Elder Brother Ye Liang
Just as he had done the previous day, Ye Li called out to Jiang Mai and Jiang Ya, who were about to head out to gather firewood.
“Come here. Time for your wages.”
Jiang Mai led Jiang Ya to the kitchen doorway and glanced at the stove.
Unsold tofu still sat there.
Ye Li pressed his tofu in willow baskets. Thirty jin filled two baskets. Now one basket remained full, and the other still held a sizable block.
“The tofu didn’t sell out,” Jiang Mai observed.
“You still helped, didn’t you? And you didn’t slack off,” Ye Li replied easily. “Don’t worry. I’ll fry the rest into tofu puffs—it’ll sell.”
He took two copper coins from the winnowing basket and handed them over. “Here. Keep them safe. Don’t lose them while you’re gathering wood.”
Jiang Mai hesitated, glancing once more at the tofu. After a pause, he accepted the coins.
“All right. Off you go. I’m heading to Aunt Qiumei’s to exchange for some soybean oil.”
They were nearly out of lard. Yesterday, while selling tofu, Ye Li had discreetly asked several familiar households if anyone had oil to spare. Wang Qiumei had recently exchanged nine jin of soybeans for a jin of oil at the county press and was willing to trade.
Traditional pressed soybean oil retained a faint bean scent, even when heat-pressed. But it was cheaper—nine jin of beans for one jin of oil, which worked out to twenty-seven wen per jin. Considerably less than rendering pork fat.
If he used soybean oil to fry tofu puffs, costs would drop further. As for taste—common folk were hardly connoisseurs. And tofu puffs were meant to soak up rich sauces; as long as the seasoning was bold enough, the bean aroma would disappear beneath it.
Once the boys left, Ye Li carried eighteen jin of soybeans and a small block of tofu to Wang Qiumei’s house. He returned with two jin of soybean oil and immediately set to work frying.
Alongside tofu puffs, he also prepared several large “orchid skewers.”
These skewers—also called tofu skewers—were unlike the dense, dry varieties that resisted soaking. The orchid style had a honeycombed interior, light and spongy like tofu puffs, perfect for absorbing broth in hotpot or spicy soup.
If his tofu could become puffs, it could certainly become skewers.
After half an hour of steady work, he had produced two jin of tofu puffs and one jin of orchid skewers.
Once the fire was extinguished, he found a clean piece of unused cloth and stitched it into a small sack. The former owner’s memories guided his hands; though clumsy, he managed well enough.
He washed the sack, packed half a jin each of tofu puffs and skewers, and prepared to head into town to approach restaurants.
Truthfully, he would rather set up his own stall. Tofu puffs and skewers were best enjoyed in spicy soup or hotpot—selling skewers would earn more than simply selling the ingredients.
But he still had to make tofu daily. He lacked the time and energy to run a stall himself.
Just as he locked the main hall door and turned toward the road to the county, a vaguely familiar voice called from the courtyard gate.
“Li-ge’er.”
He turned—and broke into a smile.
“Elder Brother. What brings you here?”
The former owner had two elder brothers: Ye Liang and Ye Wen.
The man at the gate was Ye Liang.
At twenty-three, Ye Liang’s hands were rough and his face darkened by sun and hardship. Seeing the smile on his younger brother’s face, he paused in surprise.
Just days ago, their father and this third son had quarreled bitterly. By temperament, the old Ye Li would have greeted him with scowls or eye-rolling. But now—this warmth?
Suppressing his confusion, Ye Liang raised a small cloth bag. “I was delivering goods to the county for my employer. Father told me to stop by and check on you. He stir-fried some dried shrimp.”
Dried shrimp?
Ye Li’s eyes brightened at once.
The Ye family lived in Darong Village, near the Nantong Canal. River produce was easier to obtain there. Still, fresh shrimp were expensive—over ten wen per jin. Their father only bought some during festivals.
For him to send shrimp now, outside of any holiday, meant something.
