By evening, the smell of cooking drifted from the Qin family kitchen out to the street outside their stone-walled yard. Anyone who caught the aroma stumbled slightly, captivated by the scent.
“Is the Qin family celebrating something today? Why does it smell so good, and with meat too?”
“They’ve never cooked like this before—quiet and simple at night. Now with the son-in-law here, it’s lively.”
“Father, I want meat!”
A child perched on a man’s shoulder sniffed the air and drooled.
“Just a month until New Year; you’ll get meat then.”
“No! I want meat now! I want it now!”
The child cried, but the woman with him lightly patted his back, warning not to disturb the people inside or invite mockery. She scolded, “If you stay here as their child, you’ll get meat sometimes!”
The boy immediately quieted, grumbling, “Qin Xiaoman’s scary—I don’t want to be their child.”
The adults laughed and walked quickly away from the tempting aroma.
The chili paste was finished, and Qin Xiaoman could no longer resist tasting it. The oil-fried chilies were fragrant and mouthwatering, making him want to lick the spatula.
If he added it to a bowl of rice, he could eat three bowls straight—it was sinful! If they ate like this every day, he’d need to plant two more rice fields next year just to keep up.
“The flavor’s so fresh, lingering in your mouth—it’s addictive!”
Had Du Heng not said it was for selling in the county, Qin Xiaoman would have eaten more that night, saving some for New Year.
Seeing Qin Xiaoman’s greedy look, Du Heng smiled. “When we sold vegetables in the city, I bought some dried shrimp and ground it into powder. That’s what I added earlier—it’s what gives the fresh taste.”
At the time, without MSG or chicken bouillon, Du Heng used natural ingredients to enhance flavor. That small addition made all the difference.
“The secret to a lingering, savory taste is in this—don’t let anyone know,” he advised.
Qin Xiaoman didn’t understand cooking intricacies, but he nodded quickly. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed!”
Du Heng then asked, “How are pickled vegetables sold in the city?”
“Usually ten to fifteen wen per small jar,” Qin Xiaoman replied. Though he hadn’t bought pickles before, everyone knew the common prices of such snacks.
“Yes, but our pickles are in oil, so they taste better.” Du Heng showed him, “I calculated: a jar of refined oil costs 100 wen. Chilies are 3 wen per jin; for ten jin, that’s 30 wen. Making ten jin of chili paste used about 40 wen of oil.”
“The ingredients total 70 wen. Add labor and transport to the city, conservatively another 10 wen. That’s 80 wen in total. If the pickles sell well in the county, great. If not, don’t undercut the price—we’d lose money. Got it?”
Qin Xiaoman tried counting on his fingers but got lost; Du Heng had done all the calculations neatly—a scholar’s arithmetic was impressive.
“I got it. If people don’t recognize the value, I won’t sell cheap—I’ll keep them myself.”
That night, Qin Xiaoman helped Du Heng to bed. Thinking about selling tomorrow, he didn’t act on any other impulses, tidied up, and went early to his own room.
He had sold many things in the city before—spring vegetables, summer lotus, autumn grains, winter firewood—but this was his first time selling prepared food. Excited, he wanted an early night to wake early.
Before dawn, Qin Xiaoman rose, completed household chores, and asked Du Heng, “If I sell all the chili paste, is there anything you want me to buy back for you?”
Du Heng smiled over his rice porridge. “We have everything we need.”
Qin Xiaoman looked at him. “Alright then.”
Though he said yes, in his heart he still considered what he might get for him.
He carefully placed the jars of chili paste in his basket, covering them with a wool cloth. To avoid curious glances, he added a few vegetables on top, pretending he was just selling produce.
Du Heng handed him an umbrella to place in the basket. Winter rains could come suddenly, and while it added some weight, having it was reassuring.
“Then I’ll go! Early out, early back.”
Du Heng watched him leave the yard. “Be careful on the road!”
“Yeah!”
Du Heng sighed faintly, hoping today’s sales would go well.
The winter sky was gray and heavy. Qin Xiaoman noticed a thin frost already coating the vegetable plots; the dry grass underfoot crunched as he walked.
Boldly, he headed to Qin Xiong’s house. Today was a county market day, and his uncle would surely be selling. Following him saved him from taking someone else’s cart.
“So early—have you eaten yet, young master?”
Qin Xiong was in the yard, tying up the ox cart, and from the mist he could just make out Qin Xiaoman approaching.
“I’ve eaten,” Qin Xiaoman replied, setting down his basket. “Came early so Uncle wouldn’t have left already.”
“Almost time to go. You’re heading to the city to sell vegetables, right?”
Before Qin Xiong could finish, Qin Xiaozhu, bundled in thick winter clothes, ran out from the house, her pale face flushed from the hearth. “Father, don’t forget to buy me a rabbit-fur scarf! If you don’t, I won’t obey!”
“You don’t go out much, why waste money on that nonsense? It’s your mother teaching you foolish things!” Qin Xiong scolded.
Qin Xiaozhu was used to her father’s yelling and paid no mind. “I want it anyway!”
“All right, all right. I’ll go when I have time. Such a bother.”
Satisfied with her father’s answer, Qin Xiaozhu ran back inside, ignoring Qin Xiaoman entirely.
“What a troublesome little one,” Qin Xiong muttered, then turned to Qin Xiaoman. “Let’s get going, young master.”
