Chapter Fifty-Seven: Jujube Tree, Something Is Off About You Today!

Something’s off!

“Jujube tree, there’s something strange about you today!” Early in the morning, Zhong Di stood before a jujube tree, pruning shears in hand, muttering under his breath.

Today’s task was to remove all the jujube buds to concentrate the nutrients—an essential step. If the buds weren’t removed, the growth would get out of control, and the fruit would struggle to set.

But...

“Zhong Di, what are you muttering about?” Shao Hong asked, his face full of confusion, falling into a bout of self-doubt, hoping he’d misheard.

“It’s nothing. Let’s just get on with removing the buds.” Zhong Di snapped back to attention, answered Shao Hong, and resumed his work.

He’d just witnessed the jujube trees engaging in rather indecent activity—it was practically an assault on the eyes.

The jujube blossoms were in full bloom, clustered like strings of firecrackers—large, dazzling, and beautiful. Bees were feasting on the nectar.

To Zhong Di, the air was thick with the scent of romance, which was normal enough—after all, even jujube trees have to reproduce. The key point, though, was that jujube flowers self-pollinate.

What was this, then? A legendary act of solitary amusement? Self-gratification, and then—pollination complete?

Despite the cloud of bees collecting nectar, the truth was jujube flowers didn’t need insects to pollinate at all.

In this environment, Zhong Di felt a strange sense of melancholy. Even the jujube trees had reached their season of propagation, and yet...

He worked straight through until noon before calling it a day. The morning’s efforts were nearly complete, just the finishing touches left.

That awkward feeling lingered until midday, fading only when the temperature soared, drying out the sticky pistils of the jujube flowers and making pollination difficult.

It was... well, let’s just say it was like a certain something—no need to overthink it.

Zhong Di hadn’t wanted to look; it was just that the spectacle was too intense. He reflected for a moment: ever since they started spraying foliar fertilizer, they’d been feeding the jujube blossoms, and after yesterday’s girdling, the nutrients from the leaves had been redirected to the flowers. Today, the pollination began.

Clearly, not a single step of the jujube tree’s “three-step process” could be skipped. Miss any link, and the fruit would never set.

“How about stir-fried river snails for lunch?” Shao Hong suggested, tidying up the morning’s fish catch while scooping up snails.

As for the fish, the hardy ones were kept alive, the delicate ones cleaned and stored in the fridge.

“Sounds good. Once the paperwork’s done, we’ll get a big excavator and dig a fish pond,” Zhong Di said, his desire to build a fish pond growing ever stronger.

“Zhong Di, there’s something I’d like to discuss.” Shao Hong had hesitated to bring it up, but hearing Zhong Di speak, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Go on.”

“Look at us—we have orders from Dongyang. Our eggs and free-range chickens are expensive, yet they sell well. Why not scale up? We could make a lot of money in a short time.”

The idea had been brewing for days, but he’d never voiced it.

Zhong Di pondered for a while, then patted Shao Hong on the shoulder. “Let me ask you a few questions. Think carefully.”

“How much money do you consider a lot? How much would satisfy your needs right now? What scale do you think counts as big? And, what do you think is the point of living?”

As he spoke, Zhong Di took the river snails from Shao Hong and headed for the kitchen.

“I’ll cook today—spicy style. How does that sound?”

“Zhong... Zhong Di, I...” Shao Hong stammered, unable to find the right words.

“Let me spell it out. No need to get hung up on these things. Let’s do some quick math. As things stand, once we grow a bit more, we’ll earn at least ten thousand a day—a few million a year.”

“There’s no end to making money. Why do people get exhausted? It’s not society’s fault, but their own insatiable desire.”

“Think about it: before all this, when was the last time you smiled? Have you really laughed since you grew up? Lately, even releasing a few fish at the reservoir brings you joy. Haven’t these days been fulfilling?”

After finishing, Zhong Di started prepping the snails. Shao Hong was his first recruited partner, and there would surely be others in the future. Their overall approach needed to be set straight from the start.

“Are you sure you can cook?” Shao Hong, after a long silence, seemed to have figured something out and followed Zhong Di into the kitchen.

The snails were blanched in boiling water with cooking wine, ginger, and salt. This not only removed any fishiness but also cleaned the snails thoroughly.

Since the snails had been retrieved from the reservoir for a while, all the sand inside had been expelled, and any moss on their shells had long since disappeared.

After a thorough wash, they were spotless. If you wanted to eat them straight after catching, you’d only be able to purge the sand briefly, then steam them and pick out the meat to stir-fry.

Now, though, they could be cooked with the shells on; eating them shelled just didn’t feel right.

The snails weren’t large—about the size of the first joint of an adult’s thumb. In the northwest, snails are small, but by the sea, they’re not just bigger—there’s a greater variety, too.

