Chapter 86: Spicy Chicken with Mixed Noodles

Originally, corn was all yellow, but after the introduction of a black gene, the corn gradually became interspersed with yellow and black. In the end, it all turned completely black. At first, the yellow tried to assimilate the black, but unexpectedly, the yellow was replaced, effectively erasing itself.

“No, thank you, sir. I think I’ll go buy the yellow corn instead,” Zhong Di quickly excused himself and found a stall selling yellow corn, where he bought several kilograms. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the black variety—in terms of nutrition, black foods are considered the best, followed by purple and red—but he simply didn’t want to eat black corn.

“Young man, just hatched ducklings—would you like to buy a few?” an old lady called out to him. It seemed everyone liked to call him “young man” now; it used to be “little boy.”

Her stall offered a variety of poultry chicks: goslings, mandarin ducklings, chicks, and so on. Zhong Di gazed at the ducklings, and a scene of roast duck appeared in his mind—wait, wrong scenario, try again.

A gentle breeze ripples the surface of the fish pond. Three or five ducks stand up, shake out their feathers, stretch their wings and flap them a few times, then rush gleefully into the water, bathing and chasing after small fish.

Yes, that’s a lovely scene—ingredients in their element, and it would give visitors something charming to watch.

“Do you have any half-grown ones?” he asked. As tempting as the ducklings were, he had no intention of buying them. They’d take too long to raise. It was better, as before, to buy half-grown ducks—just a short while of care and they’d be ready.

“Half-grown? I’ve got them. How many do you want?” The old lady’s eyes lit up, sensing a deal.

In the end, Zhong Di ordered two hundred ducks, two hundred mandarin ducks, and one hundred geese. The old lady gave him the lowest price without bargaining. On top of that, he bought a few rare breeds: imperial concubine chickens, guinea fowl, turkeys, pheasants—just a few of each, some three or five, others seven or eight.

His plan was simple: build enclosures next to the rabbit pens, one for each species, making them easy to see and enjoy.

He’d thought about buying peacocks and ostriches, but the old lady didn’t have any, so he let that idea go.

Of course, everything would be delivered to his door; nothing more needed to be said. After leaving his contact information and address, Zhong Di left the market, paying no more heed to the eager stall owners.

When he returned to the orchard, he found Shao Hong busy cooking. Unwittingly, half the day had slipped by, and it was already time for lunch.

“What are you making?” Zhong Di asked, drawn by the mouthwatering aroma.

“There are a lot of people for lunch, so I’m making a big plate of braised chicken, served with wide noodles,” Shao Hong replied.

“Sounds good—chicken with noodles.”

It was sweltering, right at noon. The stove glowed red-hot, and Shao Hong, in a sleeveless vest, was dripping with sweat. Zhong Di watched as he shoved more wood into the stove and fanned the flames even higher.

The big iron wok rumbled and bubbled, glowing red, with large chunks of chicken and tender potatoes simmering together. Scattered Sichuan peppercorns released their fragrance, filling the air.

Zhong Di could feel his mouth watering.

As the heat intensified, the broth reduced visibly—this was the magic of high heat thickening the sauce.

When the dish was nearly ready, Shao Hong, muscles flexing, heaved the chicken into a massive iron basin—yes, a very large one. Without such a big rustic stove, it would have been impossible to cook for so many people.

Altogether, there were nearly twenty mouths to feed—house builders, haulers, road workers, fish pond laborers.

Seeing the big plate of chicken ready, Zhong Di’s appetite was thoroughly awakened.

“Shao Hong, you boil the noodles while I cook a few fish,” he suggested, unable to resist adding a dish of his own.

“Are you sure fish goes with noodles?” Shao Hong asked in surprise. Usually, fish was served with rice, not noodles.

“If I want to eat it, I’ll make it. If you don’t believe me, just wait—I might even whip up stir-fried cabbage with eggs,” Zhong Di replied, unconcerned with culinary conventions. Why follow rules if you don’t have to?

“Alright, alright, you win—get to it!”

Rolling up his sleeves, Zhong Di got to work. Eating was one thing, but cooking it himself brought a unique satisfaction, a flavor others could never taste—a kind of anticipation.

Great food, when brought to the table, is best savored after a few minutes’ wait. The aroma seems even richer, not because the dish actually improves, but because waiting intensifies the anticipation.

From a large blue barrel, Zhong Di fished out six plump fish—these were from Uncle Qian, who had given them to him just yesterday. With so many people around, Zhong Di had accepted them gladly.

Whenever Uncle Qian visited, Zhong Di always prepared extra dishes as a token of gratitude.

Killing and scaling the fish, Zhong Di moved with practiced ease. He planned to cook them whole, just a bit of scoring needed.

Slices of ginger, a dash of cooking wine, a little light soy sauce, salt, and bean flour for marinating. On the side, he prepared the aromatic trio: scallions, garlic, and bird’s eye chilies—none could be omitted.

By the time everything was ready, Shao Hong had already boiled a huge basin of wide noodles. They would be rinsed with cold water and served with the braised chicken for a refreshing, satisfying meal.

He heated oil in the pan, added salt, and fried the marinated fish—adding salt to prevent sticking. When both sides were golden, he splashed in a bit of water and tossed in all the seasonings. Once finished, a handful of fresh cilantro from the garden would top it off.

Though he’d never been fond of cilantro, after tasting the ones he grew himself, he found himself inexplicably enamored with its flavor.

After a bit of bubbling, the fish was done. He plated it, scattered cilantro on top—utter perfection. The aroma made his already hungry belly yearn all the more.

“I’ll go call everyone to eat,” Shao Hong said, wiping his hands and heading out.

A short while later, the group returned. Before the main dishes came out, they were served chilled sweet mung bean soup.

“Come, have some mung bean soup first, then we’ll eat,” Shao Hong called. Zhong Di ladled himself a bowl. As soon as he drank it, he felt instantly refreshed, as if the summer heat melted away and joy soared through him.

It was just like taking a cold shower on a hot day.

The big basin of mung bean soup was soon emptied, and only then did Shao Hong bring out the large plate of chicken, the wide noodles, and Zhong Di’s fish.

Seeing the spread, everyone’s eyes lit up—saying they glowed green with envy was no exaggeration. Though they’d eaten well these past days, these dishes never grew tiresome; in fact, each meal seemed more delicious than the last.

The key was that after every meal, a short rest would restore their strength. The next day, their limbs never felt sore as they once had.

Lunch lasted over an hour. In the end, even the last drops of sauce were scraped clean, and all the garnishes that would usually be discarded were devoured.

It wasn’t that there wasn’t enough food—it was just that, as long as there was more, they’d eat to the last bite.