After the Sweet Little Husband Got Remarried - Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Fresh green pepper leaves were picked for their tender tips, washed clean, finely chopped, and mixed into flour with eggs. A little water was added, stirred until the batter turned thick and smooth. When the oil in the pan began to shimmer, the batter was ladled in and spread evenly across the surface.

The minced pepper leaves sizzled as they met the hot oil, scattering droplets with a sharp crackle. The kitchen filled with a rich, warm aroma.

When finished, the pepper-leaf pancakes were golden and glossy, the fragrance of the Sichuan pepper leaves strong and enticing. One bite brought a crisp, flaky texture and the unique, tingling scent of the leaves lingered faintly at the nose.

That was the breakfast Lu Lu made that morning.

Two days earlier, Shen Ying had rushed out so quickly that Lu Lu had only managed to fry a few plain egg cakes for him. But this morning, while feeding the chickens and ducks, he’d noticed the pepper tree behind the shed and decided to try making something new with its leaves.

When Shen Ying took a bite and paused mid-chew, Lu Lu looked at him nervously. “How does it taste?”

Shen Ying was still staring absently at the wooden table, his mind lost in the dream he’d had the night before. Caught off guard by the question, he blinked and replied, “A bit thirsty.”

He didn’t know why, but ever since catching that fleeting glimpse of his husband’s fair skin the previous night, his throat had felt dry and hot.

Though they had been married several days, they had yet to consummate the marriage. Shen Ying, knowing how timid and delicate his husband was—and remembering the fright Lu Lu had suffered on the betrothal day—hadn’t brought it up. Yet he was a man, and sometimes the thoughts simply came unbidden.

“Thirsty?” Lu Lu frowned slightly. “Was it too salty?”

Snapped out of his daze, Shen Ying coughed lightly into his fist and hurriedly corrected himself. “No, no—it’s perfect. I just drifted off for a moment.”

He took another big bite, then glanced at the green flecks in the golden crust. “This is my first time eating pancakes made with pepper leaves.”

Lu Lu’s brow relaxed at that. “I saw my father make them before.”

Shen Ying looked up. “And the fish cooked with wild anise too?”

Lu Lu nodded.

Watching him quietly, Shen Ying finished his pancake and said, “Once the planting’s done, I’ll find time to go to Zhao Village and ask a carpenter to make us a wooden bath tub.”

The sudden change of topic startled Lu Lu. Remembering how Shen Ying had fetched his undergarments for him the night before, his ears flamed red. After a long moment, he murmured softly, “Alright.”

After breakfast, Shen Ying went out to the fields to transplant the rice seedlings.

When the family divided their property, Shen Ying had received two good fields—land he’d bought with his own hunting money. Back then, the Shen family had little farmland, most of it poor soil, so he’d purchased two fertile plots from other villagers.

On the day of the division, Feng Xianglian had refused to acknowledge it, claiming the land belonged to the Shen family. Fortunately, the land deeds were in his hands, and the two fields had rightfully gone to him.

Lu Lu had wanted to help in the fields, but Shen Ying told him to stay home—the muddy, backbreaking work was a man’s job, not something a husband should toil over.

As luck would have it, Jiang Huai came by, inviting him to go buy meat together. So Lu Lu obeyed Shen Ying’s words, took half a string of coins from the chest, and went out with Huai.

The Jiang family had plenty of fields. That morning, Jiang Dashan and Jiang Song had already gone out to pull seedlings. After breakfast, Jiang’s mother, Lin Chunlan, joined them, leaving only the daughter-in-law, Du Qinghe, and Huai at home. Since Du Qinghe was busy tending to her three-year-old son, Jiang Qiu, she handed Huai some money and asked him to buy meat for lunch.

There were markets in the towns and smaller ones in the countryside, but village markets didn’t happen every day. Only on market days would villagers bring produce to sell—vegetables, grains, and often pork or mutton. The most popular meat stall in the region was that of the butcher Zhao from the neighboring Zhao Village.

Butcher Zhao ran his trade with his widowed mother. On ordinary days, he worked slaughtering and castrating pigs, setting up his stall only on market days.