Cat’s-eye snails, chicken-dropping snails...

After a quick blanch, the snails were set aside—just one minute was enough for these shellfish to cook, and already the aroma was coming out.

Chili peppers and scallions were sliced, ginger and garlic minced, the seasonings set—perfect. Time to cook.

“Not bad, not bad. Got any rock sugar? Add a bit for flavor.”

Watching Zhong Di deftly handle the ingredients, Shao Hong nodded in approval. Zhong Di’s cooking was average, but not bad. These days, more and more young men knew their way around the kitchen.

“Yes, there’s a bit left from when we caramelized the chicken. Should we add some to the snails?”

Zhong Di wasn’t sure—he’d never added sugar to snails before.

“Just a little really enhances the taste. It’s like two glasses of water with equal sugar, but add a pinch of salt to one, and it tastes even sweeter.”

“That’s not quite the same!” Zhong Di protested. How could that be?

“Same principle. Try it and you’ll see.”

Zhong Di found the rock sugar and started heating the oil. He used soybean oil, which he felt was richer than canola, though less fragrant.

He sautéed scallion, ginger, garlic, and chili, added the snails, poured in a little hot water, and simmered. In went pepper oil, five-spice powder, rock sugar, and some chili oil. When the sauce thickened, it was done.

For extra heat, Zhong Di had chosen bird’s eye chili and used plenty—he loved spicy food. Why? Because it was exhilarating!

“Mmm, the taste is fantastic—you really outdid yourself today!” Shao Hong grabbed a toothpick, quickly speared a snail, and popped the meat into his mouth.

“That’s just my normal level—what do you mean, outdid myself?”

Zhong Di dug in as well. Sure enough, the addition of rock sugar really elevated the flavor.

As they finished lunch, Zhong Di’s phone rang. He glanced at the unfamiliar number—probably someone wanting to visit the orchard, or maybe buy chickens.

“Hello?”

“This is Wu Qi. The permits for your orchard’s facilities have been approved. When you have time, come by the Forestry Bureau to pick them up.”

Wu Qi’s familiar voice came through the line.

“Oh? Thank you!” Zhong Di was surprised—he hadn’t expected things to move so quickly. He’d thought it would take much longer.

With the permits in hand, so much would be easier.

“There’s news about the Pallas’s cats—preliminary estimates say there are at least thirty. That’s a sizable population, and Director Xing is thrilled.”

Wu Qi’s meaning was clear—Director Xing had handled the matter.

After hanging up, Zhong Di began planning the next steps. He’d thought the approvals would take three to five months, pushing back the construction of greenhouses and other projects, but it had all happened in a flash.

Perhaps it was a special expedited case.

He wasn’t a fan of special treatment, but once he made money, he’d do something for forestry development in Shache County.

“Our permits are ready. We’ll need to move things up—originally, we’d planned to relax once the orchard was settled, but now there’s no time for that,” Zhong Di said to Shao Hong.

That had always been the plan: once the orchard was in order, they’d try out new ventures, post on social media, attract visitors, and once the vegetables were ready, start hosting tourists.

There would have been a month or two to relax, but with the approvals in hand, the timeline had to be pushed forward.

“No worries. If I had nothing to do all of a sudden, I’d probably get restless anyway. Doing these things brings its own satisfaction.”

Shao Hong had overheard the earlier conversation and was clearly pleased with how things were going.

“Then let’s work hard for a little longer.”

After discussing the details, the two took their midday rest—rest was still important; there was no need to work themselves to the bone.

By late afternoon, they’d finished their work and surveyed the whole orchard.

Watching the jujube blossoms indulge in their self-amusement, Zhong Di had an idea: he could write a technical article about jujube fruit setting and publish it on a public platform.

Most existing technical articles were overly complex and hard to understand—those without specialized knowledge couldn’t make heads or tails of them.

For example, technical articles about fertilizing during fruit set would specify exact amounts of potassium and phosphorus, how to spray, drip irrigation, integrated water and fertilizer systems, all couched in lofty terms.

But for frontline farmers, the reaction was, “Yes, it’s well written; yes, it makes sense; yes, not bad”—but in the end, they just did things the way they always had. No matter how good the article, if people can’t understand it, what’s the point?

Hence the saying: “In the past, you could farm without education. Now, without an education, you can’t farm at all—the new techniques are only for those who understand them.”

The truth was, seventy to eighty percent of those working in frontline agriculture had no more than a high school education, with most never finishing middle school or even primary school.

With such a foundation, no matter how advanced or impressive the technology, it could never be widely adopted.

If people can’t understand it, it’s pointless.

In short, it just doesn’t connect with reality.