The sun had begun its westward descent, casting long, slanting shadows across the courtyard.
Li Lanxiang and Wang Dashan returned home, each carrying a heavy load of their harvest.
Wang Shizhu, bored out of his mind, was squatting in the yard, poking at ants.
“Mother! Father! You’re back!”
Shizhu leapt up, eyes immediately darting toward the bamboo baskets on Wang Dashan’s back.
“What goodies did you bring?”
Li Lanxiang set down the bundles, took a few sips of the cool water Shizhu offered, and finally caught her breath.
“Shizhu, go down to the river and collect some smooth, clean cobblestones,” she instructed. “Fist-sized, and get plenty.”
“Huh? Stones? What for?”
“They’ll be useful. Hurry.”
Her tone was gentle but firm. Though puzzled, Shizhu obediently ran off.
Li Lanxiang set to work.
She poured ten jin of coarse salt into a large earthenware basin, added water, and stirred until the salt dissolved completely. After letting the mixture settle, she carefully ladled the relatively clear top layer into another clean pot, discarding the sediment below.
Wang Dashan put away the harvest: rice and flour in their storage jars, oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, sugar on the counter within easy reach, and Li Lanxiang’s spice bundles carefully stored.
He then sat silently under the eaves, watching Li Lanxiang work, his gaze deep and unreadable.
Soon, Shizhu returned with a small basket of smooth, rounded cobblestones, each washed by the river until gleaming. Li Lanxiang had him rinse them several times, then set them aside to dry.
She found an old, unused cotton cloth with a tight weave and prepared some clean wood ash.
On the stove, she placed a medium-sized earthen pot and poured in the filtered brine, slowly simmering it over low heat.
The brine bubbled gently, gradually evaporating, leaving a white crust of salt along the pot’s edges. She stirred occasionally with a wooden spoon to prevent scorching.
When most of the water had evaporated and a thick layer of grayish, impure salt crystals formed, she carefully ladled out the hot brine.
Then came the step that held Wang Dashan and Shizhu spellbound.
Li Lanxiang took a large bamboo cylinder with a small hole at the bottom. She layered cleaned cobblestones on the bottom, a thick layer of wood ash, a layer of cotton cloth, then another layer of stones, another of ash, and so on—five layers in total.
She slowly poured the hot brine over this makeshift filter.
The murky brine seeped through the cobblestones, ash, and cloth, and what trickled out the small hole at the bottom was a clear, pale yellow liquid!
She collected it into a clean pot and continued to simmer.
This time, as the water evaporated, the salt crystals that formed at the bottom were no longer grayish, but glistening, pure white.
Wang Dashan watched in silence.
From the moment she asked for ten jin of coarse salt, sent Shizhu to collect cobblestones, to this complex, almost magical filtration and cooking process…
All the unease and strange feeling he had sensed since her awakening intensified in the presence of this pure white salt.
His wife, Li Lanxiang—the frugal, near-obsessive mountain woman who buried herself in work and knew little of the outside world—could not possibly know such a refined, complex method of salt processing.
She might not even be able to articulate the word “filter.”
Yet before him was someone with his wife’s face and memories, but possessing entirely different knowledge, decision-making, and skills.
Who was she?
Wang Dashan’s fingers unconsciously gripped the hilt of his hunting knife, his gaze sharp and unyielding on Li Lanxiang’s profile.
She, meanwhile, focused on the pot, sweat beading along her forehead, serene and meticulous, as if this were the most natural task in the world.
The unfamiliar sensation pressed hard against him, demanding to know her true identity.
Yet he forced the question back down.
He recalled the extra oil at the dinner table these past days, her resolve during the boar slaughter, her competence in selling meat at the village, her sharp eye when buying flour and spices, and now, this jar of pure white salt.
No matter who she was, she had come to this home to make life better, to ensure her family ate well.
She bore no ill will. Only care.
Wang Dashan swallowed, finally saying nothing.
He quietly rose, carrying a bundle of firewood to add to the stove, strengthening Li Lanxiang’s fire.
She noticed, briefly meeting his gaze.
For a fleeting moment, their eyes connected—deep, inscrutable, but without malice or questioning.
Li Lanxiang lowered her gaze and continued stirring the pot.
When the final traces of water evaporated, the bottom of the pot held a thick layer of snow-white salt crystals. She scraped them carefully into a dry earthen jar.
