The aroma of chicken soup mingled with the toasty scent of coarse-grain flatbreads, drifting leisurely through the kitchen.
The cabbage had been washed and cut, ready to be stir-fried.
Li Lanxiang had just shoved the last bundle of firewood into the stove when she heard the courtyard gate pushed open, accompanied by Wang Shizhu’s excited, almost squeaky voice:
“Mother! We’re back!”
Footsteps pounded toward the kitchen, and the door curtain was lifted. Wang Shizhu’s face, flushed from the autumn sun and slick with sweat, peered in, his nostrils flaring, eyes bright like a little wild animal:
“Mother, what are you cooking? It smells amazing! Is it chicken soup? I could smell it from the gate!”
Behind him, Wang Dashan entered, carrying two bulging coarse cloth sacks, and over his shoulder was the strap of a money pouch.
He first glanced at Li Lanxiang standing by the stove. His eyes lingered on her face, as if confirming that she looked a little better than yesterday, then he silently walked to the corner where the rice bin stood and untied one of the heavy sacks.
White, plump grains poured into the half-empty ceramic rice bin with a pleasant rustling sound.
In the dim kitchen light, the pale rice looked especially lustrous.
He poured at least ten jin (around 5 kilograms), filling the bin with a thick layer of grains—a sight that brought instant reassurance.
Li Lanxiang looked at the rice without speaking.
She knew how precious fine grain was these days; this rice was likely most of what they had earned from today’s hunt.
After emptying the sack, Wang Dashan folded it, then reached into his pocket and brought out a small paper-wrapped bundle, handing it to Li Lanxiang.
He moved stiffly, expressionless, saying only:
“Red dates. Eat more to build your blood.”
The little paper bundle weighed about a jin (roughly half a kilogram).
Li Lanxiang opened it to find plump, bright red dates, thoroughly sun-dried and of good quality.
They were excellent for a woman’s health and far from cheap.
She picked one up, feeling its dry warmth between her fingers.
Raising her head, she met Wang Dashan’s calm gaze.
He said nothing more, then took the old shoulder pouch from over his shoulder, pulled out a small, gray cloth bag, heavy in her hand, and handed it to her.
Li Lanxiang set down the dates and took the money bag.
It had some weight to it.
She shook it lightly and peeked inside—dozens of bright copper coins and some smaller, irregular silver pieces, amounting to a few dozen wen.
“Sold two pheasants, a rabbit, and that badger meat,” Wang Dashan said flatly, as if reporting something routine.
“The skins will be sold once cured. All the money went to buy rice, and this is what’s left.”
He paused, then added:
“The rice price in town went up two wen compared to last month.”
There was no complaint in his tone, just information.
Mountain hunters were extremely sensitive to price fluctuations—those extra two wen might mean buying half a jin less salt, or a few feet less of coarse cloth.
Li Lanxiang held the bag of money, heavy yet insubstantial at the same time.
Heavy with the weight of livelihood, light with the smallness of these coins before the long winter.
She tied the bag again, holding it in her hands, and nodded:
“Good. Got it.”
One word. No extra questions, no sighing at the small amount.
She knew he must have chosen the most reliable rice vendor, counting every fraction.
The dates were likely purchased after much hesitation, yet he had gritted his teeth and bought them. She understood the careful consideration behind this silence.
Wang Dashan seemed to relax slightly at her calm “good.”
He no longer looked at the money bag, turning instead to the pot on the stove, steaming gently:
“Is the soup ready?”
“Almost, the flatbreads will be done soon too.”
Li Lanxiang carefully tucked the money bag into her chest and lifted the lid of the pot.
A richer aroma rose with the steam.
The chicken soup was golden and clear, with the fat skimmed off the surface, chicken chunks and mushrooms floating in the broth.
“Shizhu, go call your sister-in-law to eat.”
She instructed.
“Okay!”
Wang Shizhu, already impatient, ran off immediately.
Li Lanxiang quickly placed the last flatbreads by the pot and covered it. Then she tossed the washed cabbage into the wok. The oil hissed, steam rising, as she stir-fried it, added salt, and soon the green cabbage glistened and was ready to serve.
Wang Dashan had already re-wiped the table in the main room and arranged the bowls and chopsticks.
Liu Xinghua, holding the baby, stepped out with a faint smile:
“Mother, you’ve worked hard.”
“Sit, eat while it’s hot,” Li Lanxiang said.
She brought a large steaming earthenware bowl of chicken soup to the table, followed by the stir-fried cabbage and a stack of golden, fragrant flatbreads.
Wang Shizhu couldn’t wait and ladled himself a full bowl of soup, blowing on it before taking a big sip. It burned, so he stuck out his tongue, but still mumbled:
“Delicious! So fresh!”
Wang Dashan served himself soup and picked up a piece of chicken breast, placing it into Li Lanxiang’s bowl with a practiced ease, as though he had done it countless times.
Only then did he serve himself, lowering his head to eat.
He still ate quickly, but each bite was solid and deliberate.
Li Lanxiang looked at the piece of meat in her bowl, then at the bright red dates in the paper bundle, the handful of copper coins warm in her chest, and heard her son’s satisfied exclamations and her daughter-in-law’s gentle sipping.
Sunlight slanted through the doorway, illuminating the simple meal, the drifting dust, and each face with its most ordinary expressions.
No delicacies, no fine clothing—just a steaming bowl of chicken soup, a stack of flatbreads, a family gathered around, filling their hungry stomachs after labor.
She picked up the chicken breast Wang Dashan had placed in her bowl and chewed slowly.
The meat wasn’t the most tender, but perfectly cooked, infused with mushroom flavor and rich broth, savory and satisfying.
This meal, eaten with her mouth, warmed her heart.
The rice and dates bought with those few dozen coins seemed more meaningful than any empty promise from her past life.
This quiet care, heavier than words of sweetness, made her feel her feet finally on solid ground.