Profitable — Not a Day Wasted
Hearing Ye Li’s request, Jiang Dahe agreed readily.
He followed Ye Li into the mill room and exchanged a few casual words with Jiang Fuzheng about the crops. When the wooden bucket filled with soy milk, he lifted it and left.
After delivering the bucket to the Jiang household, he returned to Jiang Fuzheng’s home again. His nephew-in-law now had a trade that could sustain the family for generations—of course, as an uncle, he had to lend a hand.
With Jiang Dahe helping, Ye Li’s workload lightened considerably.
Ten jin of soybeans produced two large buckets of soy milk. After carrying the second bucket home with Jiang Dahe, Ye Li found a piece of coarse cloth to strain out the bean dregs.
The task was simple. Wanting to speed things along, Ye Li said to Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya, “Mai, Ya-ge’er, wash your hands and come help strain the pulp.”
Jiang Mai had just reached to pull Jiang Ya from the kitchen when Jiang Dahe interjected, “Hey, Li-ge’er, Ya-ge’er will marry out one day. If he learns this, what if he teaches it to his husband’s family?”
Jiang Mai lowered the foot he had just lifted and looked at Ye Li with dark, questioning eyes.
“Second Uncle, we just want to finish the tofu sooner. Besides, straining bean pulp isn’t exactly a secret technique. Even if Ya-ge’er learns it, it won’t matter.”
As he spoke, Ye Li glanced at Jiang Ya, worried those words might sting.
But Jiang Ya seemed not to have heard at all. His eyes shone as he stared at the white soy milk in the bucket.
“Oh, that’s fine then.” Jiang Dahe relaxed, then sighed. “Still, it’s better to have sons. Look how capable the husband you’ve married is. Daughters and ge’er—raise them for over a decade, and in the end they become someone else’s.”
“…Second Uncle, there’s a saying: once a man takes a wife or husband, he forgets his parents. Some fierce spouses won’t even care for their father-in-law in old age. Once he can’t work anymore, they may drive him out without a bowl of rice.”
Ye Li kept smiling as he spoke.
“That’s rare. Little Ji would never do such a thing.”
“…”
There was no reasoning with him.
And truth be told, Jiang Dahe’s way of thinking benefited Jiang Ji and Jiang Mai. Otherwise, Jiang Ji would have long since quit school. Jiang Mai, too, had not suffered in Jiang Dahe’s household. Only Ya-ge’er heard such cutting remarks day after day.
Fortunately, the child was still young. For now, it seemed he did not take the words to heart. Still, Ye Li made a mental note to speak with him after the tofu was sold.
He sent the two boys to wash their hands.
As Jiang Mai led Jiang Ya outside, confusion flickered through his mind. This good-for-nothing used to scold Ya-ge’er as a bringer of misfortune—now he was speaking up for him?
When the boys left the kitchen, Ye Li smiled at Jiang Dahe. “Of course. My husband is a good man.”
That single sentence pleased Jiang Dahe greatly.
Naturally. He had poured his heart into raising Jiang Ji and Jiang Mai well, hoping they would care for him in old age. The thought had remained unspoken, since both nephews were still young. But from Ye Li’s tone, perhaps the hope was not unfounded after all.
In high spirits, he began praising Jiang Ji.
“Your mother-in-law fled from the south during the famine. Her family had once been well-off; she knew many characters. She taught Little Ji to read. At three, he could recite poems. At five, he could help calculate field taxes.”
“After entering the village school, he was always praised by the teacher. When he passed the county examination, the men who worked with your father-in-law in town all wanted to marry their daughters or ge’er to him.”
“If it hadn’t been for you—”
He stopped abruptly, lifting his eyes guiltily toward Ye Li. With his former temperament, how could this nephew-in-law have matched his eldest nephew?
But now that Ye Li’s disposition had changed—and he had demonstrated real ability—bringing it up would only invite awkwardness.
Seeing Ye Li’s calm expression, he gave a dry laugh. “Little Ji is a good one. You’ll understand in time.”
Just then Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya returned, and Jiang Dahe quickly shifted the topic, instructing them how to strain the pulp.
Ye Li pretended not to catch the earlier implication. The original owner of this body was gone; there was little point in judging the past.
With all four working together, the bean pulp was soon fully strained.
Next came the boiling—a step central to tofu-making. Jiang Dahe sent Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya to cut pig fodder by the river and prepared to leave as well.
He had learned from Jiang Mai that the ten jin of soybeans used today had been borrowed from Jiang Fuzheng. Ye Li had no money left. So he returned home and carried over a sack of soybeans.
Soybeans were valuable. The stalks fed sheep; the beans could be exchanged for tofu or pressed for oil; the leftover meal fed livestock. His family planted some every year.
