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Yet seeing that Jiang Fuzheng’s scrutiny hadn’t eased, Ye Li quickly added, “Please rest assured, Uncle Jiang. I didn’t steal this method. There won’t be any disputes because of it.”
At once, Jiang Fuzheng’s expression softened.
“As long as it wasn’t stolen or seized, it’s enough that you tell Ji boy.”
“Thank you for understanding, Uncle Jiang.”
Ye Li exhaled quietly in relief.
Seeing this, Jiang Fuzheng’s stern gaze faded, replaced with earnest counsel.
“Since you have this skill, then live properly with Ji boy from now on.”
“Making tofu is hard work, but it brings income.”
“When Ji boy passes the county exam and becomes a xiucai, and you have a trade to rely on, your days will finally turn around.”
Ye Li nodded at once. “You’re absolutely right. That’s my plan as well.”
One reason he had shown this skill was precisely to start a business.
No matter the era—first, make money.
As for that bargain husband…
From the original body’s memories, Jiang Ji’s face was very much to his taste.
Ahem. His orientation had always been toward men.
Now that he had transmigrated into the role of a husband, he could openly pursue men. That alone eased much of his resentment at being abruptly flung into another world.
Still, if he could pursue openly, then he would choose carefully.
His future partner must not only be handsome, but also compatible in temperament.
Great Xia was relatively tolerant toward women and husbands; the law allowed for separation if married life proved untenable.
But after separation—where would one go?
In his previous life, many women lost their homes after marriage.
All the more so here.
Thus, making money was his most urgent priority.
Yet not only had the original owner been poor—the Jiang family was poor as well.
He wanted to start a bean-product business, but had neither capital nor soybeans. The Jiang family had land, but none planted with soy.
Though worry churned in his heart, none showed on his face. He picked up the large ladle used for soup and began transferring the tofu pudding into the wicker basket.
Two jin of soybeans yielded roughly twelve jin of tofu pudding. After serving three bowls, nearly ten jin remained.
He filled the basket to the brim, laid a wooden board on top, then placed a water-filled clay jar as weight.
In half an hour, firm tofu would be ready.
Jiang Fuzheng sipped his pudding while watching Ye Li work. The young man moved with orderly efficiency, as though he’d done this before. Though puzzled, Jiang Fuzheng chose not to press further.
Instead, he looked at Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya.
Jiang Mai drank his pudding but kept his eyes fixed on Ye Li, dark pupils flickering with unspoken thoughts.
Jiang Ya stood at the worktable, swaying as he ate, bliss evident in every movement.
Jiang Fuzheng sighed inwardly.
It was only a bowl of tofu pudding—yet the child looked as though he’d tasted heaven.
After a moment’s thought, he spoke. “Ji boy’s wife, since you intend to start a business, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll lend you twenty—no, ten jin.”
“I’ll lend you ten jin of soybeans, and you may use my stone mill to grind them.”
“As long as you work steadily at making tofu, I’ll continue lending you beans so you can keep this trade going.”
“But you must not strike Mai or Ya again.”
The offer came abruptly—but it swept away the gloom weighing on Ye Li’s heart.
Help in the midst of snow.
Gratitude flooded his face. “Rest assured, Uncle Jiang. I will never hit them again. I truly have turned over a new leaf.”
Jiang Fuzheng’s expression remained stern. “If you do, you’ll kneel in the ancestral hall.”
“…Understood.”
Time would reveal sincerity.
Jiang Fuzheng finished his bowl in a few quick bites and set it down. “Come with me now and carry back the ten jin of beans.”
Ye Li agreed. Turning to the brothers, he said, “Wait at home. I’ll be back shortly.”
Jiang Mai held his bowl, watching him silently with dark, thoughtful eyes.
“Okay!” Jiang Ya chirped brightly.
Ye Li couldn’t help smiling. “Good boys,” he said, then followed Jiang Fuzheng out.
At the praise, however, Jiang Mai’s small face scrunched in confusion.
What was wrong with this vicious fool…
Yezhaopo Village lay beside several rolling earthen hills thick with jujube trees—hence its name.
The village was small, only twenty-two households, twenty of them surnamed Jiang.
Jiang Fuzheng’s house stood at its center.
As village head, he lived in a brick-and-tile house, with neatly packed earthen bricks paving the ground.
He weighed out ten jin of soybeans on a scale, then took Ye Li around the village to promote his tofu.
By the time Ye Li returned home carrying the beans, dusk had fallen.
At the gate, he saw Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya squatting beside the well, chopping pig fodder.
They had been chatting; Jiang Ya’s little face still held a smile.
But upon seeing Ye Li, the smile vanished instantly.
Even the rhythm of chopping changed—from loud, vigorous thuds to cautious, slow slices.
Ye Li cursed the original owner again.
Previously, the man had beaten them savagely for making too much noise while chopping.
Since then, they dared not make a sound in his presence.
He said nothing to them, carrying the beans straight to the kitchen.
Setting them beneath the worktable, he noticed the three clay bowls had already been washed and stacked neatly.
His gaze softened.
Such sensible children.
He went to the stove, removed the water jar weighing down the tofu, and lifted the cloth.
Inside lay a block of tofu shaped by the wicker basket.
He pressed it lightly. Firm, yet elastic.
He sliced off a portion, preparing to fry tofu puffs.
It wasn’t impatience.
Grinding soybeans was grueling work.
He had pushed Jiang Fuzheng’s large stone mill for barely a quarter of an hour today, yet both arms still throbbed with soreness.
