Chapter 144: Wednesday’s Love Letter

Zhuang Chen gazed at the plump woman in the distance—quite ordinary, unremarkable in appearance.

“Third sister-in-law waved her hand into the room, her voice trembling with tears: ‘It was worth it! This damn moment was the first time Zhou San said “I love you” to me!’”

“At the wedding, she boldly spoke in the Yibin dialect: ‘Mom, Dad, don’t sigh. Zhou San and I have been together for three years—how could we not have shared a bed?’

“Honestly, let me tell you, the little one has been in your daughter’s belly for four months already!’ She then reached out to pat her belly through the pure white wedding gown, her smile blooming like a flower...

“When it was the groom’s turn to speak, at the most emotional moment, Third Brother was silent for a long while before finally lifting his head to say, ‘When I had dreams, there was no rice; when I had rice, there was no dream or love...’

“Life was a topsy-turvy mess until I turned thirty, until I met Xuanxuan...

“Sobbing, he repeated: ‘I met Xuanxuan, I finally met Xuanxuan... Wife, with you, I have everything. I will give you a good life...’”

The two wept like children. Then they brought out a guitar.

“I’m not good with words, so I’ll sing. I once wrote a song for Xuanxuan—it’s a love letter in song, written on the eve of her eloping to find me. I’ll sing it again for her, and for all of you.”

This was that song:

“A Singer’s Love Letter!”

Zhuang Chen nodded and asked Xia Long to take out twenty thousand yuan in cash from his bag, handing it to the girl. “Help me out—I want to hear it live.”

The girl’s eyes lit up; clutching the money, she quietly ran over to Third Sister-in-law, whispered a few words, then approached Zhou San. Zhou San paused, nodded toward Zhuang Chen, and picked up the guitar again.

“For over twenty years, I’ve been singing,

Singing to my beloved,

This beloved one,

I still don’t know where she is,

I’ve been searching for her.

Another ten years passed,

Still searching,

No beloved found.

Everywhere are towering buildings,

Planes and cars everywhere,

They weigh down on me, suffocating.

What am I to do now?

The world changes too fast.

I have no savings, no fancy house.

Life is tight.

Beloved girl, don’t reject me.

Every day, I’ll sing to you.

Beloved girl, please wait for me.

I’ll take you cycling around the world.

Beloved girl, come close to me.

My shoulder is your support.

Beloved girl, though I have no car or house,

I will give you all I have...”

Silence enveloped the room, broken only by Zhou San’s simple, sincere voice. When the song ended, Zhuang Chen turned and left—it was enough.

Back in Kunming, he headed straight to the historic Fuzhaolou restaurant, praised by the writer Wang Zengqi for its steam-pot chicken. Wang was a man who loved to eat among writers and loved to write among chefs.

In “Seven Years of Mist,” he penned a poem capturing the taste of Kunming after seven years:

“Reascending the fourth alley with green ceramic cups,

Rice cakes spread over glowing charcoal.

On Justice Road, cultivating righteous spirit,

Outside Little West Gate, trying fresh greens.

The world’s finest taste is dry mushrooms,

A feast for the gluttonous college students.

Still, there are gray mosses to savor,

Following cypress leaves to catch insects.”

Entering the main hall, a plaque hung prominently: “Cultivate Righteousness!”

In the private room, after ordering specialties, the most anticipated dish was steam-pot chicken. According to Wang Zengqi, what makes steam-pot chicken so good?

“It preserves the original taste of the chicken best, requiring just a few slices of Xuanwei ham and a small piece of Sichuan notoginseng. The chicken flavor deepens, as if cultivating righteousness—unlike other restaurants where flavors clash, here it’s pure and simple, filled with the aroma of chicken...”

The method is simple: boil a pot of water, place the steam pot atop, cover, keep boiling, and steam for three to four hours. Authentic steam-pot chicken must be tasted here.

The chicken is local free-range, naturally raised, tender and fresh. The special ingredient is a kind of mushroom called “chicken fungus,” resembling a crushed hornet’s nest, colored like dried cow dung and tangled with pine needles and grass stems. Cleaning it is tedious.

Even when carefully picked out, the pieces are small, like crab legs in thickness. After cleaning and slow stewing with the chicken, the flavor is so delicate it leaves one speechless...

Next came the famous “crossing-the-bridge” rice noodles, served in small copper pots with handles. Each pot holds only one or two bowls, at most three. Locals believe rice noodles taste best when cooked in small pots.

The key is minced fresh pork. Once the rice noodles boil, the meat is stirred in. When it opens up, it’s ready.

Accompanied by eel cut into sections and braised with garlic until tender, plus “leaf”—fried pork skin known elsewhere as crackling. In Zhuang Chen’s hometown, it's called “fake fish belly.” Slow-cooked together, the snowy white, slender noodles absorb every flavor—the taste is indescribable.

Pea shoots, nine-inch plates, kidney slices, fish slices, pork loin slices, Xuanwei ham slices—laid flat at the bottom, each slice large and paper-thin.

The soup looks calm but is actually over one hundred degrees Celsius, sealed under a thick layer of chicken fat. Watching Xia Long toss all the ingredients in at once, sweating profusely from the heat—it was pure bliss!

Finally, a large plate of fruit: the specialty torch pear, yellow-skinned with rosy flesh, hanging on the tree like tiny lit torches under the sun.

The bite was sharp and tart.

Yiliang pomegranates, as large as bowls and cracked open, their seeds glistened like rubies, known as “pomegranate rice.” Sweet in taste, with a faint hint of wine aroma.

Yellow-flesh peaches, split in half, purple pits and golden flesh, fragrant and sweet.

Huotan plums, huge and intensely sweet, dark purple as burning coals. It’s said that Miao girls selling the plums often line them with fresh green leaves, dazzling and eye-catching from dozens of steps away.

Satisfied and full, Zhuang Chen rode a yellow bike along the streets. Early summer in Kunming was everywhere invaded by purple—the jacaranda tree had become the city’s new online sensation.

Compared to spring’s cherry blossoms, jacarandas exude a more artistic temperament, blooming freely. A quick search revealed their flower language: “waiting for love in despair,” evoking a sense of calm, depth, and melancholic tranquility.

But in Kunming, the “Spring City,” under the clear, highland sunlight, jacarandas grew a unique artistic aura—brilliant yet not despairing, wild yet elegant.

The weather often felt like February or March; blossoms kept blooming, spring eternal.

Looking up, clusters of blue-purple bell-shaped flowers formed a pure, refined dreamlike blue. Flowers danced with the wind, a breathtaking beauty.

Cycling along Jiaochang Middle Road, lined on both sides with jacarandas in full bloom, the entire road was enveloped in a sea of blue and purple flowers, dreamlike and enchanting.

That romantic, mysterious purple was as stunning as a painting, filling the air with the scent of love. Locals said the trees had been planted here for thirty years, thousands of jacarandas forming pockets of purple-blue dreams.

The only flaw: the bloom lasted just ten to fifteen days. Perhaps it was the fleeting nature of the flowers that made their brilliance even more dazzling, compelling one to seize the moment of such fleeting splendor.

Finally, at the banks of the Panlong River, hundreds of jacarandas grew like a purple ribbon. In early summer, looking from the east bank, the west bank was a sea of crimson purple blending with the river, while green willows added vitality to the romance. It was love at first sight.

This, perhaps, was the true charm of the Spring City!