An Extra Treat: Fried Oil Cakes
The Jiang family had not eaten doufunao for several days.
It was simply too troublesome.
With only one pot in the house, things had to be done in sequence. First the savory brine was prepared and set aside. Then water had to be boiled to steam the flatbreads. After that came straining the soy pulp, boiling the soy milk, and finally curdling it into tofu pudding.
Of course, the flatbreads could be reheated after the soy milk was done—but the two little ones had to cut grass in the mornings. They could not linger at home waiting for breakfast.
So these past few days, Ye Li had ground the soybeans at dawn, made breakfast, sent the boys out, and only then boiled the soy milk and made tofu.
Now that Jiang Ji had returned—and Ye Li had not needed to grind the millstone himself—he finally had the time and energy to fuss properly.
Still, to save time, he called Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya over to strain the soy pulp while he tended the fire and reheated the cakes.
When Jiang Ji finished grinding the last of the slurry and carried the bucket into the kitchen, this was the scene that greeted him.
Jiang Ya held open a hemp cloth bag.
Jiang Mai ladled soy slurry into it.
Once full, the two of them set to work together—four small hands kneading and squeezing the bag, pressing the soy milk through the cloth.
It was simple work. They had grown practiced at it and moved quickly.
Jiang Ji set down his bucket and said to Ye Li, who was crouched before the hearth, “Give me a cloth bag. I’ll help.”
“The bag’s on the board,” Ye Li replied, nodding toward the cutting board beneath the window, where a larger hemp sack lay.
As Jiang Ji picked it up, Ye Li added with a smile, “I’ll pay you a wen for your labor.”
“…Why be so formal? You cook for this whole family and I haven’t paid you wages.”
He echoed Ye Li’s words from the night before.
The remark pleased Ye Li more than he let on.
Good. In his inexpensive husband’s mind, he was now part of the family.
That awareness alone was enough.
He said nothing more.
Soon the cakes were done and piled into a wicker basket. Ye Li began boiling the soy milk.
Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya carried half the soy pulp off to feed the pigs and chickens.
Jiang Ji took the soiled clothes he had brought home the day before and went to wash them by the well.
By the time Ye Li finished making the doufunao, the three brothers had completed their chores.
Breakfast was served.
After days without it—and with today’s brine thick, fragrant, and rich, no less delicious than the tofu stalls in the county—everyone ate heartily.
Ye Li’s appetite was robust.
Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya each managed a bowl and a half, their bellies round and full, unable to swallow another bite of cake.
The two boys rose to fetch their baskets and head out to cut grass.
Ye Li stopped them. “Go to Second Uncle’s and cut some chives. We’ll make egg-and-chive oil cakes at noon.”
Egg-and-chive oil cakes?
Jiang Ya’s eyes shone. “Yes!”
Jiang Ji, however, hesitated.
Was this not too extravagant?
They had eaten meat yesterday—and today, oil cakes again…
But then he remembered what the boys had said: ordinarily, their meals were bean dregs with corn cakes, garlic shoots with tofu, corn porridge—perhaps an egg each in the morning.
So today’s oil cakes…
Were they for him?
Without meaning to, his long, narrow gaze slid lightly toward Ye Li.
When his parents were alive, his mother would greet him after he returned from school just so—softly mentioning an extra dish she planned for lunch.
…
He lowered his eyes, long lashes hiding the flicker of longing beneath.
Since his parents’ deaths, he had eaten at his uncle’s house. His uncle and aunt treated him as their own, and he was deeply grateful.
But this worn, low-roofed kitchen was the place that had given him life.
After so many years, he sat here again, calmly enjoying a meal both satisfying and delicious.
For a moment, it felt as though time had turned back.
His nose stung faintly. He tightened his grip on the spoon, forcing down the surge of emotion.
He must not show it.
If he did, that man would surely mock him.
He quickly finished the remaining tofu pudding and set down his bowl. “I’ll go to Second Uncle’s too—see how the fields are.”
At that, Ye Li felt a stab of guilt.
Since transmigrating, he had not so much as glanced at the fields.
Beiyang County was mountainous, with little farmland. Jiang Ji’s father had once held eight mu; after Jiang Ji turned ten, he was allotted six more—fourteen in total. Two mu of prime land, five of middling quality, seven poor.
After Jiang Ji’s father died, no one farmed them. Jiang Ji leased out the five mu of middling fields.
Two mu of prime land and four mu of poor land he entrusted to Jiang Dahe to farm without charge. Jiang Dahe’s family had many mouths and little land—they needed it.
Jiang Ji refused rent; after all, he and his two brothers ate at Jiang Dahe’s table, and the younger boys required care.
But Jiang Dahe insisted on paying two liang annually—enough only to cover the prime fields. The four mu of poor land he farmed effectively rent-free.
Jiang Ji was deeply grateful.