Qin Xiaoman didn’t answer. He just glanced at Qin Xiaozhu’s lively retreat, pressed his lips together slightly, and quietly reached for the ox in the yard, its big eyes bulging.
If only his father were still alive… Qin Xiaoman didn’t continue the thought—he wondered whether his father, if alive, would have bought his brother a scarf like Qin Xiong.
He thought it would be convenient if he had his own ox, too. Then he wouldn’t have to rely on others’ carts early in the morning; everything would be simpler.
But he only entertained the thought briefly—oxen were precious, and the village could count the few they had on one hand.
“All right, Uncle,” he said, snapping back to reality and climbing onto the cart.
Qin Xiaoman followed Qin Xiong, and they parted ways once they reached the main city road.
On market days, more villagers came to the county to trade than usual, and the streets were bustling from early morning.
Qin Xiaoman saw villagers everywhere, setting up stalls and carrying goods.
Winter vegetables, fruits, dried and stored produce—many city people didn’t have fields, so they came out to buy fresh vegetables whenever they could.
He had no intention of calling out in the street—many sold pickles and chili sauces there. One jar, weighing a pound, would fetch ten to fifteen wen; mild ones were cheaper, saltier ones more expensive.
His oil-fried chili sauce wasn’t too salty but had an exceptional flavor. He decided it should sell for twenty wen.
Calling out in the street would attract customers, but they’d have to taste it first, and that would waste jars before selling. He treasured this chili paste too much for that.
Qin Xiaoman headed straight for a small snack shop, a dry-goods store run by a county resident. Everything was stored for long-term use—dried beans, pickled radishes, seaweed sheets, and other common staples.
“Chili sauce?”
He went to Qin Liu’s small shop, which had previously sold dried bamboo shoots. Today, the shop was busy, and the owner was on high alert.
Hearing Qin Xiaoman wanted to sell chili sauce, the shopkeeper waved him off. “An old lady just came by and sold over ten jin of pickles. We’re not taking any more today—chili sauce, pickled radish, anything. No exceptions.”
“My chili sauce is different—flavor’s excellent! Shopkeeper, take a look and decide.”
Qin Xiaoman lifted the jar to show it. The owner snapped, “I said no! Even if it’s good, I’ll only give five wen for it if you insist. Otherwise, leave it!”
Qin Xiaoman paused, closing the jar. If you don’t want it, it’s your loss.
He knew this wasn’t the only shop, so he decided to try his luck elsewhere. City streets had shops to the south and east; he just had to walk a bit more. Distance didn’t matter.
Passing through the streets, he caught the scent of food from nearby restaurants and taverns, making him swallow hard. It wasn’t meal time yet, but market days didn’t follow a schedule. People were already eating at eateries.
He stopped, considering that restaurants also served pickled condiments. Why not ask there? Common villagers wouldn’t pay for pickles, but restaurant patrons were wealthier and valued taste over quantity.
After looking around, he chose a quiet tavern, “Hongyun,” that had little business. He lingered at the door, never having entered a tavern before, and felt a little nervous.
Confident in the quality of his product, he took a deep breath and slipped in through the back door.
“What’s this? Selling vegetables?” a cook called as he entered.
Qin Xiaoman relaxed and said, “I have top-quality chili sauce! Cooked in refined oil—flavor’s excellent, take a taste.”
“Cooked in refined oil?”
“Yes. Lard needs heating to set; refined oil doesn’t—ready to eat.”
Restaurants typically didn’t accept village-made products. Villagers were seen as inexperienced, unlikely to produce anything decent. But hearing the boy claim some expertise, and having free time, the cook said, “Let’s see.”
Qin Xiaoman quickly opened the jar and used a ladle to offer a taste.
“It’s rare to see chili sauce cooked in refined oil,” the cook remarked.
Pickles were common fare for households, eaten with porridge or bread. No one would dare spend over a hundred wen per pound on oil.
He tasted it, and the oil brought out a fragrance. Then he raised an eyebrow. “Hmm… there’s a fresh, savory taste too.”
Qin Xiaoman laughed. “Exactly. If it weren’t good, how could I dare bring it here?”
“How much do you want for this?”
“Twenty-five wen a jar.”
The cook chuckled. “Boy, that price’s a bit high!”
Qin Xiaoman dodged the cook’s chopsticks and held out his own: “It’s just that the stuff’s good.”
The cook, still holding his chopsticks, bargained, “We’re both honest sellers here. If you lower the price a bit, I’ll buy it all—that works for both of us, right?”
“What price do you have in mind?”
“Twenty wen?”
It was exactly what Qin Xiaoman expected. Suppressing his excitement, he said, “You bargain well! If you’re sincere, twenty-one wen, and it’s yours.”
The cook hesitated for a moment. The flavor lingered on his tongue, tempting him to taste it again.
Qin Xiaoman thought to himself: good thing I didn’t sell it out on the street.
After sampling another spoonful, the cook deemed it suitable for serving with alcohol. “Alright! Let’s weigh it.”
“Fine!”
Twenty-one wen a pound, ten pounds—two hundred ten wen in total.
Qin Xiaoman had originally intended to take his jar back, but the cook said if it sold well, he could come directly next time. So Qin Xiaoman left the jar and a few extra vegetables as a courtesy—it wasn’t costly anyway.
Leaving Hongyun Tavern, Qin Xiaoman carried an empty basket, but his money pouch was heavy with coins.
He really had luck—his husband at home could earn money!