Chapter 56
Fang Zichen was trustworthy in most aspects, but when it came to cooking in the kitchen, Zhao Ger wasn’t so sure.
After all, he was a young master—more accustomed to eating than cooking.
Fang Zichen was also afraid of embarrassing himself, so he didn’t dare speak too confidently: “It should… probably taste good?” Zhao Ger's expression fell slightly, but then he seemed to bolster his own confidence as he said, “I've eaten this several times before and always found it quite good. If it doesn't taste right this time, we probably just made a mistake or forgot some ingredient. We can improve it next time - it's really nothing serious.”
The fire crackled loudly, and the kitchen was unbearably stuffy. Fang Zichen occasionally poked at the blood sausage with a bamboo skewer. After about two hours, it was finally done.
It was a little past weishi (1-3 pm) in the afternoon when Fang Zichen lifted the lid off the pot, releasing a cloud of steam.
The blood sausage didn’t smell particularly fragrant. Once cooked, it looked somewhat black and unappetizing.
He fished out a string, cut off a small piece, and, under Zhao Ger’s visibly hopeful yet nervous gaze, popped it into his mouth.
Before Zhao Ger could even ask, “How is it—”, Fang Zichen spat it out.
…No need to ask. It probably didn’t taste good.
Fang Zichen stuck out his tongue, fanning his mouth. “F*ck, that’s burning me alive!”
Zhao Ger: “???”
Snapping out of it, he hurriedly fetched a bowl of water, frantic. “Quick, take a sip! Hurry!”
Fang Zichen’s eyes were watering from the heat, his mouth scalded and stinging. The cool water helped a little, but it still hurt.
Zhao Ger was heartbroken. “Stick out your tongue—let me see if there are any blisters.”
Luckily, there were no blisters, just a thin white membrane.
If this had happened to Zhao Ger himself, he would’ve just gritted his teeth and endured it—no big deal. But when it came to Fang Zichen, he couldn’t relax. “Let’s go see a doctor.”
“No need,” Fang Zichen shook his head. “It just hurts a bit. I’ll be fine.”
Zhao Ger: “Really? Don’t lie to me.”
After the initial pain, his nerves seemed to have gone numb. Fang Zichen said, “Didn’t I say I’d be a dog if I lied? Why would I give up being human to be a dog? That’d be stupid. Relax, relax.”
Seeing he still had the energy to quip, Zhao Ger sighed in relief. The blood sausage was still steaming. With Fang Zichen’s “inspiring demonstration” as a warning, he cut a small piece, blew on it, and then put it in his mouth.
Fang Zichen hadn’t even tasted it properly before spitting it out. Now, still hissing from the heat, he couldn’t help but ask, “How is it? Good?” He wasn’t optimistic.
After all, the smell of the intestines had been overpowering, almost nauseating. He wasn’t sure if cooking them this way would make them edible.
Back at the breakfast stall outside his school, the old man had made them like this, but Fang Zichen hadn’t seen the whole process. He was afraid he’d missed a crucial step, resulting in a foul-tasting sausage.
The peanuts had been roasted to a rich, nutty aroma.
The ginger was minced finely, cutting through the gaminess while enhancing the flavor.
The salt was just right.
The cornmeal wasn’t overused—soft, tender, and pleasantly chewy.
Zhao Ger cut another piece and replied, “It’s good.”
“Not gamey?”
“Not at all!”
“That’s good,” Fang Zichen said. “Tomorrow, make a small batch and try selling it in town.”
Zhao Ger thought it was delicious, but considering he hadn’t eaten many fine things in his life, he figured Fang Zichen’s opinion mattered more.
Right now, Fang Zichen’s mouth was in too much pain to eat. When Guaizai came home in the evening and saw him skipping dinner, he hopped off his stool and ran over. “Father, why no eat? If no eat, tummy go hungry at night, feel bad oh!”
“Your father is cultivating immortality—he can’t eat,” Fang Zichen lied.
“Ah?”
Zhao Ger laughed, stroking Guaizai’s face. “Your father burned his mouth. He can’t eat right now. Be good, you eat first.”
Guaizai didn’t move. Frowning seriously, he demanded Fang Zichen open his mouth for inspection.
Fang Zichen obliged.
Guaizai cupped his face, peering inside. It was unclear whether he actually knew what he was looking for, but his posture was impressively professional.
Fang Zichen was amused. “Well, Dr. Guaizai, how’s my mouth?”
Guaizai replied gravely, “A lil’ bit swollen.”
