Chapter Eighty-Two: Digging the Fish Pond (Please Subscribe)

With the chili peppers, scallions, garlic, and ginger prepared, he scooped out the field snails that had finished spitting out their sand, blanched them in boiling water, cleaned them, and set them aside. He fired up the stove, heated the oil, sautéed the aromatics until fragrant, then added the snails and other ingredients. In no time, a plate of spicy stir-fried field snails was ready.

Zhong Di had originally planned to cook a fish, but after some thought, he decided against it. Compared to fish, he was more in the mood for snails. Once the dish was done, he picked out a snail with a toothpick, popped it into his mouth—a burst of fresh, spicy flavor, perfectly chewy and utterly satisfying.

After finishing the snails, Zhong Di reheated some leftover chicken and baby bok choy from last night, and breakfast was complete.

“Zhong Di, eating such spicy food so early in the morning—your stomach won’t be able to handle it,” his elder sister, Zhong Hui, said. She had been organizing some documents, but the enticing scent drew her attention to him. And what did she see? Goodness, greasy and spicy food first thing in the morning—how could anyone’s stomach bear that? Even the strongest would be ruined.

“Hey! If you want to eat, just eat. Why worry so much? As long as life is lived with zest, what if you only live fifty years? Spending a lifetime walking on eggshells just to gain another ten or twenty years—what’s the point?” Zhong Di was unconcerned. If he were the overly cautious type, he wouldn’t have made it this far.

That was his philosophy—many people, in the name of health, live timidly, barely daring to indulge, forcing down tasteless foods for the sake of so-called nutritional balance, all to gain another decade or two of life. To him, it simply wasn’t worth it. As long as he lived comfortably, he considered it a win, with no regrets.

“What a twisted logic. Still, it smells amazing,” Zhong Hui muttered. At first, she wasn’t tempted, but the more she inhaled the aroma, the less she could resist.

“Then join me. I’ll go call Dad and Shao Hong,” Zhong Di said, and with a couple of shouts, he brought them in.

While Zhong Di had been cooking, Shao Hong was explaining to their father how the fish pond would be dug. On the western side, there was a stretch about forty meters long on the second plot, where tree gaps were severe—the worst in the entire orchard. Scattered there were a little over twenty jujube trees, a few of which were of mixed varieties, and some grafts that had failed to take. With so few trees left, it was the perfect spot for a fish pond.

Behind it stretched a long expanse where the jujube trees were in better condition. That section could be fenced off for ducks, geese, and even mandarin ducks—creatures fond of water. It was an ideal setup.

As for the length, width, and depth, those were details to be worked out. “Dad, what do you think? Can we dig it?” Zhong Di finally asked as he neared the end of his meal, inquiring about specifics.

His father knew much more about these things. Zhong Di had a general idea, but for practical implementation, he’d have to rely on his father’s advice—hence why he wanted him in charge.

“It’s basically no problem,” his father replied, “the main thing is how deep to dig. After about ten meters down, we need to see if it’s sandy soil or clay. If it’s sand, we’ll have to line it with stone slabs or cement.”

“And if you want to raise fish, you’ll need a small reservoir. Our water source is nothing like the big canal-fed reservoirs elsewhere—their water temperature is suitable. If we pumped our water straight into the pond, it wouldn’t be good for the fish.”

“So, we’d set up a smaller holding pool, pump water there first to temper it, then use a smaller pump to fill the pond.”

His father put down his chopsticks to speak in detail, prioritizing the task over the food.

“Alright. If you need anything sorted, just let me know. If you need funds, tell me. Dad, just handle it as you see fit,” Zhong Di said. His father’s explanation was clear and precise, touching on all the key points. Hearing this, Zhong Di felt confident—putting his father in charge guaranteed success. If left to himself, he wouldn’t be so sure.

“Fine, your brother’s excavator is available, I’ve already arranged for it to come today. I told him we’d pay by the hour; if we did a flat contract, there’d be issues with quality. As for the money—” his father began.

“Dad, you decide. For payment, just talk to my sister. She’ll handle the accounts. Even if it costs a little more, he’s family—it’s fine if we lose a bit, but we can’t let him take a loss,” Zhong Di interrupted. There was no need to spell everything out; he didn’t want to waste time on such details. Wouldn’t it be better to feed the rabbits, walk the dog, or have tea under the pergola?

“Alright then, I’ll take care of it,” his father replied, understanding his son’s intent. Such decisiveness—he’d only ever seen it in big business owners.

Once breakfast was finished, Zhong Di and the others got to work. By noon, the small excavator arrived, but Zhong Di remained busy in the field.

He planned to put the background wall at the back of the first plot on the western side, planting all kinds of flowers there, with the pond behind—a picturesque scene of water and blooms, the result of careful planning.

The eastern plot was already planted with vegetables—no way to dig it up. Even previously, the herb garden hadn’t completely filled the first plot. The wall wouldn’t take much space—two or three acres would suffice, which was already quite generous. He’d replace the jujube trees with various fruit trees for a landscape that changed with the seasons, complemented by perennial flowers. With the pond behind, it was sure to impress visitors.

With that thought, Zhong Di resumed his work. At this pace, in a few more days, everything would be set. For summer planting, a shade net would help ensure survival, but since that wasn’t feasible, he’d rely on the jujube trees for shade, and with the help of the Desert Sage seedlings, things should be fine.

After a brief discussion with Zhong Hua, his father began digging, focusing the excavator on a single spot rather than moving around. Zhong Di found it odd but said nothing. He had researched fish pond construction, but the official guides were so rigorous that even the required area was out of reach.

Luckily, his goal wasn’t intensive aquaculture—just an attractive feature, stocked with fish, prawns, and snails, nothing more. He wasn’t aiming for high yields or strict standards like dissolved oxygen levels or water depth. Those requirements sounded like a headache.

His own plan was simple: a pond forty meters square, four or five meters deep, with two or three meters of water, and an aerator in the center. He’d install fencing around it to prevent accidents.

“Sand! Dig a bit deeper and see,” he heard his father shout, loud enough for him to catch every word from nearby.

Sand? That was going to be tricky.