Chapter 390
Zhao Ger had been tinkering with Xiao Feng for several days, wasting dozens of jin of flour, before they finally managed to make instant noodles.
Instant noodles are made by steaming and frying cut noodles to set their shape. But the two of them didn't know that—they fumbled through the process for ages. Since the noodles could be eaten after just soaking, they figured the noodles must have been fully cooked beforehand.
Cooked?
The first thing Zhao Ger and Xiao Feng thought of was boiling them in a pot. Naturally, that didn't work.
After racking their brains for days without making anything, Zhao Ger was utterly dejected—and stubbornly determined. He kneaded dough until his arms ached. Guaizai felt so sorry for his daddy that he ran to the kitchen every day to help them knead. Though small, he had surprising strength, and as long as he didn't insist on cooking the noodles for them, Zhao Ger let him do as he pleased.
There were three stoves in the kitchen. The pork from the pig slaughtered a couple of days ago was all eaten, so Yang Ger went out and bought some more. The pork sold at the market was quite fatty, but the young masters of the household preferred lean, firm meat. But the butcher always cut the meat into chunks that inevitably came with some fat. Even though Yang Ger tried his best to pick the leanest pieces, there was still a layer of fat under the skin. Not wanting to waste it, he decided to render it into lard.
He chatted with Zhao Ger and Xiao Feng while frying the fat in the pan.
Guaizai had been kneading dough properly at first, but soon he inched his way over to the stove.
"Uncle Yang, Guaizai wants some."
Yang Ger saw him staring intently at the pan and laughed. "Alright, I'll give you a piece."
The fat, still attached to the pork skin, had turned golden and crispy in the pan. Guaizai ate it with relish, his little mouth shiny with oil. The pieces had been cut large, but after the oil was rendered out, they shrank—barely enough to fill the gaps between Guaizai's teeth.
"Uncle, Guaizai wants more."
"It's too greasy." Zhao Ger was afraid he'd get a stomach ache. "Is it really that good? Eat less, or your little tummy will hurt."
"It won't hurt! Guaizai has an iron stomach." Guaizai bit into the pork crackling, his eyes squinting with joy. "Crunchy, crunchy! So delicious! Daddy, do you want some?"
Zhao Ger paused, his gaze falling to the pan.
The cracklings had floated to the surface, sizzling and bubbling.
Fang Zichen had said that instant noodles were crispy. And Guaizai had just said the cracklings were crispy too—suddenly, Zhao Ger understood.
Once this hurdle was overcome, making the rest of the seasonings was no problem at all. The seasoning oil was too runny to package, and oiled paper leaked easily—so they turned it into blocks instead.
As soon as the instant noodles were made, the entire Fang residence was filled with their aroma.
No one cooked rice anymore. No one stir-fried dishes. Everyone ate instant noodles.
They ate them for days on end—old and young alike, even the people they'd brought back from Shunan, all got hooked on instant noodles. They loved them so much they never seemed to get tired of them.
At mealtime, the masters would soak their noodles in the inner courtyard, while Yang Ger and the others did the same in the outer courtyard. With dozens of people eating together, the smell carried far and wide.
The common people passing by the Fang residence could always catch that tempting, mouthwatering aroma wafting out.
What on earth was the prefect cooking?
The smell was about to pierce the heavens.
The neighbors living closest could hardly bear it. At dinnertime, they'd have meat stewed with cabbage and radish at home—they'd sit down happily, eating their meal, when suddenly that smell from next door would waft over, thick and overpowering, drowning out their own food's aroma.
Damn it.
Who could still eat their dinner now?
That smell from next door was maddening.
If it weren't the prefect's residence, they'd have thrown a rotten egg over already. Eating like that every single day!
This new prefect was supposed to be a good one—they'd heard he wasn't corrupt. So why did his house smell so good every day?
The previous prefect had been notoriously corrupt, and even he never had a kitchen that smelled this good.
Zhao Ger had been eating the braised beef flavor, and now his lips were red and glossy.
"Husband, this noodle is really good."
Fang Zichen, by now thoroughly sick of instant noodles, said, "Let's have rice for dinner tonight!"
Zhao Ger chewed his noodles and mumbled, "Isn't instant noodle good?"
Good as it is, you can't eat it every day! And we've been at it for three full days now.
"Eating too much of this isn't healthy," Fang Zichen said.
"How is it not healthy?" Zhao Ger didn't understand. Was eating noodles unhealthy? Noodles were just like rice!
Was eating too much rice unhealthy too?
He looked over at Guaizai, who was holding a bowl and slurping noodles. When Guaizai noticed his dad looking, he gave him a sweet smile.
His son was perfectly healthy—hadn't been sick in years! He ate everything with gusto and was strong as an ox!
"I want rice tonight," Fang Zichen said. "Spread the word—no one in the household is to eat instant noodles anymore."
Before Zhao Ger could respond, Guaizai spoke up first: "Father, you don't like instant noodles anymore? Then Guaizai will eat them for you—can't let them go to waste."
He dumped all the noodles from Fang Zichen's bowl into his own bowl, moving so fast that Fang Zichen couldn't stop him in time.
"Instant noodles are just too delicious! Guaizai never gets tired of them."
Fang Zichen: "..."
He pinched Guaizai's chubby little bottom and laughed. "I just spat in that noodle just now. Still taste good?"
Ah!!
Guaizai dropped a mouthful of noodles right out of his mouth.
"Father, you big meanie!"
Guaizai said with a pained look, staring at his bowl. There was still plenty left—he hated to waste it, but Father had spat in it.
Fang Zichen watched as Guaizai's little brows furrowed for a moment, then he broke into a grin and started slurping away again.
Guaizai puffed out his cheeks. "A son doesn't find his father ugly. Guaizai doesn't mind Father's spit. Guaizai loves eating spit."
It wasn't like he'd never had it before.
"You like it that much?" Fang Zichen laughed. "Then Father will spit another mouthful for you."
Guaizai grabbed his bowl and scampered off.
The seventh day of the new year was no longer considered part of the holiday. On the eighth, the soldiers began organizing people to repair the roads again.
This time, they were working on the town roads. The townsfolk had long been waiting for this day. Oxcarts hauled cement, and the previously compacted dirt roads were dug up and patched up. It happened that it hadn't rained for days, so dust was flying everywhere.
The shops on both sides couldn't stay open and all closed their doors—but no one complained.
It would only take a few days. They could grit their teeth and get through it, and things would be better after that. The old roads had been awful—shop windows, goods, everything needed to be wiped down every single day.
For a general store, it wasn't too bad. But pastry shops and food stalls—those were the ones suffering. They didn't dare make their doors too big, but if they didn't, customers couldn't get in and out easily, and the shops didn't look appealing either. Yet if they made the doors big, with all the people on the street stirring up dust, it would all blow right inside.
Once there was a cement road, it would save them a lot of trouble.
With no business to do, people either gathered around to watch the commotion or grabbed hoes and shovels to help out.
The town was bustling with activity and nonstop chatter, livelier than even the New Year or market days.
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