Outside, the sky had turned completely dark, deep blue, dotted sparsely with a few stars.
The distant mountains had become nothing but undulating, inky silhouettes.
Li Lanxiang guessed it was about time. She had just poured out the water from soaking the clothes when she heard the courtyard gate being pushed open. It was slightly later than she had expected, and the footsteps sounded heavier than when they left in the morning.
She walked to the main room doorway and lifted a corner of the curtain to look outside.
Wang Dashan and Wang Tiezhu entered the yard, one after the other, each carrying a heavy wicker basket on his back and some bundles tied with straw in their hands.
Wang Dashan’s pant legs were spotted with fresh mud and a few dry leaves. Wang Tiezhu’s forehead was damp with sweat, hair sticking to his brow, but his face carried the exhausted yet excited expression of a task completed.
“You’re back?”
Li Lanxiang spoke.
Father and son both looked up.
Wang Dashan grunted in acknowledgment and carefully set the wicker basket down, the thud heavy against the ground.
Wang Tiezhu followed, putting his basket down, stretching his back, and exhaling a long, satisfied breath:
“Mother.”
“How was the harvest?”
Li Lanxiang asked, eyes scanning the two bulging baskets.
“Not bad.”
Wang Dashan spoke succinctly. He walked over and lifted the leaves covering the baskets:
“Dug some mountain yams—small, but solid. Also some late-season wild mushrooms; the good ones dried can be sold, the ordinary ones we’ll eat ourselves.”
He then lifted a bundle tied with straw:
“Caught a mountain pheasant. It got caught in a trap, wing injured, couldn’t fly, so I brought it back. And a few fat mountain rats—Tiezhu caught them.”
The mountain rat meat was firm and fatty. Mountain folk sometimes ate it, adding a little variety to their diet.
“The traps you set were spot-on. That pheasant thrashed hard, almost broke free,” Tiezhu added, admiration for his father evident in his tone.
Li Lanxiang nodded:
“Put everything outside the kitchen for now. We’ll sort it properly in the morning. Shizhu, help your father and brother organize the things and fetch some water for them to wash up.”
Wang Shizhu had been hovering near the gate when they entered. Hearing this, he immediately helped lift the baskets.
Li Lanxiang turned back into the kitchen and began preparing dinner.
She rekindled the fire in the stove. The flickering flames stretched her shadow long against the mud walls.
She started with steamed egg custard.
Two coarse clay bowls were taken. She carefully cracked an egg into each, stirred slowly in one direction with chopsticks, added a pinch of salt, and diluted with some warm water, skimming off the foam.
The steaming pot was washed clean, the egg mixture poured in, covered with a clean cloth, placed in a pot of boiling water, and steamed over medium heat.
Next, she prepared pancakes.
Measured out coarse-grain flour, cracked in the remaining eggs, added salt, a handful of bright green scallions, and gradually mixed in water to make a batter of suitable consistency.
The iron pan was heated, and a piece of cured pork fat was quickly rubbed over the surface. With a sizzling sound, the fragrant oil rose.
A ladle of batter went into the pan. She swirled the pan so the batter spread evenly, forming a round, thin pancake.
When the edges and bottom developed a golden-brown pattern, she skillfully flipped it to cook the other side.
One by one, the golden pancakes stacked on a plate, their aroma a mix of egg and scallion, with the coarse-grain texture adding a rustic depth.
The egg custard steamed, she let it sit briefly after turning off the heat, then lifted the lid. The pale yellow custard was smooth like a mirror, wobbly, soft and tender. A small sprinkle of finely chopped scallions adorned the top.
Finally came the stir-fried cabbage. Some leftover cabbage hearts from lunch were washed and drained. A little oil in a hot pan, the cabbage hit the heat with a sizzle, tossed quickly, just cooked through to preserve crunch and vibrant color.
By the time Wang Dashan and his sons had washed up and roughly organized their mountain harvest, Li Lanxiang’s meal was ready.
The lamp in the main room was lit again.
On the table, the golden pancakes were stacked high, the tender egg custard steamed, the glossy green cabbage gleamed, alongside a small dish of their homemade pickles.
The staple remained coarse-grain flatbread, but with the addition of pancakes, the meal seemed more abundant.
Wang Shizhu’s eyes widened as he stared at the pancakes, swallowing hard:
“Mother, so much good food today!”
Wang Dashan glanced at the table, his gaze lingering over the stack of pancakes and the tender custard, then at Li Lanxiang.
Li Lanxiang pushed the largest bowl of egg custard toward Liu Xinghua:
“Xinghua, eat more of this. It’s soft and easy to digest.”
She then served Wang Shizhu two pancakes:
“Eat slowly, don’t choke.”
“Let’s eat.”
Wang Dashan withdrew his gaze and was the first to take a pancake.
The pancake’s edges were lightly crisped, the interior soft, the fresh egg flavor mingling with scallion’s pungency and the rustic taste of coarse-grain flour, spreading across the palate.
He chewed steadily, not quickly, but with evident enjoyment.
Wang Tiezhu buried his head and ate rapidly; after a long day in the mountains, his appetite was fierce. A pancake disappeared in a few bites, and he reached for another.
Liu Xinghua ate her custard slowly, wrapping some cabbage and pickles in a pancake, chewing carefully.
Li Lanxiang herself took a pancake and ate slowly.
She watched the five heads bent over the warm lamp light, focused on the simple meal, listening to the satisfying, eager sounds of chewing, the occasional clink of bowls and chopsticks.
Tonight’s meal had no exotic mountain delicacies—only eggs and cabbage, with mountain produce yet to be turned into silver coins.
But on each face was the quiet glow of labor followed by the enjoyment of harvest and fullness.
Even Wang Dashan’s usual stern expression seemed softened by the warm meal.
The lamp’s golden halo enveloped this little world, shutting out the chilly late-autumn night outside.
Li Lanxiang sipped the custard, its warmth and sweetness soothing.
She thought that perhaps this was how life went: meal by meal, hand-earned food to feed herself and her family, finding strength in the repetition of labor and the simple rhythms of living.