As for the remaining three mu of poor land, he had considered leasing them out. Yet poor land far from water or lacking fertility drew little interest unless rented cheaply—so cheaply it was hardly worth it.
Though Jiang Ji spent most of his time at school, Ye Daji had promised that the Ye family would help occasionally, and Jiang Dahe had said three mu were no burden.
So Jiang Ji kept them, planting drought-resistant, high-yield corn and potatoes. After taxes, the harvest went entirely to Jiang Dahe for daily provisions.
Now only two mu remained—one had been sold to fund the wedding.
Ye Li had completely forgotten about those fields.
Ye Liang had reminded him days ago to weed them. There had been rain recently; irrigation was unnecessary—only weeding.
Ye Li had pretended not to hear.
Grinding at dawn drained him completely. Any spare moment he only wanted to lie down.
Now that Jiang Ji would tend the fields, Ye Li simply nodded, offering no extra words.
When Jiang Ji left with the boys, Ye Li washed the dishes and began kneading dough.
First came the cornmeal mixed with bean pulp—the daily steamed cakes.
While they were halfway done, Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya returned with a great bundle of chives.
Jiang Ji had not yet returned; he had taken Jiang Dahe’s cart to weed the fields.
With Jiang Ji handling that task, the boys stayed home. The weeds in the fields—purslane, goosefoot, couch grass—were beloved by the pigs.
The boys helped pick through the chives. There were so many that Ye Li prepared two fillings: egg and chive; chive and tofu.
For oil cakes, white flour was a must.
The Jiang household’s grain came from Jiang Dahe. White flour was scarce—less than three jin remained.
Ye Li poured it all into a basin and added a bowl of cornmeal.
Jiang Mai couldn’t help saying, “Second Uncle doesn’t have much wheat left. The harvest is still a month away.”
“It’s fine. I’ll buy some from Aunt Qiumei this afternoon.”
Ye Li was unconcerned.
He could earn money now.
Tofu sales had stabilized around ten jin daily. Today he had made sixty jin; ten sold fresh, the remaining fifty would become twenty-five jin of tofu puffs and skewers.
At a profit of roughly five wen and seven li per jin, twenty-five jin meant over one hundred forty wen.
In ideal conditions, of course—but close enough.
Even if the family ate a couple of jin themselves, it made little difference.
With daily income over a hundred wen, surely they could afford a proper white-flour oil cake now and then.
Seeing Jiang Mai hesitate, Ye Li smiled. “Enough. As long as I’m here, you and Ya-ge’er should eat and drink your fill. Don’t worry so much.”
Jiang Mai fell silent.
He had meant to suggest lending the money to his elder brother so he could study without distraction. Once he passed the examination, he would repay it.
But recalling how drenched in sweat his brother-in-law was each dawn, he swallowed the thought.
Making money was not easy.
And to think—in just a few days—he had begun coveting this brother-in-law’s earnings.
Terrifying.
Flustered, he rose and fled outside.
Jiang Ya remained seated, chin cupped in his hands, eyes fixed on the basin. “Li-ge, can I tend the fire later?”
“Of course. Go fetch some wheat straw to start it.”
He responded brightly and ran off.
When Jiang Ji returned with a cart piled high with grass, Ye Li had just finished frying the oil cakes.
Ye Liang arrived as well.
He carried four stuffed flatbreads. “Yi-ge’er heard Xiao Ji was back and told me to bring these. They’re selling like hotcakes—and you haven’t even tried them.”
He scratched his head sheepishly. “I wanted to bring some before, but Yi-ge’er said Li-ge could make them himself.”
Only after hearing how Ye Li had insisted he eat marrow bones did Yi-ge’er believe he had truly changed. So this morning, he packed four and sent them along.
Ye Li smiled. “Elder Brother, you let us try the bread long ago. As for the red-oil tofu puffs, I can make them myself. No need to walk twenty li just to bring them.”
“Sit. Lunch is quite a spread today.”
Relieved that Ye Li was not offended, Ye Liang exhaled.
Jiang Ji added, “Second Brother, we’re family. No need for such talk. Sit.”
Ye Liang beamed.
The five of them gathered around the table. The sight of the dishes made their mouths water; chopsticks were raised at once.
It was Jiang Ji’s first taste of tofu puffs—yesterday, with marrow bones on the table, Ye Li had sent all the puffs away.
After swallowing, he glanced at Ye Li across from him, puzzled.
How had this man created something so delicious and new?
The question flickered and faded.
He lowered his head and focused on his meal.
They were not close. If he asked, he might well be rebuffed.
Better to enjoy the food than invite embarrassment.
After eating their fill, they returned to their tasks.
Ye Li fried tofu puffs; Ye Liang tended the fire.
Jiang Ji weeded the fields; the boys gathered firewood.
Once Ye Liang departed, Ye Li began heating water.
Ahem.
If there was to be a wedding night—
Then surely one ought to bathe first.
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