Arriving at Lao Wang's house, they didn't see Zhao Ger and were about to ask when a savory aroma wafted out first.
"Lao Wang, what are you cooking in there? It smells so good my stomach's already craving it."
"Right! I'd just eaten three sweet potatoes before coming, and now this smell is making me hungry again."
In the village, aside from the lazy ones, no one would stay for a meal at another's house unless it was a festival. But now, they'd been called over, and right after, the smell came drifting out. Surely they weren't called over just for a meal? Maybe Lao Wang had used Lord Fang's fulang as an excuse, worried they'd be too polite to show up if he just invited them to eat.
They wondered why Lao Wang went to all that trouble—they weren't that formal anyway. No need for such roundabout excuses.
Just as they sat down, Lao Wang's eldest son came out with a tray carrying eight bowls of sweet potato noodles, glistening red, topped with vibrant green cilantro—irresistible to look at. Zhao Ger followed behind.
As soon as the elders saw him, they hurriedly stood up, wanting to bow but unsure how, so they could only nod repeatedly in greeting.
Zhao Ger waved his hand. "No need for such formality. I made some spicy sour noodles..."
"What?" One of the elders stood up abruptly, turning to Lao Wang with a look of indignation.
How could Lao Wang be so thoughtless as to let Lord Fang's fulang do the work? Is he relying on being old and one foot in the grave to act so presumptuously?
Zhao Ger realized the misunderstanding and smiled, explaining briefly.
No one in the village had cooked sweet potato noodles before and likely didn't know how. Though they were simple to prepare, if he tried to explain the sauce to the daughters-in-law, it would be faster just to do it himself.
They still weren't sure what Zhao Ger was getting at. He told them to eat first, so the elders obediently did.
At first, they thought they should maintain some dignity in front of an honored guest and felt a bit restrained. But once the spicy sour noodles hit their mouths, formality went out the window—they couldn't help but slurp them down with gusto.
Noodles taste best when you slurp.
They slurped so loudly they would have licked their bowls clean if they dared. Though they’d just eaten, they felt like they could easily put away another five or six bowls. Only after finishing did their faces flush with embarrassment.
"We’ve made a complete spectacle of ourselves in front of Fang Fulang."
Zhao Ger sat to the side, secretly relieved. Lao Wang's grandsons also came in, their mouths still red from the spicy sour noodles they'd just eaten in the kitchen. They looked at Zhao Ger with admiring eyes.
Zhao Ger smiled warmly and patted Shi Ger's head. Shi Ger didn't dodge, even giving a shy smile in return.
Zhao Ger took out some candies. "Take these and share them with your little brothers."
Shi Ger didn't take them at first, glancing at Lao Wang. Only after Lao Wang nodded did he accept. "Thank you, Uncle Zhao."
The elders were still savoring the lingering taste. That noodle dish was truly delicious—what a shame there was only a little. They wondered where it was sold and whether they would ever get to eat it again. Then they heard Zhao Ger ask, "Uncles, do any of you know what these noodles are made from?"
None of them knew.
Not only had the village never seen them, but even the town market hadn't. It was likely a Hezhou City specialty—hard to come by. What a pity.
Zhao Ger brought out a bundle of sweet potato noodles.
The noodles were grayish, unremarkable to look at, and snapped easily when dry. They all shook their heads, saying they'd never seen such a thing.
Zhao Ger said, "These are sweet potato noodles."
"Ah?" Sweet potatoes? Could it be...? Their hearts tightened. Seeing their shocked, questioning looks, Zhao Ger nodded. "Yes, exactly what you're thinking. They're made from sweet potatoes."
"This can't—" An elder shot up in astonishment, unable to stay seated. How could they be made from sweet potatoes. They'd eaten sweet potatoes for years—they knew the taste well enough. They were sick of the stuff. But mid-sentence, the words "can't be" died in his throat.
"Was it Lord Fang who made them?"
Zhao Ger nodded. "Yes."
Well, no need to doubt it then. A few days ago, they'd sent sweet potatoes over through Lao Wang.
Was this a return gift?
That couldn't be either. If it were a return gift, the whole village would have received one—not just a few old men like them.
Zhao Ger stopped beating around the bush. "Originally, my husband wanted to come himself, but it's busy at year's end, so I came instead."
"Of course, of course."
"My husband's idea is to have you continue planting sweet potatoes." After Zhao Ger finished speaking, the elders didn't answer right away. If the sweet potato noodles hadn't come first, they would have panicked on the spot. But now they listened patiently—the prefect would never do them harm, and he always had plenty of good ideas.
Zhao Ger continued, "I'm sure you've all heard about the chemical fertilizer by now."
"Yes, we know." The news had spread everywhere—four dan and several dou per mu. At first no one believed it, but once the fertilizer factory was actually built, the surrounding villages all went to see for themselves, and no one doubted it anymore.
"If all the crops in the fields use fertilizer from now on, several dan per mu won't be a problem. Over in Anping County, there are over a dozen villages with more than a thousand mu of land—how much would that yield in a year?"
Zhao Ger said, "Never mind the counties that specialize in rice—even Luoshan County and Shunan and the like will be the same. Once rice yields go up, the prices offered by outside merchants will likely drop."
The elders nodded in agreement. Even the two daughters-in-law, who'd been sitting on the eaves pretending to sew insoles while actually straining to listen, understood perfectly.
In early spring, when the wild vegetables had just started sprouting, the women and gers would often pick them and take them to sell. In the beginning, they sold quite well, since there were still so few of them. A bundle of fiddlehead ferns could go for three copper coins. But later, when the wild vegetables grew more plentiful, everyone wanted to make some money and couldn't bear to eat them themselves, so they carried them to town—only to find the price had dropped. Sometimes, even two copper coins a bundle wouldn't sell.
This hit them like a bucket of ice water thrown over their heads—they were completely stunned, frozen stiff on the spot.
Earlier, they had thought: with water and chemical fertilizer, and with grain prices high, they could sell both seasons' harvest in full, then use some of the silver to buy coarse rice to eat, and still have over twenty taels left over. Everyone had been overjoyed. Only now did they realize how short-sighted they had been.
Their faces instantly fell, etched with worry, and their hearts sank into a cold, hollow dread.
Lao Wang's two daughters-in-law could no longer even stitch their shoe soles.
It had looked like their fortunes were finally about to turn around—and then this came crashing down on them…
"Scarcity makes things precious. This sweet potato starch noodle is something from my husband's hometown," said Zhao Ger, cradling the still-warm bowl and taking a sip of water, speaking with meaning. "My husband is from across the seas. This sweet potato starch noodle doesn't exist in Qinzhou, doesn't exist in Jizhou, doesn't exist in Hezhou—and beyond, not in Shangyang, not in Yuanzhou, not even in the capital."
Lao Wang suddenly raised his head to look at him, his fingers trembling slightly.
Zhao Ger continued: "You keep growing sweet potatoes. Outsiders barely eat them, so there’s no way we can sell them as-is. But what if we turn them into sweet potato starch noodles? You’ve all just tasted them. Do you think they could sell?"
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