Sure enough, Ye Liang said, “Father says that now you’re married to Xiao Ji, you should settle down and live properly. Quarreling won’t improve your days. Let Xiao Ji study in peace. When he passes the examinations and becomes a xiucai—or even a juren—your good life will follow.”
The former Ye Li would have rolled his eyes.
But this was Ye Li.
“You’re right,” he replied with a smile. “Now that I’ve married in, I mean to become the wife of a juren. I’ve thought it through. I won’t hold Jiang Ji back. You and Father can rest easy.”
Ye Liang blinked.
Before he could process this, Ye Li ushered him inside. “Have you eaten? Thirsty? I just fried tofu puffs—come taste.”
“My employer fed us. Tofu puffs?”
“You’ve never had anything like this.” Ye Li set the dried shrimp on the counter and brought out a clay basin filled with tofu puffs and orchid skewers. He handed over chopsticks enthusiastically.
After Ye Liang tasted them, Ye Li explained their origin.
Ye Liang nearly choked.
“Since when can you make tofu?”
“Trade secret,” Ye Li said with a shy tilt of his head. “I’ll only tell Jiang Ji.”
Ye Liang stared as if he had seen a ghost.
His younger brother… shy? Protective of Xiao Ji?
“Elder Brother,” Ye Li continued, tone turning serious, “the urgent matter is finding a market. I have no capital. The soybeans and millstone were provided by Second Uncle. I must earn quickly to repay him. I was about to take some into town.”
That was practical talk. Ye Liang focused at once.
Both the Ye and Jiang families were poor. With such a novel food, selling it mattered most.
Then Ye Li added, “What if Yige’er set up a stall in town?”
“Have Yige’er sell it?” Ye Liang asked, startled.
Liu Yi was Ye Liang’s husband. Though the Ye family was poor—and widely known to support Jiang Ji’s schooling with three liang in tuition yearly—Liu Yi had insisted on marrying Ye Liang. His parents ran a pancake stall in Baxian Town; they earned daily income.
“Yes. Yige’er has experience. These are delicious—they’ll sell.”
Ye Li demonstrated the proper way to serve tofu puffs and skewers: bold seasoning, generous sauce. Liu Yi’s parents sold flatbread—bread stuffed with skewers would be perfect.
Half an hour later, Ye Liang left carrying a clay jar in his arms and a basket on his back.
Ye Li had given him all the freshly fried tofu puffs and skewers to try selling at the Liu family’s pancake stall. He also cut a block of tofu for the Ye family to taste.
Darong Village lay south of Beiyang County. By the time Ye Liang walked home through the county seat, dusk had fallen.
In the Ye courtyard, Father Ye and Liu Yi sat outside the kitchen sewing. Ye Daji and Ye Wen were still in the fields.
Father Ye hurried forward. “Did you see Li-ge’er? Is he still angry?”
Liu Yi rose as well, but his eyes fixed on the clay jar in his husband’s arms.
“You went with only a cloth bag. Why come back with a jar?”
“I saw him. He’s not angry anymore. And he can make tofu.”
“What?!” both exclaimed.
Ye Liang lifted the jar. “Father, Yige’er—try this. Red oil sesame tofu puffs.”
He gestured toward the basket as well.
By the time Father Ye and Liu Yi finished tasting and calmed down, night had fully fallen. Ye Daji and Ye Wen returned from the fields.
In the dim, low kitchen, the five of them sat around their worn table.
Normally, supper was only corn gruel and pickles. Even corn flatbread was reserved.
But tonight, with Ye Li’s addition, the meal felt abundant.
Father Ye poured the red oil sesame tofu puffs into a clay basin and cut in a block of firm tofu. The oil diluted, the color softened, the flavor lightened—but the family ate contentedly.
Even Liu Yi—who had never thought much of his troublesome brother-in-law—felt confidence stirring for tomorrow’s stuffed bread.
At first light the next morning, Liu Yi set off for Baxian Town with boiled tofu puffs and orchid skewers on his back.
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