“Ah~” Fang Zichen played along. “Then what should I do? Dr. Guaizai, save me! I have elders above and little ones below—the whole family depends on me! I can’t die!”
“No worry,” Guaizai said, hands behind his back like a stern old scholar, mimicking Fang Zichen’s idioms. “I blow magic breath, make you all better, pew pew!”
Fang Zichen: “……”
He had no intention of letting Guaizai blow into his mouth. The kid’s “magic breath” tended to come with a spray of saliva, like a fine mist.
He tactfully declined. “Ah! So magical? But I think I’m already better—back doesn’t ache, mouth doesn’t hurt. No need for the great doctor’s help.”
Guaizai shook his head. “No no, young man, no hide from doctor.”
Fang Zichen looked miserable. Zhao Ger, watching from the side, couldn’t help but laugh.
Fang Zichen felt like he’d been screwed over.
All those idioms he’d taught Guaizai—now they were being used against him.
By evening, his condition had improved. Since noon, he’d only eaten two buns, and his stomach was growling. Zhao Ger cut him a piece of blood sausage, watching him intently.
The moment Fang Zichen took a couple of chews, Zhao Ger couldn’t resist asking, “How is it?”
“Not bad.” Having tasted delicacies before, Fang Zichen’s critique was measured. “Fresh, well-seasoned, the intestine casing is crispy. But the cornmeal’s a bit coarse—not smooth enough.”
“Ah! Then what do we do?”
Without modern milling machines, Fang Zichen said, “If we had a millstone, we could grind it finer ourselves. That’d probably help.”
Zhao Ger thought for a moment. “Aunt Liu has one, but it’s small. Would that work?”
“Yeah, as long as it grinds.”
Zhao Ger was eager. “Then I’ll go borrow it tomorrow.”
The sooner they perfected it, the sooner they could start selling and earning money.
Since Fang Zichen had approved it and he’d tasted it himself, Zhao Ger was confident and motivated. If it weren’t so late, he’d have rushed to Aunt Liu’s to fetch the mill right then.
When Fang Zichen returned from rinsing his mouth, he found Zhao Ger still buzzing with excitement. He smacked his butt. “Sleep.”
No longer shy, Fang Zichen stripped off his outer garment and got into bed. Zhao Ger rested his head on Fang Zichen’s arm, curling against him like a seductive spirit, tracing circles on his toned chest with a teasing finger.
Fang Zichen caught his wandering hand, exasperated. “Stop messing around. I’m a young, vigorous man—you really aren’t afraid I’ll take you up on it?”
“I’m not.” Aunt Liu’s words echoed in his mind. Zhao Ger pressed closer, burying his face in Fang Zichen’s chest, breathing in his scent. After a pause, he murmured, “I want to give you a son.”
“…Let’s hold off on that.” One Guaizai was enough. Their family was barely scraping by as it was—how would they feed another? They couldn’t exactly raise a child on air. Fang Zichen made an excuse while lowkey praising himself, “If I really go at it, this bed won’t survive.”
“I ordered a new bed from Grandpa Wang. It’ll be delivered in a couple of days,” Zhao Ger said softly.
Fang Zichen chuckled. He wasn’t a monk—far from it. He very much wanted to take things further with Zhao Ger. “Then we’ll talk then. We can do… things, but let’s not have a child yet.”
Zhao Ger lifted his head, meeting his eyes. “Why? Do you not like children?” But even as he said it, he knew that couldn’t be right.
Fang Zichen did like children—his indulgent attitude toward Guaizai proved that.
But Fang Zichen’s answer surprised him. “Hard to say. I don’t dislike them, but I don’t particularly like them either.”
Zhao Ger tensed, looking away. “Then what about Guaizai…?”
Fang Zichen cut in. “Guaizai’s different. He’s not the same.”
Guaizai was clingy but never annoying. For a three-year-old, he was remarkably sensible.
When Zhao Ger was busy, he’d follow along, helping with whatever small tasks he could.
If Fang Zichen was studying, Guaizai wouldn’t disturb him—just quietly squat nearby.
Fang Zichen doted on him, but who could guarantee that another child would be like Guaizai? What if the next one turned out like Ma Xiaoshun?
If talking didn’t work and scolding failed, would they have to resort to spanking?
At his age, Fang Zichen’s temper was short, and his patience thin. Better to wait a few years, mature a bit more, before considering it.
At eighteen, there was no rush for children. Besides, they already had one—he was already ahead of most guys his age, no hurry.
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