Chapter Eight: Accepting the Invitation

In order to take the photos, Chen Xin had to prepare a great many dishes. Some, after being photographed, didn’t look good enough to be used, so she couldn’t submit them. As a result, she cooked quite a lot of food, all of which were homestyle dishes with distinctive local flavors.

It was impossible to simply throw away the food after cooking it, so they might as well just eat it. The Song family looked large in number, but none of them had much of an appetite. Aunt Yao had been working for them for years, but her cooking skills had hardly improved; cleaning was the only thing she could still do well. In the past, it was Grandma Gu who cooked, but in recent years, her health had declined and she cooked less, so the family meals had deteriorated.

Still, no one in the family was particularly picky about food; as long as it wasn’t terrible, they didn’t care much. But there is no harm without comparison—once Chen Xin’s culinary skills were revealed, the Song family realized that although the meals they’d eaten before weren’t exactly fit for pigs, they weren’t much better, either.

In the evening, seeing that there were still plenty of ingredients left, Chen Xin decided to simply set up a charcoal stove in the courtyard. She placed a stew pot on top and started slowly simmering cured pork ribs. The remaining winter melon, potatoes, and lettuce stems were cut into big chunks. She took a piece of pork belly and sliced it into half-centimeter-thick pieces, along with the trimmed ends of luncheon meat and a plate of egg dumplings. She also soaked some vermicelli and soybean skin in hot water to soften them, all set aside for later. The table was soon covered with a medley of leftovers from earlier dishes—ingredients too little to use for stir-frying on their own.

Once the cured ribs were tender, Chen Xin transferred them to a clay pot on the stove. She layered the potatoes, lettuce stems, radishes, and winter melon on the bottom, added diced tomatoes, then ladled in broth from the rib stew, with slices of ginger and a few Sichuan peppercorns. After bringing it to a boil, she arranged the ribs on top, then covered them with slices of pork belly, put the lid on, and let it all simmer for half an hour. Just before serving, she tossed in a handful of cilantro, adding freshness and balancing out the richness.

By the time the ribs and pork belly were finished, the potatoes and other vegetables beneath were nearly falling apart—so tender they melted in the mouth. Dipped in a homemade sauce, one could easily eat three bowls of rice in a row.

Mr. Song and his son had healthy appetites, and between them, the two ate nearly two-thirds of the pot. Once the solid ingredients were nearly gone, they added washed leafy greens and vermicelli. The noodles, simmered in the meat broth, turned out glossy and chewy—scooped into a bowl, mixed with a ladle of dipping sauce, they were even more satisfying than dry-mixed noodles.

By the end, they had scraped the large pot clean—a truly impressive feat.

The two children didn’t have the cured rib stew. Instead, Chen Xin made them fish broth with two bowls of fine noodles, which they ate with relish, their little bellies round and full.

As for those photos, Chen Xin still wasn’t satisfied. The main problem was the lack of proper staging, and retouching required specialized computer software—not as convenient as it would be in another decade or so, when it could all be done on a phone.

"Mr. Song, if my submission is accepted, may I use your photos to promote myself in the future?"

Her blog was about to launch, and Chen Xin was ready to be among the first to try something new. If she could leverage Mr. Song’s platform for publicity, she believed she could gain a significant lead over other competitors right from the start.

After chatting with Chen Xin, Mr. Song learned she wanted to open her own private kitchen in the future and immediately agreed. He wasn’t skilled in cooking, but he could distinguish good from bad and write about it. Since Chen Xin wasn’t a competitor, using his reputation to help her promote herself cost him nothing—in fact, it would enhance his own credibility, broadening his opportunities as well.

In short, their cooperation had potential for further development—mutually beneficial, supporting each other, making money together, and prospering together. There was nothing wrong with that!

After carrying Zhang Zhang back home, Professor Song took his son for a walk by the river to help with digestion.

"Your mother is a soft-hearted person," he said. "She holds no ill will toward Cheng Jie. Aunt Yao may be a little opportunistic, but she’s looked after your mother with devotion for many years. Sometimes, we must be forgiving when we can."

Mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationships have always been difficult, and Grandma Gu was easily influenced. Cheng Jie had long disliked Aunt Yao’s behavior; the fact that things only blew up now meant she’d endured a lot. As a son and husband, Mr. Song wanted to please his mother yet not sadden his wife, leaving him caught in the middle. Moreover, Aunt Yao had tried more than once to stir up trouble between his mother and his wife, so dismissing her this time was necessary.

Professor Song didn’t say much else to his son. He only mentioned that in a while, he intended to take Grandma Gu to a northern seaside city for two months of convalescence. When the time came, they’d have to decide whether to send the child to stay with his maternal grandmother or to hire a full-time nanny.

Five or six days after the photos and manuscript were mailed, the magazine called to say they’d accepted the submission. Since both text and photos required payment, the magazine wanted to know what fee Mr. Song expected for the photographs—if it was too high, they might not want them.

This was Mr. Song’s first time submitting a photo-illustrated article, so he didn’t ask for more than the market rate. However, he requested that the payment be split into two shares.

Though Chen Xin hadn’t brought it up, Mr. Song had decided from the start that half the photo fee should go to her. His articles paired with her culinary skills helped readers better grasp the emotions he wished to convey. Besides, knowing the background of Chen Xin and Zhang Zhang, he wanted to help them as much as possible.

Before National Day, the magazine sent proof copies, along with two payments and letters inviting them to contribute as columnists.

There were two invitation letters—one for Mr. Song, inviting him to contribute regularly as a columnist, and one for Chen Xin, inviting her to provide more food photography. The former had monthly assignments, while the latter was flexible—she could submit on her own or accept themed assignments from the magazine.

Chen Xin hadn’t considered becoming a special contributor for a magazine, but Mr. Song reassured her that it wouldn’t affect her studies. Whenever inspiration struck, she could create new dishes, take some photos, and send in recipes. If she was too busy, she could simply refuse assignments outside the winter and summer breaks.

Mr. Song meant that Chen Xin should keep her options open. The magazine was a valuable channel, and her major made it hard to find perfectly matched jobs. Working for a magazine would let her translate foreign articles and such, so her four years of study wouldn’t go to waste.

But Chen Xin was thinking even further ahead. Before online media became dominant, magazines satisfied most people’s demand for domestic and foreign news. She wanted to become a leading food critic online, and magazine experience would help her promote her blog. After a brief consideration, she decisively accepted the invitation.