Chapter 43
Zhao Ger scooped out half a bowl of meat, planning to stir-fry it with garlic leaves and then cook some cabbage.
Fang Zichen helped tend the fire. Once the wok was hot, he added the meat first, stir-fried it until cooked, then tossed in the chopped garlic leaves.
A fragrant aroma immediately rose from the wok.
Guaizai, catching the scent from the backyard, hurried over. Fortunately, the neighboring households lived far away, or else they might have gotten an earful.
As soon as Guaizai entered the kitchen, he tried to dart into Fang Zichen’s arms. Fang Zichen pressed a finger to his forehead, stopping him. "Did you wash your hands?"
"Washed!" Guaizai stretched out his hands for inspection. "All clean, see?"
"Oh really~" Fang Zichen yanked him over, laid him across his lap, lifted his garment, and mercilessly tickled him. Before Guaizai could react, his tiny hands were pinned, leaving him squirming and giggling helplessly. "Father~ hehe~ you’re bad egg (bad person)~ hehe, so bad~"
Fang Zichen pinched his butt. "Bad is fine. Good eggs just get fried anyway."
After playing around for a bit, Fang Zichen set Guaizai down to watch the fire for Zhao Ger while he went to wash the cabbage.
The cabbage from Zhou Ger’s family was well-tended—no pest holes, tightly packed, each head weighing three to four catties.
They couldn’t possibly finish so much. Just a few leaves would be enough for a stir-fry.
Zhao Ger glanced at Fang Zichen a few times, warmth blooming in his heart. It was an indescribable feeling—being with Fang Zichen gave him a sense of security, a steadiness that made even the thought of the sky falling seem unimportant. It was comforting.
Fang Zichen squatted nearby, washing the vegetables with clumsy, uncoordinated movements that betrayed his lack of experience. In the village, men didn’t do kitchen work—this was an era where "a gentleman stays away from the kitchen." To them, cooking or washing dishes somehow made one less of a man.
At first, when Fang Zichen washed dishes, Zhao Ger tried to shoo him out, saying it was women’s or ger’s work. Fang Zichen retorted, "Why can’t men wash dishes? Do men not eat?"
Fang Zichen didn’t care about such things. He couldn’t just loaf around like some master waiting to be served. He worked outside, and though Zhao Ger seemed to do nothing at home, Fang Zichen knew better—he was never idle, constantly fetching water, sweeping the yard, gathering firewood, or foraging for wild greens. He was busier and more exhausted than Fang Zichen himself.
He washed each cabbage leaf meticulously—after all, they were fertilized with manure. Who’d want to eat them unwashed?
"Zhao Ger, the cabbage’s done. What else should I do?"
Zhao Ger handed him the spatula. "Take over here. I’ll go chop the cabbage."
"Got it!"
"I haven’t added salt yet," Zhao Ger called over his shoulder. "Put some in, then stir a couple more times. Garlic leaves cook fast."
Young Master Fang took the salt jar, which had a small porcelain spoon inside. "How much?"
Zhao Ger, busy chopping, didn’t look back. "Just a bit."
A bit?
What counted as "a bit"? A full spoon? Half a spoon?
Fang Zichen didn’t ask further. Even if he’d never eaten pork, he’d surely seen pigs run!
[没吃过猪肉，也见过猪跑 (méi chīguò zhūròu, yě jiànguò zhū pǎo): lit. Never eaten pork, but seen pigs run; fig. Even if inexperienced, one should have basic knowledge.]
He added half a spoon, stirred it well, then picked out a piece of lean meat, blew on it, and offered it to Guaizai. "Here, kiddo, taste it. Is it salty enough?"
Even now, he couldn’t resist teasing. As Guaizai stretched his neck to bite, Fang Zichen lifted the chopsticks higher. Guaizai stood on tiptoe, lips barely grazing the meat before Fang Zichen raised it again.
Guaizai licked his lips, pouted, and hugged Fang Zichen’s leg. "Father mean~"
Fang Zichen grinned. "Fine, fine, here you go."
"Ah~" Guaizai took a bite, his eyes instantly crinkling shut.
"Salty enough?"
Guaizai nodded. "Enough~"
"Does it taste good?"
Guaizai plopped back onto his stool, nodding vigorously. "So good, so yummy."
Fang Zichen shamelessly took credit. "With my cooking skills, even stir-fried poop would smell delicious."
Zhao Ger pursed his lips. This man truly had no shame.
The cabbage was stir-fried separately, with plenty of lard. Zhao Ger’s cooking skills were excellent, and Fang Zichen ate contentedly.
After dinner, the sky hadn’t yet darkened—summer days were always longer. Zhao Ger heated water and bathed Guaizai in the yard.
Fang Zichen sat nearby. Guaizai’s hair, usually tied in a little bun, now hung loose, his cheeks flushed from the warm water.
Fang Zichen pinched them. "You look just like a little girl."
Guaizai stood naked in the wooden tub. "Not a girl! I have a birdie."
Fang Zichen laughed. "Oh right, you do."
Zhao Ger shot them a look. "Stop talking nonsense."
Eager to play with Fang Zichen, Guaizai asked, "Daddy, am I clean yet?"
