The aroma of stewed meat mingled with the sweet, glutinous scent of chestnuts, thickening in the small kitchen and drifting out through the door gap.
It drew Wang Shizhu to peek frequently from the yard, and even made Wang Dashan, busy scraping the animal hides, move a little faster.
When the stew had thickened to just the right consistency, Wang Shizhu returned, clutching a handful of fresh green onions and two moderately sized radishes, still dusted with fresh soil.
He presented them to Li Lanxiang like a prized treasure:
“Mother, look! The radishes are tender!”
Li Lanxiang took them, rinsed them in the wooden basin, and quickly cut them into chunks. Lifting the pot lid, a richer, steaming aroma wafted out.
She dropped the radish chunks into the bubbling meat broth and replaced the lid. Looking at Wang Shizhu’s eager gaze, she said:
“Stew for another fifteen minutes, just until the radishes soak up the flavor. Go set the table and tell your father to wash up—then we can eat. Ask your sister-in-law if she wants a bowl of soup first.”
“Okay!”
Wang Shizhu responded loudly and nearly bounded off.
In the main room, which doubled as the dining hall, the old wooden table—its edges smoothed by countless years of use—had been wiped clean.
Wang Dashan had washed his hands and face and changed out of his bloodstained clothes, wearing only a well-worn rough cloth short jacket, revealing his strong forearms.
He helped Shizhu set out the bowls and chopsticks—
A few thick ceramic bowls, their edges slightly chipped, and a pair of handmade wooden chopsticks each.
Liu Xinghua stepped out slowly, holding the tightly swaddled baby granddaughter. Her face was still pale from childbirth, but she looked a little more energetic, and she murmured softly, “Mother.”
Li Lanxiang nodded:
“Sit, eat while it’s hot.”
She turned back to the kitchen, carrying a large earthenware bowl of steaming chestnut-and-mushroom rabbit stew to the table.
The reddish-brown broth glistened, the rabbit chunks trembling slightly, the chestnuts golden, mushrooms deep brown, and the radish chunks soaked in the rich meat juices—enough to make anyone’s mouth water.
Next came a small bowl of stir-fried radish greens—fresh leaves from the radishes Shizhu had brought earlier—cooked with only two drops of oil and a pinch of salt, crisp and green.
Finally, a stack of coarse-grain flatbreads, freshly baked with golden bottoms, completed the spread.
Wang Dashan looked at the hearty dishes on the table, lips moving as if to say, “Shouldn’t we save some to sell?” But seeing his wife’s still-pale face and the tiny granddaughter in his daughter-in-law’s arms, he swallowed the words and silently picked up a flatbread, handing one to Li Lanxiang first.
“Eat yourself.”
Li Lanxiang declined, signaling for him to take it.
She picked up a wooden ladle and scooped a generous portion of soup with meat into Liu Xinghua’s bowl, deliberately adding two soft rabbit chunks and chestnuts:
“Xinghua, eat more to help with nursing.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Liu Xinghua whispered, eyes slightly moist.
Wang Shizhu could hardly wait; he quickly grabbed a large rabbit leg for himself, blew on it, and, without saying a word, stuffed it into his mouth. His hands and face soon glistening with grease, he mumbled through his mouthful:
“Mm! Delicious! Mother, your rabbit tastes even better than usual!”
Wang Dashan took a chunk of meat himself and ate in silence.
His manner was rough, but he chewed deliberately, every bite showing respect for the food.
Occasionally, he glanced at his wife, at his son hungrily eating, at his daughter-in-law sipping soup, and at the tiny baby sleeping in her arms. The deep, life-worn lines on his face seemed to relax a little.
Li Lanxiang herself ate little.
The pain on her forehead and the strangeness of her sudden arrival left her with little appetite.
She sipped the soup slowly; the warm, slightly salty broth slid down her throat, comforting her stomach.
Her eyes, however, lingered on the table.
The dim glow of the oil lamp cast a soft halo over the small table.
The rhythmic motion of Wang Dashan’s jaw as he chewed, the way Wang Shizhu squinted in delight, Liu Xinghua’s gentle neck curve as she bent her head, the baby’s unconscious sucking in her arms…
The occasional clink of bowls and chopsticks, the sound of swallowing, satisfied sighs, even the gurgle when Wang Shizhu choked on a piece of flatbread and hurriedly washed it down—all of it, these ordinary, even rough moments, wrapped around her like a warm stream.
How long had it been?
In her past life, that house had been unbearably quiet, each meal taken alone, every chew sounding as if it echoed endlessly.
Days stretched endlessly, filled only with waiting—so much that even the object of her waiting blurred, leaving only the empty habit itself.
She had almost forgotten that food tasted better when shared;
That when someone eagerly and gratefully ate the food you made with your own hands, it warmed the heart;
That a family sitting together, even silently, eating simple meals, could feel… complete.
“Mother, why aren’t you eating?”
Wang Shizhu asked vaguely, noticing her stillness.
Wang Dashan glanced over as well, eyes questioning.
“I am,” she replied.
Li Lanxiang brought herself back to the moment, took a small piece of radish, and chewed slowly.
The radish, tender from the stew, soaked in the rich broth, was almost as flavorful as the meat.
She lowered her head, hiding the sudden warmth in her eyes behind a sip of soup.
This happiness had arrived so suddenly, yet so tangibly.
Tangibly in a bowl of stewed meat, a stack of flatbreads, and a few faces glowing under the oil lamp.
No grand vows, no rich clothes or lavish feast—just this survival-born reunion, and the most honest comfort that food could bring.
It was enough.
For someone who had waited so long, and for so long lived with emptiness, this—everything before her—was more than sufficient.
“Tomorrow,” she said, putting down her soup bowl, her voice calm and clear,
“sell the two pheasants with the brighter feathers in town, exchange for some fine grain; Xinghua should eat well during her confinement. The other one, use it to make soup for her. The rabbit skins, once tanned, keep them for winter.”
Wang Dashan nodded: “Mm.”
Wang Shizhu licked his lips:
“Mother, what about the badger fat…”
“Don’t worry, it’s for you and your sister-in-law,” Wang Dashan cut him off.
Li Lanxiang said nothing further, simply picked up another flatbread, broke it in half, and handed it to the expectant Wang Shizhu.