown color in the water.
Li Lanxiang raised her head, wiping the fine sweat from her forehead, and looked at her son’s puzzled face, a rare softness appearing on her lips.
“You have to wash them clean to make something delicious. Tonight, I’ll make you a fresh taste to try.”
“Really?”
Shizhu’s eyes lit up, half in disbelief but fully drawn by the promise of something tasty.
“Better than egg pancakes?”
“Just a different kind of delicious,” Li Lanxiang teased, her hands never pausing.
“You’ll see tonight.”
The cleaned fern roots were spread out on a clean mat to air-dry, excess water removed.
Cinnamon bark was scrubbed free of dirt and moss, then set in a cool, ventilated spot.
Wild onions and garlic were carefully cleaned and separated—whites from greens, garlic cloves peeled and set aside.
Li Lanxiang sent Shizhu to the backyard vegetable patch to pull two heads of cabbage, while she retrieved three eggs from the basket.
Tonight’s meal had to be hearty—both father and son had gone into the mountains to hunt wild pigs, a physically draining and dangerous task.
As the sun dipped, the western sky ignited with brilliant sunset hues, bathing the mountains and courtyard in warm golden-red light.
Inside the kitchen, the fragrance of rice steamed from a pot—today she had splurged on pure white rice, the grains glistening as gentle steam curled upwards.
She brought in some of the half-dried fern roots, carefully pounded them in a stone mortar, then added water, kneading and straining repeatedly. Slowly, a milky liquid seeped out; after settling, the bottom layer was fine fern root starch.
She scraped out the wet starch and mixed it with water to form a thin paste.
Over the boiling water in a large iron pot, she lightly oiled a shallow clay plate, spooned in a portion of the fern root paste, and gently rotated it to spread it thin. The plate was then set over the boiling water, steamed through indirect heat.
After a short while, the paste solidified into a delicate, semi-transparent sheet.
Using chopsticks, she carefully lifted the edges and removed the sheet, placing it on an oiled bamboo mat to cool.
She repeated this process ten or so times.
Once cooled, the sheets were cut into thin strips, forming semi-translucent grayish-brown fern root noodles.
She tossed them with minced wild garlic, a pinch of salt, a drop of precious vinegar, and two drops of sesame oil to make a refreshing cold salad.
The wild onions were chopped, three eggs added with salt, and beaten.
She heated a pan, rubbed a thin layer of pork fat to coat it, poured in the egg mixture, and quickly stir-fried it until golden and fluffy, the aroma filling the kitchen.
The cabbage was stir-fried as usual, glossy and green.
Just as she placed the food on the table, heavy, uneven footsteps sounded outside, accompanied by Wang Dashan’s deep voice and Tiezhu’s echoing reply.
The sounds carried fatigue but also restrained excitement.
Li Lanxiang’s heart stirred.
She hurried to the gate and pulled it open, seeing Wang Dashan and Tiezhu carrying something dark and extremely heavy between them on a thick wooden pole—they were struggling to bring it into the courtyard.
It was a wild pig, half-grown!
The pig was dead, tusks exposed, blood and mud streaking its body, but it was clearly fat and hefty.
Father and son were covered in mud and grass, Dashan’s forehead marked with a scratch from a branch, yet their eyes shone brightly in the twilight.
They carefully set the pig down in the center of the courtyard with a heavy thud.
“Back?”
Li Lanxiang’s heart leapt at the sight of the enormous game. She quickly scanned Wang Dashan—aside from exhaustion and a minor injury, he was fine—and let out a small sigh of relief.
“Wash up, eat.”
Dashan wiped sweat from his face. Seeing Li Lanxiang’s calm expression, untroubled despite the pig, and the warm light and prepared food inside, he finally allowed the tension that had gripped him all day to ease.
He nodded once and said hoarsely, “Alright.”
After a quick wash to remove mud and blood, they sat at the table. Li Lanxiang had already served the dishes.
Each plate had a bowl of dazzling white rice, a mound of golden wild onion scrambled eggs, bright green stir-fried cabbage, and a plate of the strangely colored, glossy cold fern root noodles.
“What… is this?”
Shizhu was the first to point at the fern root noodles, having never seen them before.
“Made from the fern roots we dug today. Try it.”
Li Lanxiang served him a portion.
Wang Dashan’s gaze flicked to the plate, then quietly picked up a forkful.
The fern root noodles were smooth and springy, carrying a fresh vegetal aroma; garlic, vinegar, and sesame oil were perfectly balanced, making a refreshing, appetizing dish unlike anything they had eaten before.
The wild onion scrambled eggs were rich and fragrant, the pungency of the onions enhancing the eggs’ natural flavor. Fluffy, oily, and paired with white rice, they whetted the appetite.
Even the usual stir-fried cabbage seemed more tender and flavorful, enriched with pork fat.
Wang Dashan ate quickly, yet with focus and care.
The sweet softness of the rice provided long-missed satisfaction. The eggs’ fragrance replenished his spent energy. Even the unusual fern root noodles were cleansing and delicious.
Occasionally, he glanced at Li Lanxiang, quietly serving Shizhu, then at the modest yet thoughtfully prepared meal, and finally at the wild pig in the courtyard—a sign that the family’s future supplies might ease soon.
The curiosity and subtle, complicated feelings that had risen since morning gradually settled, blending into something calmer and more difficult to articulate.
Perhaps bowing her head had truly changed her. But this change… seemed good.
The family ate quietly, the only sounds were the clinking of bowls and satisfied chewing.