The salt gleamed pure, delicate, almost without bitterness, inviting delight at just the sight.
Just then, the courtyard gate opened, and Wang Tiezhu returned, windblown and smiling.
“Mother! Father! I’m back! The meat’s delivered. Xiaocao is thrilled, and her in-laws were very polite too.”
“Good. Wash up and get ready for dinner.”
Li Lanxiang covered the salt jar, washed her hands, and began arranging the evening meal.
Tonight’s dinner would be extraordinary.
She cut a piece of top-grade pork belly, with alternating layers of fat and lean, and blanched it in cold water to remove the scum.
In a hot pan, she ladled a spoonful of golden pork fat, then added a small amount of sugar, slowly caramelizing it into a rich, reddish syrup. She added the blanched meat, coating each piece evenly.
Soy sauce followed, infusing its savory aroma. Then she added hot water to cover the meat, along with slices of ginger, a section of scallion, and key spices—star anise, a small handful of Sichuan pepper, two bay leaves, and a crushed tsaoko fruit.
This was her improvised “red-braising seasoning,” guided by memory and intuition.
The pot boiled briefly, foam skimmed away, then simmered slowly under a lid.
Soon, an indescribable aroma leaked from the lid’s edge—savory soy, caramelized sugar, rich pork fat, and the deep, warm fragrance of spices—all perfectly intertwined, overwhelming the courtyard and spilling beyond its walls.
Wang Shizhu could hardly contain himself, circling the stove and swallowing repeatedly.
“Mother! What kind of meat is this? Smells incredible! Even better than yesterday’s killing-pig stew!”
Even the usually composed Wang Tiezhu kept glancing at the kitchen.
Liu Xinghua, holding the child, sniffed the air, unable to resist the aroma.
Wang Dashan sat at the doorway, pipe in hand, silent, inhaling the intoxicating scent and watching Li Lanxiang’s busy form.
The pork braised for over an hour, the sauce thickened and glossy, each piece a perfect balance of translucent fat and tender lean meat.
Another pot worked simultaneously.
She kneaded fresh flour, rolled dough, and mixed a filling of wild onions, wild garlic, a touch of pickled vegetables, and leftover minced meat from yesterday, making over a hundred plump dumplings.
They boiled in rolling water, rising and sinking, then drained, each round, plump, and filled to the brim.
The oil lamps were lit again in the main room. Tonight’s table looked like a New Year feast.
In the center: a large bowl of glistening red-braised pork, beside it a platter of steaming, white, plump dumplings, and a bowl of stir-fried cabbage.
Wang Shizhu snatched a piece of pork, didn’t even blow on it, and shoved it into his mouth.
The belly was tender, fat melting but not greasy, lean juicy without dryness. The layered flavors—savory, sweet, rich aroma of spices—exploded in his mouth.
He closed his eyes in pure delight, mumbling incoherently, “Mmm… mmm…”
Wang Tiezhu also took a piece, savoring it with visible awe.
Liu Xinghua nibbled a dumpling, the wild onions, garlic, and pickles perfectly balanced, the dough chewy, the filling savory and fragrant.
Wang Dashan ate silently, each bite slow and deliberate, as if he were trying to understand the familiar-yet-strange soul across from him through the taste of food.
The red-braised pork was rich and tender, the dumplings delicate and flavorful—a perfect harmony of wheat aroma and mountain ingredients.
Every bite challenged decades of culinary expectations.
This was absolutely not the work of the Li Lanxiang he had always known.
He looked up at her. She was helping Shizhu with dumplings, her profile softened in the lamp light, her eyes calm, as if this “extravagant” dinner were simply routine.
Shizhu, finally swallowing his bite, shouted in awe:
“Mother! You’re amazing! How did you make this? It’s so fragrant! And the dumplings—better than New Year’s! Were you secretly hiding skills all along?”
Li Lanxiang smiled faintly, offering no explanation.
“Eat more if it’s good.”
Wang Dashan lowered his gaze and continued eating slowly, chewing carefully, as if through the taste of the food he could decipher that familiar yet foreign spirit.
Night deepened. The aromas gradually dissipated, but the astonishment and satisfaction remained, lingering in everyone’s stomachs and hearts.
Wang Shizhu’s admiration for his mother reached its peak. Wang Tiezhu sensed something subtly changed in the household. Liu Xinghua silently appreciated the transformation of her mother-in-law.