🌸 Chapter 32. A Modern Recipe
1130 Words
The next morning, Xiaoyun rose early, long before the rooster crowed. Pale light seeped through the gaps in the wooden shutters, casting slanted beams across the rough-hewn floor. The chill of dawn nipped at her fingers, but she ignored it as she splashed her face with cold water from the clay basin.
Today, she had a plan.
The household pantry was meager—just some coarse grains, dried sweet potatoes, a handful of beans, and pickled vegetables. To the average villager, this was nothing unusual. Food in the 1970s countryside was scarce, and most meals consisted of thin porridge or dry steamed buns. Yet to Xiaoyun, raised in a world of abundance and knowledge, it was a challenge.
She ran her fingers over the grain sack, lips curving into a small smile. *Even the simplest ingredients can become something remarkable… if you know how.*
By the time her husband stirred, the fire in the clay stove was already crackling. He stepped into the small kitchen, hair still damp from washing, and paused. The sight that greeted him was unexpected: Xiaoyun crouched over the stove, stirring a pot with practiced movements, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration.
The smell hit him first. Not the bland aroma of thin porridge, but something richer, fuller—a fragrance that stirred his appetite in a way food rarely did.
“What are you making?” His voice was low, still rough with sleep.
Xiaoyun glanced up, meeting his gaze briefly before returning to the pot. “Breakfast. Something new.”
She didn’t elaborate, but the faint spark in her eyes revealed her quiet confidence.
In her past life, she had dined on the finest cuisines, cooked by world-class chefs. But she had also learned to cook herself, not out of necessity, but passion. To her, food was more than survival—it was comfort, connection, even strategy. And here, in this village that mocked her, food could become her weapon and her shield.
She stirred the pot once more before lifting the lid. Steam billowed upward, carrying the scent of garlic, soy, and sizzling oil. Inside, diced sweet potatoes and beans simmered together, coated in a savory sauce she had concocted using little more than dried chilies, homemade vinegar, and a splash of precious soy sauce she had bartered for at the market.
On the side, a small pile of dough rounds rested beneath a damp cloth. She had kneaded them herself, shaping them into flat discs that could be pan-fried into golden cakes.
Her husband raised an eyebrow. “We don’t usually eat like this.”
“I know,” she replied evenly, flipping one of the dough rounds onto the hot pan. It sizzled, crisping at the edges. “But I don’t plan to live on thin gruel forever. If I can make something better, why shouldn’t we?”
He didn’t argue, but she noticed the way his eyes lingered on the pan, the subtle twitch of his throat as he swallowed.
Soon, the table was set. A plate of golden flatbreads, crisp on the outside and soft within, sat in the center. The pot of savory sweet potato and bean stew bubbled gently, releasing waves of aroma that filled the small house.
Xiaoyun wiped her hands on her apron and sat across from him. “Try it.”
He hesitated for a moment before picking up a piece of flatbread. Breaking it apart, he dipped it into the stew and lifted it to his mouth.
The first bite stopped him cold.
The bread was warm, slightly chewy, with just the right hint of salt. The stew was hearty, with layers of flavor—spicy heat, tangy vinegar, and the earthiness of beans balanced perfectly with the sweetness of potato.
His eyes flickered briefly, betraying the surprise he rarely showed.
Xiaoyun watched him closely, unable to stop a smirk from tugging at her lips. “Well?”
He chewed slowly, then swallowed. “…Good.”
“Good?” She arched a brow, feigning offense. “That’s all you have to say? I slaved over this recipe, and you give me one word?”
He glanced at her, expression unreadable. Then, after a pause, he added quietly, “Very good.”
The corners of her lips softened. For a man of so few words, that was high praise.
They ate together in comfortable silence, though Xiaoyun caught him sneaking extra bites more quickly than she expected. For someone so disciplined and restrained, his appetite betrayed how much he enjoyed the food.
When the bowls were empty, he leaned back slightly, looking at her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher.
“You know how to cook like this… where did you learn?”
Xiaoyun froze for a heartbeat. She couldn’t exactly tell him the truth—that she was a transmigrated soul from decades ahead. So she offered a vague smile. “Let’s just say I paid attention to things others overlooked. Skills like these… they stay with you.”
He didn’t press further, but his eyes lingered on her longer than usual, as if trying to unravel a mystery.
After breakfast, word of the unusual fragrance drifting from their home spread quickly through the village. Neighbors peeked curiously over the fence, whispering among themselves.
“Did you smell that? What were they cooking?”
“Probably something wasteful. That girl always thinks she’s above us.”
“Hmph. We’ll see how long she lasts. Food like that doesn’t come free.”
Xiaoyun heard the whispers but paid them no mind. Instead, she cleaned up with brisk efficiency, her mind already racing with ideas.
If she could use her modern knowledge of cooking to create meals that were tastier, more filling, and even healthier, she could do more than just feed her small household. She could trade recipes, open opportunities, and perhaps one day, lift the entire family out of poverty.
It wasn’t just about food. It was about proving herself.
As she hung the cloth to dry, her husband approached quietly. His shadow fell across her, and when she turned, she found him watching her with that same unreadable gaze.
“You’re not like the others,” he said finally, his tone almost contemplative.
Xiaoyun blinked, caught off guard. “Is that… a bad thing?”
He shook his head. “No. Just different.”
For a fleeting moment, something like admiration glimmered in his eyes before he turned away, lifting his axe to chop wood.
Xiaoyun pressed her lips together, warmth blooming in her chest. *Different…* Yes, she was different. And with every step she took, every choice she made, she would show this village just how far “different” could go.
✨ End of Chapter 32: A Modern Recipe
- Writer