One could not always grind soy milk at the village head’s home. Jiang Dahe planned to buy a millstone in the county and have a carpenter make proper tofu molds. Bamboo steamers were only a stopgap; a real business required proper tools.
He also placed fifty wen on the stove for Ye Li.
“You’ll need it. If it’s not enough, ask me,” he said cheerfully.
“It’s more than enough. Thank you, Second Uncle. As for the millstone and molds, I’ll trouble you to make the trip. Once I earn money, I’ll repay you at once.”
Ye Li spoke sincerely. Aid in a snowstorm was worth more than gold.
“What talk of repayment? We’re family. Just use it.”
“I must repay it,” Ye Li insisted gently. “You and Second Aunt still need to prepare dowries for Xiao Liu and Yu-ge’er.”
“A token will do. They’re girls after all—why waste too much on dowries?” Jiang Dahe waved it off. “All right, get busy. I’m heading to town.”
Before leaving, he reminded Ye Li not to teach Jiang Ya the curdling technique.
Ye Li was speechless.
Very well. Once his soybean business expanded, he would reason properly with Jiang Dahe.
Today he again made cold-set tofu. If any remained unsold, he would fry it into tofu puffs.
Before boiling the soy milk, he ladled out a small basin. The little glutton had been craving soy milk for two days—today, Jiang Ya would finally drink his fill.
After setting the tofu and pressing it beneath a water-filled jar, Ye Li glanced at the sky and began preparing lunch.
Jiang Fuzheng had announced yesterday that the tofu would be ready by noon. Villagers would soon arrive to buy, so lunch had to be early.
The corn flatbread was finished; he steamed another batch, mixing in bean pulp as before. There was more pulp today, so he added half a bowl of white flour for elasticity and better texture.
As for dishes—naturally tofu again.
Cold tofu with chopped scallions: light and fragrant.
He had just finished cooking when Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya returned with pig fodder. The three of them sat down to eat.
Midway through the meal, the first customer arrived: Jiang Fuzheng.
As clan head, he led by example, openly supporting Ye Li.
Ye Li was moved. The pressed tofu was not yet firm, so only soft tofu was available. Jiang Fuzheng did not mind—its tenderness suited his seventy-year-old mother, whose teeth were nearly gone.
He bought three jin of soft tofu.
Ye Li also weighed out ten jin of soybeans for him to take back. Since the beans had come from Jiang Dahe, Jiang Fuzheng accepted them without protest.
Soon after he left, another visitor arrived—Aunt Qiumei from east of the Jiang home. She had been close to Jiang Ji’s mother and came to lend her support.
Before she departed, another figure appeared: Liang Erxiang, Jiang Dahe’s wife.
She had come to help. Ye Li cut her a piece of tofu and gently persuaded her to return home. The business was too small to require her assistance.
After she left, Jiang Ji’s father’s cousin, Jiang Dachuan, came…
…
There were only twenty-two households in Yezaopo. In such a small village, any stir became common knowledge.
The original owner of this body had been married here for twenty days. Everyone already knew his temperament.
Yesterday, Jiang Fuzheng had led Ye Li around to promote the tofu. That the once vicious simpleton had suddenly mastered the art of tofu piqued the entire village’s curiosity.
Partly curiosity, partly respect for the clan head—villagers came early to see whether he truly could make tofu.
In the span of a single meal, more than ten households arrived.
When they saw the neatly pressed tofu in willow baskets, they gasped. He really could make it.
Ye Li greeted each warmly, already intending a grand opening discount. Besides, today’s tofu had not pressed long enough and contained more moisture, so he added two extra liang for each customer.
The villagers were delighted, praising him for generosity and skill.
He accepted the compliments calmly, addressing each as uncle, aunt, grandfather, grandmother—so smoothly that Jiang Mai watched in astonishment.
When the rush subsided, only a small piece remained—not even half a jin.
No need to fry tofu puffs after all.
Ye Li picked up the small winnowing basket holding the copper coins and sifted through them: twenty-nine coins.
In the sack beneath the counter lay more than seven jin of soybeans. Some villagers, unwilling to part with coins, had brought beans to exchange—one jin of soybeans for one and a half jin of tofu.
Today’s cost had been ten jin of soybeans and brine: soybeans at three wen per jin, brine five wen—thirty-five wen total.
He had taken in fifty wen.
A profit of fifteen wen.
Not bad. The day had not been wasted.
Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya finished feeding the pigs and chickens and were about to head out to gather firewood.
Ye Li stepped from the kitchen and called after them.
“Come here. Time to pay your wages.”
“?”
Jiang Mai froze mid-step, certain he had misheard.
This person… was going to pay him and Ya-ge’er wages?
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