Twilight deepened, and the last streaks of sunset faded.
Oil lamps were lit in the small courtyard.
The rich aroma of rendered fat hadn’t fully dissipated before it was replaced by an even more complex, mouthwatering mixture.
Steam rose from the kitchen.
In the largest iron pot, a dark brown, thick broth bubbled.
The soup contained large chunks of wild boar bones—mainly vertebrae and leg bones—still with meat clinging to them and tendons attached.
It had been simmering for nearly an hour, the marrow and gelatin dissolving into the broth, making it glossy and rich, with a layer of golden oil floating on top.
Li Lanxiang lifted the lid and skimmed off the top layer of scum with a wooden spoon.
Then she carefully sliced the boar blood she had prepared earlier into palm-sized pieces and slid them gently along the edge of the boiling broth.
The dark red blood curd quickly changed color in the rolling soup, from red to brown, gradually firming into shape, rising and falling with the waves of the broth.
Next came the large intestines and stomach she had painstakingly cleaned with ash and bran, then blanched in peppered water. Cut into bite-sized segments, they went into the pot.
The intestines were plump and thick, the stomach tender yet springy, rolling in the rich broth and absorbing its savory essence.
She then tore the outer, tougher layers of cabbage from her own garden into large chunks and layered them on top.
These thick cabbage stalks could withstand long cooking, soaking up every bit of flavor from the broth.
Finally, she sprinkled in wild onions she had brought back from the mountains that day, tossed in a few slices of ginger, covered the heavy wooden lid, and turned the heat to low for slow simmering.
This was the most authentic, generous “killing-pig dish.”
All ingredients were freshly acquired that day, carrying the wild aroma of the boar and the rustic, homegrown flavors of the countryside.
In the main room, the table had already been polished by Wang Shizhu until it gleamed.
Li Lanxiang brought a large, steaming basin of the rich, hearty killing-pig stew to the table.
Dark brown broth, glistening dark red blood curd, pale brown, plump intestines, creamy, tender stomach slices, cabbage softened yet still substantial, wild onions scattered across—steam rising, filled with the intense aroma of meat, the rich scent of offal, and the subtle sweetness of cabbage.
Beside it sat a small basin of glistening white rice and a plate of shredded pickles drizzled with fragrant oil.
“Time to eat!”
Li Lanxiang called.
Wang Dashan, Wang Tiezhu, Wang Shizhu, and Liu Xinghua, holding the child, gathered around.
The flickering oil lamp light fell on their faces, highlighting the rosy glow from the heat and the anticipation in their eyes.
Wang Shizhu was the first to reach for chopsticks, precisely lifting a trembling piece of blood curd. After blowing on it twice, he popped it into his mouth. It burned at first, and he gasped, but managed to mumble,
“Mmm! Tender! Smooth! Not a hint of gaminess!”
Wang Dashan didn’t speak. He first ladled a spoonful of the thick broth, cooled it slightly, and drank.
The hot, rich liquid instantly comforted his body from head to toe.
The essence of bones and meat, mingled with the unique flavors of blood and offal, was savory and balanced, rich yet not greasy.
He picked up a piece of plump intestine, bringing it to his mouth.
Cooked perfectly, soft yet chewy, the inner fat already melted, leaving only a mouthful of luxurious aroma.
Wang Tiezhu preferred the stomach, enjoying its crisp, springy texture, flavor deepening with every chew.
Liu Xinghua nibbled on the cabbage, tender and infused with the rich broth, just as satisfying as the meat, refreshing and cleansing the palate.
Li Lanxiang herself took a half bowl of rice and ate slowly alongside the stew.
The blood curd was smooth and tender, the intestines rich, the stomach crisp, the cabbage sweet—the flavors all found their place in the hearty pot, combining into the simplest yet most touching of tastes.
No intricate knife work, no complex seasoning, just big chunks of meat in a large pot, a family gathered around, eating until sweat beaded on their foreheads and their mouths retained the lingering flavor.
Wang Dashan ate quietly, occasionally glancing at the food on the table, then at Li Lanxiang, eating in silence.
This meal, full of fat and substance, was a rare feast for a mountain household.
Blood curd and offal, normally sold cheap or hastily boiled at home, had never been treated so carefully or simmered with such care.
She seemed to… really be generous with food now, and knew how to enjoy it.
He chewed the soft, rich intestine, remembering how she had insisted on killing the boar and rendering the fat earlier, her competent handling of the meat in the village, and now her quiet, attentive presence at the table.
Any doubts he had melted away in the face of this warm, real food.
No matter why she had changed, this change brought tangible results: fat in the pot, solid food in bowls, and the sense of security for the coming winter.
The basin of killing-pig stew was emptied completely; even the broth was soaked up with rice by Wang Shizhu, leaving nothing behind.
Everyone ate their fill, faces flushed with satisfaction.
As Li Lanxiang cleared the dishes, looking at the empty basin, a faint smile curved her lips.
This killing-pig meal was more than just a meal.
It was a reward for today’s hard labor, gratitude for the forest’s bounty, hope for the days to come, and most importantly, a piece of warm, real, everyday life that Li Lanxiang had earned with her own hands for this family.