When Xiaoman returned home, he brought not only a pig’s foot but also a pig’s liver.
He handed some money to his second uncle, and, unsurprisingly, Qin Xiong refused it—after all, giving his nephew-in-law a little extra for nourishment was proper. But his second aunt wasn’t happy, and in a sarcastic tone scolded him for always taking advantage.
Qin Xiaoman had intended to give money all along, so he slipped it into his aunt’s hand. His uncle, feeling awkward, insisted on giving back a pig’s liver, saying it should be stewed with red phoenix greens for Du Heng to help enrich his blood.
Offal from a pig was considered a poor man’s food and looked down upon by wealthier households. Its strong smell made it undesirable to those who could afford meat—it was barely worth two coins. Nevertheless, Xiaoman brought it back, planning to cook it that night with the pig’s foot. Since the liver couldn’t be stored long, he salted it and hung it over the stove to roast—it actually smelled better than the stewed vegetables.
“I went down to the valley again today to find households short on firewood. I offered them a bundle, and unexpectedly, several people came to help,” Xiaoman told Du Heng. “These families don’t have much land and are free in winter—they’re the most willing to help. Five people came at once, so by tomorrow, all the firewood in our mountain should be gathered!”
“That’s good news,” Du Heng said.
Xiaoman continued, “Doctor Cui said you shouldn’t move much the first month. After tomorrow, once I finish my chores, I’ll stay home to take care of you.”
“No—”
Before he could finish, Xiaoman cut him off sharply. “No ‘no.’ You can’t move, so I have to be here. Once the first month passes, it won’t be such a hassle.”
Du Heng rubbed his nose, an ill-timed thought creeping into his head: he almost felt like he was in confinement after childbirth.
That night, under Du Heng’s guidance, Xiaoman made a pot of fragrant pig’s foot stewed with winter bamboo shoots. The fresh pork combined with the crisp, tender bamboo—something only available in winter—made the broth clear, flavorful, and heavenly.
Even ordinary families wouldn’t have such a dish for the New Year. Only the well-off in the city could produce something this impressive.
Xiaoman drank three bowls of the broth, making extra water for the meat so there’d be plenty of soup for noodles the next day. He admired Du Heng’s skill, carefully following his instructions. Even with his clumsy hands, Xiaoman could replicate a restaurant-worthy dish—a point of pride for him.
He kept serving Du Heng until his plate was stacked high. Du Heng refused, but Xiaoman persisted until he finally held his own bowl close to him. Xiaoman simply wanted Du Heng to have the best, and since Du Heng was recovering, it was natural to put the patient first.
In a family this small, it was possible to distribute the meat this way; in larger families, one person might only get two small pieces. After a day of treating his leg, Du Heng enjoyed a proper meal.
The next morning, while Xiaoman and Du Heng were eating in the kitchen, villagers set to work on the mountain arrived early, waiting for him. Five in total—three women and two men.
Even outside the yard, they could smell the aroma of the pork from the kitchen, swallowing instinctively but keeping quiet, simply envying the good fortune of the Qin household.
“Everyone, sit first. I’ll finish my meal and come help,” Xiaoman said.
The villagers were polite, letting him eat, waiting patiently in the yard. Xiaoman didn’t bother inviting them in—village etiquette dictated that everyone ate at home, and even when visiting, people didn’t expect to be served.
They saw Du Heng but treated him politely, only stealing curious glances and making lighthearted comments rather than staring disrespectfully like other villagers might.
After sitting in the dim light, they complimented Xiaoman on his industriousness and praised his husband for his looks. Hearing that Du Heng could read and write impressed them further.
“You can tell he’s from a scholarly family. Once his leg heals, he can take the imperial exams—he’ll make a fine candidate.”
Inside, Du Heng listened as the villagers’ praise gradually escalated to speculation about holding office and serving the people. Xiaoman, used to sarcastic remarks, was momentarily at a loss for words hearing such genuine admiration.