With the rice planting season in full swing, every household was busy, and many wanted to reward themselves with a bit of meat. Those who couldn’t afford cuts would at least buy some offal to flavor their meals.

So, before the market day even arrived, Butcher Zhao had slaughtered three pigs and sold directly from his home.

Zhao Village was three or four li(1.5-2km/1-1.25miles) from Shuitang Village. Knowing how quickly the meat would sell out, Huai hitched the family mule cart and went with Lu Lu.

Sure enough, when they arrived, the Zhao family’s courtyard was crowded—villagers from not only Zhao Village but also Shuitang, Shiqiao, and Qinghe.

Lu Lu felt shy pushing through the throng, so Huai took him by the arm and led him around to the other side, managing to grab a fine cut of plum blossom pork before an older woman could.

The butcher was a tall, broad-shouldered man, rugged in build, yet his cleaver fell with swift, precise strokes. He held up the meat and asked, “This piece alright?”

Lu Lu nodded. “Yes.”

Aunt Zhao, standing by the counter, took the meat, looped a knotted straw rope through it, tied it securely, and handed it to him.

The plum blossom cut was the last one left—too little for dumpling filling—so Lu Lu also bought a piece of foreleg meat, a pair of pig intestines, and two marrow bones. The intestines he planned to stir-fry; the bones would make a rich soup.

Just as they were leaving, two ge’ers in brown linen caught his attention. He overheard his own name and the word “Lu family” mentioned in their conversation.

“Isn’t that Lu’s boy, Brother Lu? I heard he married into Shuitang Village.”

“And look at him, buying meat too. Seems he’s doing alright. But isn’t today supposed to be his return visit home? I saw Wei return to the Lu house early this morning.”

“After all that drama, you think he’d still go back? And even if he doesn’t—what of it? That’s not his real father anyway.”

“True enough. Speaking of which—did you see Wei this morning? When he went home, that scholar Song didn’t even bring a single piece of meat.”

“Really? No wonder I heard raised voices coming from the Lu house when I passed by.”

Lu Lu instinctively turned to leave, not wanting to cross paths with them. He recognized their voices—they were from Shiqiao Village.

Catching the discomfort on his face, Huai glanced over his shoulder at the two and whispered, “I’ll go first. Brother’s husband, follow right behind me.”

Then, hefting two slabs of pork high in each hand, he called loudly, “Make way! Make way!”

His voice cut through the chatter as he squeezed between the gossiping pair. “Excuse me—thank you!”

And just like that, the two of them pushed through the crowd.

By the time they stepped outside, the pork was nearly sold out, and latecomers who heard the news at the gate could only sigh and turn back empty-handed.

Huai placed the meat in the cart, climbed up, and grinned. “Good thing we came early.”

Patting the mule’s flank, he called, “Er Jue, let’s go!”

“Er Jue?” Lu Lu echoed curiously.

Most animals had names like Blackie, Stone, or Grayback. He’d never heard one called Stubborn Two.

Huai laughed. “Yeah. Don’t let the name fool you—he’s a mule, but stubborn as a bull. When he digs his heels in, not even two people can budge him. Only my brother can handle him.”

Lu Lu chuckled softly. “No wonder you call him Er Jue.”

Huai had to hurry back for lunch prep, so he dropped Lu Lu off at the foot of the hill near his courtyard before heading home.

Lu Lu carried the meat inside and soaked the pig intestines in water to draw out the blood, planning to clean them thoroughly later with ash and lye water.

First, though, he had to prepare the fillings and dough for buns.

The chives Aunt Zhou had given them were already planted—Shen Ying had tilled a small patch of ground despite the weeds, planting them neatly in rows.

As for the tofu gifted by the Liang family, Lu Lu set aside one block to mix later with toon shoots for a cold dish, cutting the other into small cubes to use as bun filling.

The plum blossom pork had a perfect ratio—three parts fat, seven lean—finely marbled and ideal for mincing. The foreleg meat was firmer, less delicate, but still good.

He chopped wild mustard greens and tofu, mixing them with minced pork to make two fillings—mustard-pork and tofu-pork—and fried eggs with chives for a third.

