Chapter 145: Chinese-style Delicacy

"Li Juan, why don't you stay for dinner tonight? We've wrapped some dumplings at home, and I can boil some fresh ones for you later," Mom's voice drifted in from the kitchen through the window.

"Oh, goodness!" Startled out of their wits, the two girls lunged across the table and hurriedly gathered up the scattered photographs and letters.

After a brief flurry of panic, Li Juan asked quietly, "Your mom isn't going to make a fuss about this, is she?"

Dong Yanyan nodded silently. "Don't worry, she'll only make a fuss about me, not you."

"Then I'll leave this letter with you. Your place is safe," Li Juan said with a smile.

Dong Yanyan nodded silently once more. "As for the pictures, whatever you do, don't mention them to my mom."

Even though it seemed just now like Mom might have eavesdropped, playing the ostrich was a must—as long as she didn't ask, she wouldn't confess!

*

On Sunday, it was time for the eldest aunt's family to slaughter their pig. Early in the morning, relatives and neighbors gathered over to lend a hand. In the countryside, butchering the winter pig was quite a lively affair. The butcher was always the most popular person; after finishing the job for the host family, he would be rewarded with a set of the pig's head, trotters, and offal. In those days, those ingredients could make an entire table of delicacies. Dong Yanyan's eldest uncle was the local butcher, and with their large extended family, everyone figured there would be another round of fine drinks and good food after the pig was done.

Actually, Dong Yanyan wasn't terribly interested in pork itself; she loved the head meat, pig liver, pig heart, pig lungs, pig kidneys, and pig large intestines. Stir-fried with green peppers and other side dishes, they were utterly delicious. In short, she was a fan of pig offal. *O(╯□╰)o*

Of course, she never watched the actual slaughtering process—it was far too bloody and violent. Several strapping men would drag the doomed pig out from the sty, slaughter it in the backyard behind the house, and drain the blood while shaving the bristles. The fresh pig's blood was still steaming hot; they would catch half a basin of it in two iron tubs, sprinkle it with chopped scallions and seasonings, and steam it in a large wok. The resulting blood tofu had a tender, smooth texture, just the right amount of savory saltiness, and happened to be one of Dong Yanyan's absolute favorites. Home-raised pigs were fed coarse grains and got plenty of exercise, which made the pork exceptionally delicious, not to mention the pig blood. This later led to her developing a deep fondness for blood sausage over a long period. However, other people thought blood sausage was dirty, and the versions she managed to buy often tasted poor, so she gradually stopped eating it. Over the span of more than a decade, how many delicious things had vanished? Nowadays, it was only on the occasional trip back home that she could eat genuinely trustworthy chicken, duck, fish, and pork. The rest of the time, who knew how much genetically modified soybean oil, lean-meat powder, fake eggs, tainted milk, and radiation-exposed seafood she had consumed? By now, she figured she must be immune to all poisons.

Out in the courtyard, a brick stove had already been built and water brought to a boil, awaiting the arrival of the pork in the pot. Stewed pork with sauerkraut, along with boiled white meat and blood sausage—these were absolute must-haves.

Fine snowflakes drifted lazily through the sky, and the entire courtyard was bustling with elders and youngsters working energetically. The adults were busy slaughtering the pig and dividing the meat, while the children chased and played around them. The eldest aunt's husband put the chopped pig's head into one pot to boil, while large chunks of pork simmered in another. Before long, the rich aroma of pork filled the air. This kind of freshly boiled pork was extraordinarily fragrant; you could pull it straight out of the pot, dip it in garlic soy sauce, and eat it as is, or use it for stir-fries and stews—you could easily make over a dozen dishes without repeating a single one.