He hurried through his meal, set up the charcoal brazier for Du Heng, placed hot water nearby, and organized the villagers for the trip up the mountain.
They departed early, and by the time the sun rose on the mountain path, the villagers, all quick and efficient workers, had gathered the firewood. Xiaoman was pleased—the pile exceeded his expectations. He generously let the villagers carry full baskets home themselves, while he took one large bundle.
The villagers were immensely grateful.
“Xiaoman, if there’s ever more work like this, just call us,” they said, smiling and leaving with the firewood.
Xiaoman, looking at the yard full of gathered firewood, cheerfully replied, “All right. Once there’s time, we’ll go gather more from the hills. Next year, the trees and bamboo will be even better.”
“Hungry? I’ll make you a meal,” Xiaoman offered.
Seeing Du Heng silent, he leaned closer. “What’s the matter?”
Du Heng’s face looked unpleasant, and after holding back for a moment, he admitted, “I drank too much water.”
“Huh?” Xiaoman glanced at him, then understood. “Oh, oh!”
He quickly helped Du Heng up. “Come on, come on, don’t get it on your clothes.”
Du Heng had been holding it in for a while, and seeing the outhouse, he finally felt relief. Only when he noticed Xiaoman still holding his arm did he realize something was off.
“Xiaoman…”
“Hurry!” Xiaoman urged, looking at his husband with a slightly embarrassed expression. “The villagers are gone; it’s just us. Don’t be shy.”
He said all that, but Qin Xiaoman still firmly kicked the outhouse door closed.
“I didn’t mean the door wasn’t closed—I just meant you don’t need to—”
“Hey! Hey! Don’t grab my belt, I can do it myself!”
“No, no, no! Xiaoman, don’t! I can do it, really, I can manage!”
“Then carry me back—you’re strong enough, I really can’t—”
After quite a struggle, Du Heng, his face flushed with embarrassment and his spirits low, was finally helped out.
Seeing him slumped against his body, Qin Xiaoman laughed. “Why are you so shy? There are plenty of people in the village who just relieve themselves in the fields. If someone catches them, they just laugh.”
Du Heng exhaled. “I’m not used to it.”
Qin Xiaoman glanced at him sideways. “Back when you were a young master, didn’t you have servants to take care of you?”
“N-no, we weren’t rich enough to have servants attend like this.”
“Then that makes me more attentive than a servant.”
Du Heng could only shrug weakly, lifting his hand to touch the back of Qin Xiaoman’s head.
Qin Xiaoman, like a playful puppy enjoying a scratch from its owner, closed his mouth and stopped teasing—he knew that if he said too much, Du Heng might be embarrassed to ask for help even in urgent moments. He remarked instead, “It’s strange, today I didn’t hear the villagers making any sharp remarks.”
Du Heng said, “Do you know why the villagers talk so much about everyone’s business?”
“Because they think I’m fierce and look down on them?”
“Then why aren’t there people fiercer than you? Folks with worse tempers? Your second uncle is so strict—nobody complains about him.”
Qin Xiaoman frowned. That did seem puzzling. Others in the village had done just as outrageous things; when his father was alive, he never saw people gossip like this.
“Why?”
“Second uncle’s family is well-off, and he’s the butcher. People in the village rely on him, so they naturally don’t dare say anything. It’s the same for other households—if they have something others can depend on, no one will casually offend them.”
Du Heng continued plainly, “Let me put it bluntly. ‘Relying on someone’ means they can get some benefit or advantage from you. When your father was alive, he was the village scholar; villagers relied on him to write and read letters. That was their sweet gain. So, even if they had complaints about you, they wouldn’t dare speak freely.”
“Now it’s just you, and while the Qin family’s wealth is good, the villagers can’t get any benefit from you. They can only look at your land and envy you. So they point out your faults just to vent jealousy—they can always find something to complain about no matter what you do.”