Before Zhao Ger could answer, Fang Zichen crouched beside them. "Let me see—oh no, not yet." He pointed at the little buds on Guaizai’s chest. "Look, these aren’t white yet."
"Those are nipples!" Guaizai rubbed them himself. "They’re just like this. Daddy’s too. Not dirty."
Zhao Ger: "......"
Fang Zichen burst out laughing.
That night, a heavy rain poured down, the wind howling violently. Summer storms were fierce.
Fang Zichen carried wooden planks to the next room, Zhao Ger following with Guaizai in his arms.
"Should we just fix the roof?"
Moving back and forth every time it rained was a hassle.
Fang Zichen’s pockets were light. The thatch had already been cut by He Xi and the others—they just needed to lay it down. After some thought, he shook his head. "Let’s wait a bit. Otherwise, it’ll be too stuffy to sleep."
Without air conditioning or electric fans, Fang Zichen had suffered when he first arrived. Thatch didn’t insulate well, but if they fully patched the roof, the tiny windows wouldn’t let in enough breeze, turning the house into an oven.
Zhao Ger, born and raised here, didn’t mind the heat—it was bearable. But he deferred to Fang Zichen. "Alright."
By early July, the beans in the field were thriving. After Fang Zichen left for work one morning, Zhao Ger fetched a pouch, called Guaizai to carry a basket, and headed to Aunt Liu’s place.
On the way, they ran into Aunt Liu and Zhou Ger.
"Where are you off to?" Zhou Ger asked.
Zhao Ger explained, he wanted to buy some long beans from Zhou Ger.
Aunt Liu assumed he just wanted to eat. "No need to buy! Just pick whatever you want from the field."
"I’m making pickled long beans. I’ll need a lot," Zhao Ger said.
Fang Zichen, young master that he was, couldn’t stomach plain congee. Zhao Ger usually cooked dishes for him, but lately, the heat had dampened his appetite.
He barely ate at night either, so Zhao Ger wanted to prepare something appetizing.
Pickled long beans were delicious—chopped up, stir-fried with chili and minced meat, they were incredibly fragrant.
Most villagers didn’t care for sour foods. With so little fat in their diets, eating something acidic was hard on the stomach.
Aunt Liu smiled. "Is it for Fang Zichen?"
The four of them went to the field. Guaizai could handle simple tasks, helping Zhao Ger pick long beans.
Zhao Ger admitted, "Not just him. He’s been eating poorly in this heat. I want to make something appetizing."
Aunt Liu and Zhou Ger helped pick. Older and wiser, Aunt Liu said, "Sounds like what they call... acclimatization."
"What’s that?" Zhou Ger asked.
"Just something I’ve heard," Aunt Liu explained. "It’s when someone’s not used to a place. Like when your father and I fled here from the north—we couldn’t adjust at first. Different food, different living conditions. Everything felt wrong. But after a while, we got used to it."
Zhao Ger thought about it. "That must be it. He always complains about the heat. When he first arrived, he’d lie awake for hours at night."
"And he thinks that was hot?" Zhou Ger said, surprised. "Wait till the seventh or eight month, then he’ll really suffer."
Xiaohe Village was in the southern region of Daxia, though not quite the same as the modern south. The fourth and fifth month weren’t too bad, but the seventh and eight month, during farming season, were the hottest.
Thinking of Fang Zichen waking up drenched in sweat, Zhao Ger frowned. "I don’t know what to do. He seems thinner lately."
Aunt Liu reassured him. "It’s fine. He’ll adjust. Hot weather kills appetites and ruins sleep, of course he’d lose weight. Young men bounce back."
Seeing that Zhao Ger still looked worried, she added, "Just cook his favorite foods, nourish him well. These pickled long beans should help."
"Yeah," Zhao Ger said. "That’s what I thought."
Villagers said wealthy families in town bought ice in summer. No one knew if it was true—ice only existed in winter, melting once it got hot. How could it last till summer?
Some dismissed it as nonsense—after all, none of them had ever stepped foot in those rich households.
But Zhao Ger knew it was real. Before he was kidnapped, his family had been well-off. In summer, his room alone had two basins of ice.
Now, with limited skills and little money, all he could do for Fang Zichen was focus on these small comforts.
The basket filled quickly. Zhao Ger, who’d never sold vegetables, wasn’t sure how much to pay. Zhou Ger refused to accept anything.
Aunt Liu agreed. "The long beans grow like crazy. Even if you didn’t take them, we’d have more than we could sell. They’d just rot. Take them! Come pick whatever you want later, no need to stand on ceremony."
In the countryside, homegrown vegetables were the least valuable.
In summer, every family grew plenty, all selling at the market. Competition was fierce, and prices stayed low.
Zhao Ger pressed twenty copper coins into Zhou Ger’s hand. "If you won’t take this, I’ll just buy from town next time."
Left with no choice, Zhou Ger accepted.
The village had a potter. Zhao Ger bought a large pickling jar for twenty-six copper coins. He carried the long beans to the river to wash, Guaizai trailing behind like a little shadow.
Now that they weren’t at the Ma family’s, Zhao Ger doted on his son. The sun was scorching, so he told Guaizai to wait at home. But the boy refused, already industrious at his young age. "I help Daddy work! No let Daddy tired!"
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