Chapter 21: A Table Laden with Delicacies

“What’s the matter, Binzi? Is Second Sister feeling unwell?” The aunt beside him was only teasing, but to her surprise, Zhu Bin rubbed his hands together, a shy smile blooming on his thin face. “Second Sister is pregnant. But the doctor said she’s a bit older, so we have to be extra careful. I don’t let her do any chores at home, but she can’t stand being idle. I just worry about her, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news! Of course, Second Sister is nearly thirty, and this is her first child. She really does need to be careful.” The aunt set aside her needlework, ready to call her from the kitchen, but Zhu Bin quickly stopped her.

“Auntie, don’t worry, let her be. She’s rarely this happy.” Hearing Zhu Bin’s words, everyone felt a bittersweet joy.

The couple had never had it easy. Now that things were finally looking up, they were older—how long could they really enjoy happiness? Zhu Bin was already forty-five. He and his ex-wife had their son when they were thirty; now the boy was fifteen. The younger child would be so much younger than his brother—who knew what the future held?

As they exchanged a few words, they saw Second Sister Zhang dash out, clutching the wall as she retched. Zhu Bin hurried over in a panic to support his wife, entirely at a loss.

“It’s nothing. Xiaoxin is handling the fish, and the smell got to me. I just need a moment.”

From inside, Chen Xin’s voice rang out, saying that the red bean soup and sweet rice wine dumplings with eggs were ready, and asked Second Brother-in-law to bring some out to soothe Second Sister.

Zhu Bin, still supporting his wife, didn’t know whether to fetch the soup or settle his wife first. At that moment, the aunt from next door kindly stepped in, carrying out a tray laden with several bowls—honeyed red bean paste dumplings and sweet rice wine dumplings with eggs.

Zhu Bin served his wife the rice wine dumplings, nearly feeding her by hand. Second Sister’s ears flushed crimson, and she shot her husband a glare before inviting her mother and aunt to take a bowl. Then she handed her husband some red bean soup, finally taking the bowl of rice wine dumplings he had brought her for herself.

It wasn’t that she begrudged her husband the egg, but Zhu Bin was allergic—eggs always made him uncomfortable. She hadn’t expected even this detail to have been considered by Chen Xin, and her fondness for her brother-in-law’s young sister grew even deeper.

“Second Sister, Uncle and Big Brother went to cut bamboo out back. Once Second Brother-in-law finishes eating, he should call them. Don’t get too much—just enough for the meal.”

“Huh? Eat bamboo?” Second Sister Zhang was momentarily stunned and instinctively glanced at her mother.

“Xiaoxin said she’d make us some bamboo tube rice, so your father and brother went up the hill to cut bamboo. They had just left when you arrived.”

“What’s bamboo tube rice? Cooking rice with bamboo?”

“Auntie, I know!” Zhang Zhang, the chubby little boy, could now speak more fluently. Before, he’d been shy around strangers, but after several days with these doting relatives, his lively nature was shining through. At his aunt’s question, the little fellow raised his hand eagerly: “Auntie can make delicious rice with cured meat, sausage, and mushrooms. She puts it in bamboo tubes and roasts them over the stove. It’s yummy!”

For a two-year-old, he communicated remarkably well, and as he finished, he even sucked in a little drool, his greedy expression provoking laughter from his grandmother and the neighbor’s aunt.

“Bamboo tube rice originally comes from the Miao ethnic group. Later, the recipe spread, and some restaurants serve it now, but it’s still hard to make it really delicious. I tried it a few times on business trips to Nanyun, and it had a lovely bamboo fragrance,” Zhu Bin explained, his broader experience giving everyone something to look forward to.

Besides the bamboo tube rice, Chen Xin also planned to make double-chili fish head, storm fish fillet, pickled vegetable stewed loach, and wild rabbit with mountain pepper.

The chicken would be served as white-cut chicken. The head, tail, and feet were arranged just as they came—making it look like a featherless bird crouched on the platter. A bowl on the side held a dip of soy sauce and vinegar, sugar, MSG, pepper oil, minced ginger, scallion, garlic, and freshly made chili oil from earlier. The sauce would be poured directly over the chicken before eating.

As she chopped the chicken, she placed the marinated fish head in a large basin to steam. The fish, caught last night by Big Brother Zhang and the neighbor boy down at the river, weighed almost seven or eight pounds, plump and tender—a perfect catch for a two-way feast.

After the chicken was done, she quickly split the fish body in half, removed the large spine near the belly, and set aside two snowy-white fillets. Then, with swift knife work, she sliced the fillets thinly, marinated them with salt, pepper, and cooking wine, and set them aside for several minutes.

She washed the cutting board, then finely chopped the green and red chilies, smashed and minced ginger and garlic, and sliced scallions freshly picked from the garden.

By the time these preparations were done, the fish head was nearly ready. She transferred it carefully to a large platter, layered the chopped chilies over each side, sprinkled on the ginger and garlic, splashed a little rice wine, pepper, and sugar, and ladled over some of the steaming broth from the basin. It went back on the heat for another three or four minutes.

If all the ingredients were steamed together from the beginning, the chilies would turn mushy and the broth too spicy for the elders’ stomachs. This extra step reduced the heat, and when the final drizzle of hot oil was poured over, the fragrance exploded, making mouths water uncontrollably.

While the fish was steaming for the second time, she placed a pan on a smaller stove, heated oil, dropped in ginger slices and Sichuan peppercorns, then tossed in a handful of chilies to stir-fry until just golden before scooping them out and draining the oil. The oil, now perfectly hot, was used to fry homemade chili bean paste. As the spicy aroma filled the air, those outside the kitchen craned their necks, curiosity and hunger gnawing at them, eager to see what Chen Xin was up to.

Once the chili bean paste was fragrant, she added water, some spring onions, and a handful of garlic cloves. When the broth turned a brilliant red and came to a boil, she blanched bean sprouts and shredded celtuce, set them in a basin as the base, and then poached the marinated fish slices. The thin slices cooked almost instantly, turning snowy white. She arranged them over the vegetables, poured in the fish broth, scattered the fried chilies and peppercorns on top, and spooned a mound of minced garlic in the center. Finally, she cleaned the pan, reheated oil, and poured a ladleful over the garlic, making it sizzle and sending up a rich aroma, turning the soup—originally pale from the blanched vegetables—into a luscious, glistening dish.

The stewed loach had been prepared the night before, briefly fried, then sautéed with pickled vegetables and simmered in a crock at the back of the stove. Two stove eyes—one for water, one for food—made things very convenient.

The wild rabbit with mountain pepper was a local favorite, quick to cook and ready in half an hour. With the bone broth and radish soup made the night before and two quick vegetable stir-fries, the table was soon crowded with dishes, and the meal was ready to begin.