So he would fry the tofu puffs now.
If this dish failed, he might as well switch trades while he still could.
He cut the tofu into small cubes—two fingers wide and two fingers thick—then opened the cupboard and took out a clay jar.
Only a thin layer of lard remained at the bottom, barely enough for frying.
Preparations complete, he stepped to the kitchen doorway.
Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya were each carrying large baskets of chopped pig fodder toward the back courtyard. Ye Li called out, “Mai, Ya-ge, which one of you will come help me tend the fire?”
The former owner had left too foul an impression. No matter how eloquent he sounded now, they would not believe him.
So he would start with actions.
One real deed outweighed a hundred honeyed words.
Jiang Mai paused, astonished.
The village head wasn’t here—and yet the fool was still being this gentle?
His eyes flickered thoughtfully. “I’ll do it.”
“Feed the pigs first, then come. I’m frying tofu.”
“I’ll pull a few garlic shoots too. After frying, we’ll stir-fry tofu with garlic shoots.”
Ye Li smiled.
Fried tofu?
Jiang Ya swallowed.
He wanted some.
Jiang Mai saw the look on his brother’s face and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the back courtyard.
Fried tofu—so what?
Would they even get to eat it?
The village head wasn’t here!
The vicious fool hadn’t beaten them yet today. Maybe once the frying was done, the beating would come.
In the backyard, Jiang Mai dumped the fodder into the pigsty. The family had only two small pigs; even so, the grass wasn’t enough. He sent Jiang Ya back to fetch more and hurried into the kitchen.
Ye Li stood at the chopping board slicing garlic shoots. Without a word, Jiang Mai sat before the stove and picked up the flint and steel.
“Light it now?” he asked.
“Yes. Small fire. Don’t add too much wood.”
Ye Li didn’t even lift his head.
Another flash of surprise crossed Jiang Mai’s face.
Still so mild?
Unaware of the boy’s thoughts, Ye Li finished slicing the garlic shoots and carried the jar of lard to the wok.
The iron pan was already faintly smoking. He scraped all the lard into it.
When frying tofu puffs, the oil must not be too hot at first.
He dipped a chopstick into the oil. When bubbles formed where wood met fat, he slid the tofu cubes into the wok.
Now he had to stir quickly to heat them evenly.
Once the cubes floated to the surface, he would raise the fire to increase the oil temperature, allowing the puffs to set.
“Mai, a bit more fire.”
Jiang Mai added a dry stick of wood.
As the flame strengthened and the oil heated, the aroma of frying tofu spread through the kitchen.
The tofu cubes swelled beautifully.
But not enough.
Without leavening agents, achieving a proper honeycomb texture and full expansion required patience.
Ten minutes or so—that would do it.
Properly fried, they would be airy and resilient, not shrink back upon cooling—no worse than what supermarkets sold in Ye Li’s former life.
Jiang Mai sniffed quietly, puzzled.
Fried tofu didn’t need to be cooked this long.
The fool was still a fool—he didn’t even know how to fry properly.
He didn’t dare say it aloud.
At last, the tofu puffs were done.
Ye Li told Jiang Mai to extinguish the fire. Using a skimmer, he scooped the plump golden puffs into a small clay basin and sprinkled a spoonful of salt over them.
He tossed them gently so the seasoning spread evenly, then picked one up and bit into it.
Fresh from the oil, it was light and tender. Inside, honeycomb pockets connected seamlessly—just as he remembered.
The taste was lightly salted, faintly chewy—and the soybean fragrance far stronger than anything store-bought.
Success.
No need to change professions.
He finished the puff, then threaded five more onto each of two chopsticks.
He handed the two skewers to Jiang Mai. “You and Ya-ge try.”
Jiang Mai stared in disbelief.
Fried that long—and instead of turning black and hard, they had puffed up?
And—
The vicious fool was actually giving them some?
“What are you standing there for? Call Ya-ge. Eat, then help me with the fire. I’ll fry more.”
Ye Li pretended not to notice the boy’s shock, pressing the skewers into his hands.
Jiang Mai accepted them awkwardly.
Ye Li had already begun cutting more tofu.
Well. Poison or not—eat first.
Stepping outside, he saw Jiang Ya emerging from the backyard with the wooden scoop used for feeding chickens.
“Come here,” Jiang Mai beckoned. “The tofu’s done.”
Jiang Ya’s eyes fixed on the skewers. He set down the scoop and ran over.
Tilting his head, he asked in confusion, “Is this tofu?”
They were round and puffed—like candied hawthorn on sticks!
They looked delicious.
“Yes. Eat.”
Jiang Ya bit into the top puff.
After chewing twice, his eyes lit up again.
It looked firm—but inside it was soft!
So good!
He glanced at Jiang Mai.
Jiang Mai was eating too, though his gaze drifted toward the kitchen door.
“Second Brother, eat quickly. It’s really good,” Jiang Ya urged.
Jiang Mai nodded, turning back. Indeed, it tasted far better than he’d expected.
Seeing his little brother beam, he couldn’t help smiling as well.
After another bite, he handed over his remaining three puffs. “You finish these. I have to tend the fire for Li-ge.”
“Eat two more!” Jiang Ya refused to take them.
Something this good—Second Brother must want more too.
Jiang Mai bit one more, then shook his head at the final two. “I have to go. If I’m late, Li-ge will get angry.”
Li-ge will get angry.
The words carried weight.
Jiang Ya dared not insist. He took the skewer obediently.
Watching Jiang Mai return to the kitchen, he hesitated—then ran into their room clutching both skewers.