Dong Yanyan recalled a German food program she had once watched that featured green, eco-friendly pork raised on a farm. A bunch of foreigners had fussed around for half a day, slaughtering and boiling the meat, stirring it about in a massive cauldron, and constantly fishing out pieces of cooked meat to taste. As she watched, her mouth had begun to water. Just as her imagination was running wild, those very same foreigners proceeded to grind all that beautifully cooked meat into minced meat and made... hamburger patties! That's right! After working hard for ages, they made only a single dish: grilled meat patties! Then each person took a piece, eating and praising how delicious it was. She honestly didn't know whether to feel sorry for them or pity that poor pig.

It was no exaggeration to say that China was truly one of the three great culinary nations. Throughout history, China's imaginative flair for food had been nothing short of breathtaking. Leaving aside the eight major culinary traditions that were household names today, the various local specialty snacks alone were countless, to say nothing of the extravagant and luxurious delicacies enjoyed by ancient nobles and officials—just reading the descriptions was enough to make one's mouth water.

As a certified foodie, being born in China could be considered a stroke of luck. As for food safety, a commoner like her couldn't change a thing anyway; as long as her cravings were satisfied, she wouldn't worry about whether things were toxic or not. Besides, koalas ate toxic eucalyptus leaves—they spent one-sixth of their lives consuming poison, and the remaining five-sixths sleeping off the detox. Compared to them, she was much better off. Human beings lived exhausting lives when they thought too much; as long as her conscience was clear, that was enough. Those people making money through unscrupulous means would eventually get what was coming to them.

By the afternoon, the mouth-watering dishes were finally served at the table. The men sat at their own table, eating to their hearts' content and drinking heavily, while the women and children shared another.

Mom was busy in the kitchen alongside the eldest aunt, the second aunt, and the younger aunt, serving dishes and refilling bowls for the men. Shirkers like Dong Yanyan sat at the table with a bunch of younger cousins, quietly eating. Actually, dining etiquette in the countryside dictated that younger generations could not take their seats until the elders had picked up their chopsticks. Today was a special case, though; she had hitched a ride on her older cousin's coattails. Her eldest aunt doted on her cousin to no end, so whenever there was good food, naturally it had to be saved for him first. Her eldest aunt certainly wouldn't busy herself cooking while letting her own two children go hungry. The younger aunt was the same—while helping out in the kitchen, she had already fed Bingbing half full with bits of meat here and there. Mom hadn't wanted her and Nannan to eat ahead of the others, but since everyone else was already eating, how could she possibly feed her children leftovers? When Dong Yanyan pointed this out, Mom was left speechless, so she simply resigned herself to leading Nannan to the west room to eat in peace. Dong Yanyan had her own plans: she wanted to finish dinner as quickly as possible and rush back home to watch Jiaoxuan's television program.

The moment she brought Nannan back home, Mom returned right behind her. Dong Yanyan knew her mother's habits well—she would always pitch in wherever there was a major family event or trivial affair, but she could never bring herself to actually eat at other people's houses out of shyness. Seeing her mother walk back in, Dong Yanyan hurried to the kitchen to reheat some food for her.

Mom looked quite surprised and asked, "Yanyan, didn't you eat your fill?"

"We both ate plenty," Dong Yanyan said, pushing firewood into the stove's hearth. "I'm just reheating this for you. You've been busy all day, you must be starving."

"Go rest in the room, I can manage," Mom said. Hearing the unusual strain in her mother's voice, Dong Yanyan looked up and saw that her eyes were red-rimmed.

She knew how easily emotional her mother could get, yet for a split second, her own nose began to sting as well. But unlike Nannan, who voiced every little thought, whenever she felt certain emotions, she found expressing them felt overly sentimental.

So she dusted off her hands, stood up, and went back to her room.

*

That evening, Dad returned home late, and Mom started up her endless nagging once more. Dong Yanyan turned a deaf ear, keeping her focus on the provincial station's variety show. Fortunately, cable television hadn't reached them yet back then, and the TV could only pick up three channels: CCTV-1, the Provincial TV Station, and the county television station.

So nobody was going to fight her for the remote.