Chapter 17: The Foodie Zhou Sinian (Part 2)

Mingdai took a careful look and noticed that the left sleeve and right collar of his cotton jacket were wet! His pant legs and shoes were also soaked! There was already a ring of water stains on the floor where he stood!

So, had he washed his cotton clothes? Was he really that unwell in the head? Who washes their cotton jackets and trousers in the dead of winter? They’ll never dry, will they? Judging by his appearance, he probably didn’t even have a spare set of warm clothes. Mingdai felt a headache coming on. Still, she didn’t dare provoke him and asked softly, “Are you hungry?”

Zhou Sinian still didn’t answer, only stared at her intently. Mingdai showed him her grain sack. “I’ll cook breakfast with my own rations. Let’s eat together, all right?”

The man continued to block the door, silent, his eyes fixed on her so intensely that Mingdai felt goosebumps rise across her skin.

She said no more, just lifted her sack of cornmeal and poured it into the ceramic basin she’d brought, sprinkled in some yeast, added water, and kneaded the dough until it was smooth. She lifted the pot lid, set it upside down, and placed the ceramic basin atop it to keep covered.

From her bag, she picked out two large potatoes, scooped up some water to wash them, and used a bottle cap left from a drink to scrape off the skins. She searched for a good while but found neither a cutting board nor a kitchen knife.

She glanced at the man by the door. “Let me go out for a moment, would you? I need to fetch some cooking tools and seasonings.”

The man stared at her, unmoving. Mingdai kept her patience and repeated her request. Several minutes later, Zhou Sinian finally stepped aside, leaving only a narrow gap. Mingdai’s lips twitched—only someone as thin as her could squeeze through such a slim opening.

Once inside, she quickly gathered everything she needed. After a moment’s thought, she also found a set of clothes and shoes that looked about Zhou Sinian’s size and took them along as well.

When she returned to the kitchen, Zhou Sinian was already crouched by the stove, warming himself, his head nearly buried inside the hearth.

Mingdai didn’t stop him until the tips of his hair began to curl and the air filled with the acrid scent of burning protein. Only then did the man withdraw, patting his head. The instinct to avoid harm—so deeply rooted in human nature.

Mingdai stepped to his left, placing the clothes and shoes on the firewood. “Your clothes and shoes are wet—why not change? These are my father’s; I’ll lend them to you. Take me with you to gather firewood.” After repeating herself twice, she turned away to wash the board and slice the potatoes.

By the time she’d finished and looked back, both the man and the clothes by the stove had disappeared. Satisfied, she nodded, took out a small pot, washed it clean, and set it on the smaller stovetop beside the main one.

This place had once housed the long-term laborers for a wealthy landowner, which explained the multiple stoves. Ordinary families had only one. Pots were expensive, and some families even avoided dividing the household simply because they possessed only a single pot.

This kitchen had three stoves—one large, two small. Because so many people needed feeding, it wasn’t like other households that cooked by the kang in the main room; here, there was a large kitchen serving for both cooking and eating.

She soaked the potato shreds in cold water, prepared sliced garlic and dried chilies, then set down the hot ceramic basin on the board. There was too much water in the pot, so she tossed in more firewood and brought it to a boil.

Making use of the time, Mingdai shaped the fermented cornmeal dough into rounds, pressing them against the inside of the large pot. She got sixteen in all—a perfect number.

Letting the water boil away, she lit another stove. When the pan was hot, she added oil, then tossed in the garlic and dried chilies.

A cheerful sizzle rang out in the kitchen, and the aroma wafted through the air. In no time, a shadow darted over and stared fixedly at Mingdai’s stir-frying, his head nearly dipping into the pan.

It was Zhou Sinian, now dressed in clean, dry clothes.