Qin Xiaoman’s brow tightened. Since his father’s death, he had held the household alone, determined not to be pitied. He worked fiercely, doing alone what would have taken three others, rarely interacting with villagers.
“You mean today, because I generously gave the villagers something to benefit from, they didn’t find fault?”
Du Heng nodded.
Qin Xiaoman thought on this. If that worked in the future, it would save him effort while keeping people happy.
That afternoon, he didn’t go out again. He split firewood in the yard, while Du Heng’s chair was brought outside so he could still work without bending.
Du Heng busied himself with a more tedious task—pounding rice. At that time, milling technology wasn’t advanced; rice had to be hulled by hand, pounding it in a stone trough with a pestle. It was labor-intensive, so the price difference between rice and unhulled grain was significant. Sitting while doing this monotonous work suited him perfectly.
“Xiaoman, is anyone home?”
While the two worked, a shout came from outside.
“Uncle Ge, what brings you here?”
“I heard you collected a lot of firewood. Now the public mountain’s supply is low, so I thought I’d come sell you some.”
Qin Xiaoman stood from the pile. “Sure, Uncle Ge, pick whatever you like.”
The man didn’t hesitate, examining the wood. He nodded slightly to Du Heng in greeting.
Du Heng noticed a faint aroma of cooking oil on the man as he passed. He waved to Xiaoman.
“What is it?”
“Is this uncle from the oil mill?”
“No,” Xiaoman said. “Uncle Ge presses oil at home. The Ge family has a small shop in the county, making sesame and rapeseed oil for sale.”
Since he had been doing small business for some time, he needed plenty of firewood, so it wasn’t the first time he came to buy from Xiaoman.
Du Heng’s brow lifted. “Can we buy some?”
Xiaoman’s eyes widened instinctively. They hadn’t even fully eaten meat yet, and now he wanted oil? Did the young master understand how expensive it was? They had some lard already, so buying refined oil seemed extravagant. Yet seeing Du Heng, still working despite his leg, Xiaoman pursed his lips.
Well, Du Heng was hurt; nourishing him properly would help his recovery. Reluctantly, Xiaoman agreed.
“Uncle Ge, I want to buy some oil. Can we trade it for firewood?”
The man agreed immediately. An exchange was convenient for both.
So Xiaoman traded four bundles of firewood plus a few coins for a jar of refined oil. Holding the jar, worth over a hundred wen, he felt a pang—this money could have bought three or four jin of pork.
“Did you eat refined oil back at your home in Qiuyang County?”
Villagers’ families couldn’t afford oil, only using it on special occasions when guests visited. Xiaoman’s uncle had said city folks liked oil, which made them healthier and well-nourished, unlike villagers who looked pale and thin.
At the time, animal fat was more expensive than refined oil. Fat was a luxury for the wealthy; refined oil was chosen by families just below that level. Du Heng, coming from a merchant family, probably grew up regularly using refined oil.
“Not really.”
“Then why are you bringing it? Planning to cook some dishes tonight?”
Du Heng replied, “I want to use it for cooking.”
Earlier, he had gathered some chili peppers, hoping to make a spicy chili paste, but without refined oil, he couldn’t finish the job. Now that they had oil, he could make use of it without wasting the chopped peppers.
When he went to the county, he saw that the city sold everything—but the most popular items were always food.
There were countless delicacies, and Du Heng could pick any, but given the current conditions—no capital, no ingredients—he couldn’t make just anything. He had to see what was available and work with that.
In winter, there weren’t many ingredients to choose from. From what he could gather nearby, only the small vegetable plots offered anything usable. Pickled vegetables were the obvious choice.
But anyone could make pickles. With the New Year approaching, everyone wanted extra income, and pickled vegetables were already common in the county market. To sell successfully and not undercut himself, he had to add some twists to stand out.
Du Heng led Qin Xiaoman into the kitchen. Since he couldn’t stand, he instructed from the side.