Medicinal Cuisine
1191 Words
When Celestian came downstairs, Gan Jing looked up at him calmly, as if she already knew the answer.
“She’s asleep?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Celestian nodded lightly. He glanced around the shop—it was already lunchtime, and there were no customers inside. He sighed. “Just one massage and she was out cold. That girl really has it rough.”
“And last night?” Gan Jing frowned slightly, worry showing in her eyes.
“It’s fine.” Celestian stepped closer and gently pressed between her brows. “So many people were involved last night that the news was bound to leak anyway. The gangs won’t come looking for trouble over this. Beckett didn’t come for that reason.”
“Then what?” Gan Jing asked instinctively—then immediately realized. Her voice lowered. “Her mother?”
Other than matters related to cultivation, Celestian rarely hid anything from Gan Jing. Though they hadn’t formally crossed that final line, their bond ran deep—missing only a name.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “She found evidence that the person who killed her mother was most likely someone from the Nisshin-kai.”
“Japanese?” Gan Jing frowned, then nodded. “That does fit. Americans don’t usually work that clean. Everyone connected was silenced—very much their style.”
Celestian shrugged. “She wants me to help find out who in the Nisshin-kai specializes in that kind of work.”
“Good luck with that.” Gan Jing gave a bitter smile. “With their methods, anyone involved in something like that is either already dead or sent back to Japan. If you actually find anything useful, that’d be a miracle.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Celestian frowned. The odds were high—too high—that the killer was already gone. Even if he uncovered records, it would almost certainly be a dead end.
“Either way, I’ll have to ask Qin Ming and the others,” he sighed. He didn’t have much hope himself. Then he looked at Gan Jing and softened his tone. “You hold the front. I’ll make lunch—and prepare a medicinal meal for Beckett.”
After giving her a few instructions, Celestian headed back upstairs and started preparing Beckett’s meal.
The dish was called Soybean–Snow Pear Pork Trotter Soup.
He took one snow pear, fifty grams of soybeans, half a pork trotter, and sliced three pieces of ginger. First, he blanched the pork trotter to remove any off flavors and cut it into chunks. Then he added the cored, chopped pear, soybeans, and ginger, filled the pot with water, and brought it to a rolling boil.
After fifteen minutes on high heat, he turned it down and simmered it gently for another hour, seasoning with salt at the end. Simple, effective—done.
Celestian’s cooking skills were average at best, but his knife work was precise, and his control over heat and timing was excellent. The soup might not win beauty contests, but it smelled right.
While the soup simmered, he also made mapo tofu, braised eggplant, smashed cucumber salad, and a pot of rice. By the time the soup was ready, lunch was complete.
When Celestian came out of the kitchen, he saw that Beckett had already woken up and was chatting with Gan Jing. After the rejuvenation treatment and an hour of sleep, she looked visibly better—her complexion brighter, skin smoother, as if she’d been refreshed from the inside out.
Celestian quickened his pace and stepped into the front hall, forcing a smile. “What are you two talking about?”
Seeing him position himself instinctively behind Gan Jing, Beckett’s eyes dimmed for a fraction of a second—but she buried the feeling immediately.
With no change in expression, she smiled. “What, afraid I’d bully your girl? Or that I’d get her to spill something I shouldn’t hear?”
As if Gan Jing could ever match you in interrogation, Celestian thought, lips twitching. He glanced at Gan Jing, a little tense.
Gan Jing smiled gently, feeling his concern, and patted the hand resting on her shoulder. “It’s nothing. Catherine was just talking about clothes and shoes. You’re overthinking it.”
Sister? She’s half a year older than you, Celestian thought dryly. Though, to be fair, Beckett did look more mature.
Watching Beckett sit there without reaction, Celestian sighed inwardly. Poor girl—she had no idea how subtle Eastern dynamics could be.
He smiled faintly, sounding mildly aggrieved. “I didn’t even say anything. How do you know I was overthinking?”
Then he waved it off. “Alright, lunch is ready. Gan Jing, help me set the table.”
He turned to Beckett. “Come on, Catherine. Don’t sit out here—there’s usually no one around at this hour.”
The dining area wasn’t on the first floor, of course. In the U.S., regulations were strict. If anyone saw people eating inside a medical shop, the fines alone would hurt—and if a lawsuit ever happened, it would become ammunition.
Do it once, and a lawyer would say you did it every day.
Celestian locked the front door, flipped the sign from OPEN to TEMPORARILY CLOSED, then returned upstairs.
In the living room, Beckett was already seated properly, fork and spoon in hand, staring at the dishes, unsure where to start.
Celestian took the bowl of soup Gan Jing handed him and placed it in front of Beckett.
“This is soybean–snow pear pork trotter soup,” he said with a smile. “In traditional Chinese medicine, pears are called the ‘king of fruits.’ Pear soup is especially good for women—snow pears in particular clear the lungs, calm the heart, and improve skin. This soup helps smooth the complexion, ease hoarseness and dry mouth, reduce internal heat, and even lower blood pressure.”
He looked at her seriously. “You’ve been working nonstop and barely sleeping. If you don’t nourish yourself properly, you’ll age fast.”
As a detective, Beckett understood exactly what he meant. She already looked better than she had in years—back when she was constantly on patrol, sunburned and worn down, hardly resembling the LAPD’s so-called top police beauty.
Almost every woman cared about her appearance. And advice from a beauty expert carried weight.
Without hesitation, Beckett lifted her spoon and started drinking the soup in big gulps.
Celestian smiled. “No rush. I also prepared a few medicinal recipe lists for you. If you try them when you have time and stick with it, I guarantee that when you’re forty, you’ll still look twenty.”
“Really?”
His words sounded nice, but she remained skeptical. She didn’t immediately take the recipe lists, instead smiling awkwardly. “I don’t think I’ll have the time.”
Working homicide meant late nights were routine. And Catherine had her own burdens to carry.
Time was only part of the problem, though.
The bigger issue was that—poor Catherine—she simply didn’t know how to cook.
- Writer