Once the fillings and dough were ready, he began shaping the buns.

The steamer baskets had been washed earlier that morning—three tiers, just enough for the three fillings.

He lined each tray with damp cloth to prevent sticking, folding the buns neatly and pinching each pleat tight before placing them inside.

He planned to share some with the Jiang family later. With their large household, a few wouldn’t be enough, so he made about ten of each kind—thirty buns in all. Shen Ying would surely be starving after working in the fields; a man like him could eat four or five in one sitting.

While the buns steamed, Lu Lu poured out the bloody soaking water and scrubbed the intestines again and again in ash water until his wrists ached. By then, the buns were nearly ready.

When he lifted the steamer lid, a cloud of fragrant white steam billowed out. The buns inside were plump and white as snow, soft and springy—like rows of little round pillows.

He picked up one stuffed with mustard pork, tossing it between his palms to cool it, then blew gently and took a small bite.

The flavor was heavenly—juicy and tender, the savory filling releasing its oils into the fluffy dough, the scent of mustard greens blending perfectly with the rich pork.

Lu Lu ate only one, then carefully packed several of each type into a large earthenware bowl until it was full.

The sun outside was blazing. After a whole morning’s labor, Shen Ying was surely famished.

Thinking so, Lu Lu hurried out with the steaming bowl in his hands.

Down in the paddy field, Shen Ying was bent over, planting seedlings in the water that reached up to his calves.

By midday, he had already finished more than half the field, a carpet of tender green stretching across the water.

The seedlings had been given by the Jiang family, who owned many fields. Once his own work was done, Shen Ying planned to help them in return.

Across the drying yard separating their lands, the Shen family’s fields were also busy. Shen Wenlu and Feng Xianglian toiled under the blazing sun, their daughter Shen Sui lagging behind.

In the past, Feng Xianglian would never have stepped foot into a muddy field, and even Shen Wenlu rarely joined the labor—Shen Ying had borne it all alone.

But now that he had moved out, they had no strong hands left. Their youngest, Shen Feng, was away studying in the city, forcing Feng Xianglian to take up the work herself.

She turned, frowning at her slow-moving daughter. “Why are you dawdling? Move faster! Always so lazy—if you don’t finish, you’ll go hungry tonight!”

Nearby farmers glanced over at the sharp tone, and Shen Sui quickly picked up her pace.

“Stop shouting,” Shen Wenlu muttered, his brows drawn tight. “So she’s slow—what of it? Must you make a scene with everyone watching?”

Feng Xianglian’s face darkened. She straightened and snapped, “And what’s your problem? Go yell at your precious eldest son if you’ve got the spine!”

Her gaze flicked toward the distant figure in the next field, and she gave a bitter laugh. “Your fine son doesn’t think of you at all. Some dear father you are—didn’t even get a share of the pastries he gave out.”

Shen Wenlu’s brows furrowed even deeper. He kept his voice low. “If you want to scold Sui, then scold her—why bring him up again? We’ve already divided households. Who he gives pastries to is none of our concern. Enough talk. Let’s just finish and go home early.”

The more calm he appeared, the more she seethed. “Oh, I’ll bring him up if I please! What, feeling sorry for him? Then go live with your darling son!”

He turned his head away, refusing to argue further.

Still fuming, she muttered, “You dote on him all you like, but he doesn’t care a whit for you. He’s probably glad to be rid of you.”

When even that failed to provoke him, Feng Xianglian flung the seedlings into the water with a splash. “I’ve had enough! Do it yourself!”

With that, she stomped out of the field, mud splattering her skirt.

Truly, she thought, she must have been blind to marry Shen Wenlu. She had once believed that a man who’d studied at the academy might have a bright future. But he was useless—weak, unambitious, and dependent on the son born to his first wife.

Across the field, Shen Ying glanced over but said nothing. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he focused on his work.

He only wanted to finish quickly—so his husband wouldn’t have to wait at home for long.

Just then, a man stepping out of the next paddy spotted someone approaching from the path and called out, grinning, “Shen Ying! Your husband’s come to bring you lunch!”