The Overachieving Little Husband of the Top Scholar’s Household - Chapter 25: Busy Farming Season
Chapter 25 – Busy Farming
It had been hard enough to make a trip into the county seat, so Qiu Huanian planned to stroll around a bit more.
They left the mule cart at the security bureau and walked the streets of the county.
Zhang County was laid out with the bell-and-drum tower and the yamen as the center, with four main thoroughfares running east, west, south, and north. The north side was the wealthy quarter, its streets lined with finely appointed shops whose doors and windows stood open by day, revealing costly bolts of cloth, jewelry, spices, and books within.
The south side had more alleys and residences; the mule-and-horse market and the produce market were both there. Many peddlers roamed the alleys hawking loudly, porters and laborers passing back and forth—full of the breath of everyday life.
In a previous life Qiu had seen too many identical cityscapes and disliked shopping; but in antiquity he found himself drawn to the novelty of streets and what they offered the senses.
He dragged Du Yunse from one end to the other and back again. He looked but refused to spend recklessly; in the end he only spent five wen on several balls of colored cotton thread—Jiujiu had been dedicated to needlework lately, and the few single colors at home no longer satisfied her creative itch.
Qiu had first thought Jiujiu too young and that a little time daily on needlework would suffice, but she had fallen for it—especially embroidery; frogs one day, little fish the next. Each time she finished a piece, he would shower her with praise.
At first he did not understand; later he recalled that in modern times many girls that age loved crafts and playing house—and suddenly it made sense.
So long as Jiujiu enjoyed it, let her embroider to her heart’s content. Going out in a collar embroidered with a little fish had its own charm.
Before heading home, Qiu ducked into a tidy spice shop.
“Shopkeeper, do you have brown sugar?”
Behind the counter sat a woman in her twenties, with large hands and feet, a ruddy face—clearly someone who ran her own affairs.
At his words, she stood and said, “We do. White sugar is 120 wen per jin, brown sugar is 80 wen per jin.”
“I’ll take two jin of brown sugar,” Qiu said at once.
It was for making the bio-enzyme to keep pests off cotton. He had planned to save more before buying, but today he had unexpectedly received Wei Dexing’s gift of thanks, so he bought it all at once.
With bio-enzyme, the longer the fermentation, the better the effect.
Hearing so large an order, the shopkeeperess smiled and moved to the shelves to weigh out the brown sugar.
Qiu noticed the shop seemed also to make its own vinegar and sauces and asked, “Shopkeeper, if I want to buy some leftover vinegar dregs from brewing, how would you sell them?”
She waved a hand. “We dump all our vinegar dregs into pits as fertilizer. Never sold them. But a visitor is a guest—if you only want a little, I can give you some.”
Qiu smiled and shook his head. “I want half a vat of vinegar dregs. Better name a price.”
“Half a vat? I’ve never seen anyone buy that much of the stuff.” She pointed at the vinegar vats behind. “Half a vat, one flat price—twenty wen. When you need it, bring your own sack to load.”
“I’ll use it for growing things. I’ll come buy in three months,” Qiu explained casually.
Like bio-enzyme, vinegar dregs were also for pest control in cotton. After the cotton reached flowering, it was prone to pests; handled poorly, yields would be badly hit, so it had to be met with scientific methods and readiness.
This bio-enzyme plus vinegar dregs pairing was a pest-control method Qiu had learned from an old cotton farmer back home in modern times—effective without chemical pesticides.
While the shopkeeperess weighed sugar, Qiu glanced around. The shelves by the entrance held many seasonings; he looked through them but didn’t see what he sought.
“Shopkeeper, how come you don’t sell red fermented bean curd?”
Among Wei Dexing’s gifts of thanks was a jar of red furu (fermented bean curd). Qiu had assumed it a common product in Zhang County’s spice shops and wanted to ask its price out of curiosity.
She replied, “Only the Wei Ji Spice Shop on the next street sells red furu. They say a merchant friend of his brought it from the capital. If you want it, you have to buy it there.”
“Does red furu sell well?”
“Most buyers want a taste of something new—after all, it’s a unique ‘capital’ good. Some really love the flavor, others buy for the novelty. But at 80 wen a jar, only well-off households keep buying it.”
Eighty wen? Qiu’s heart stirred. He knew how to make red furu and reckoned the cost of one jar at most 20 wen; he hadn’t expected it to fetch 80.
“If the price is high and people buy it, why don’t other shops in the county make and sell it themselves?”
She laughed. “If only it were so easy. Even if you traveled to the capital, you wouldn’t necessarily learn the recipe.”
“Shopkeeper Wei says the flavor he sells is one-of-a-kind in the capital too. The recipe is a secret transmission from that furu shop. Unless you’ve got the same kind of trading connections with convoys to the capital, you just can’t get the goods.”
Qiu realized his mistaken assumption.
Red furu is a traditional Chinese delicacy going back to the Northern Wei; in the Ming era of his other timeline, it already had a mature commercial production model, so he’d subconsciously thought it was something anyone could make with effort.
In truth, information in antiquity spread slowly and narrowly; many recipes and crafts were jealously guarded and not easily passed on. In troubled times, good things often vanished entirely down the long river of history.
Red furu might be very common in the capital already, but the recipe hadn’t spread to the Northeast. Unlike modern times—pull out a phone, open an app, and dozens of recipes appear for reference and choice.
“If you had a large batch of red furu, would you take stock and sell it here?”
“If there was, who wouldn’t want to earn?” She started thinking he was joking, then realized and her eyes lit up. “I can only sell so much here, but if your goods are cheaper than Wei Ji’s, I can introduce a better outlet.”
This shopkeeperess was named Madam Huang the Second; she had an elder sister, Madam Huang the First, who ran a sizeable eatery in town. The sisters had both divorced their husbands and registered as independent female heads of households—minor celebrities in Zhang County.
“My sister’s cooking is outstanding. After Wei Ji started selling red furu, she bought a few jars and developed several new dishes. Patrons at tastings loved them.”
“She wanted to buy red furu wholesale from Wei Ji to roll out the new dishes formally. But when Wei Dexing heard, he refused to supply her on grounds that we sisters were unchaste women, and demanded that my sister hand over all the new recipes—only then would he sell, and he raised the price to 100 wen a jar.”
“My sister has a strong temper like me. She wouldn’t stand for it. She stopped buying red furu and shelved the new dishes.”
Qiu admired the sisters—living freely and building their livelihoods in antiquity as women was no easy feat.
As for Wei Dexing, he had already witnessed the man’s disdain for women and “young lords.” Hearing of yet another mean-spirited deed, he was unsurprised and thought even less of him.
Madam Huang waved generously. “Young lord, I’ll decide on my sister’s behalf. Let’s speak frankly. A jar of Wei Ji’s red furu weighs about one jin and costs 80 wen. If you’ve got the recipe and can make it, my sister’s eatery will buy at 70 wen per jin.”
“When you’re ready, bring the goods to me here. My name carries weight on this street—I won’t cheat you!”
Qiu had found another profitable venture and agreed on the spot, planning to first taste Wei Ji’s red furu and then refine the best version using modern methods.
Since he’d received a thank-you gift and found an outlet for selling red furu, he was in high spirits returning to Du Family Village. He spent 60 wen on a jin of fine lamb to celebrate with a good meal that evening.
People in Zhang County mostly stewed lamb; Qiu bought tender lamb and thought stewing was wasteful. He decided to try lamb-stuffed flatbreads.
He first scrubbed the lamb in clean water and a handful of cornmeal to remove gaminess and blood, then cut it into finger-joint-sized cubes—the meat mustn’t be too fine or it would lose texture.
He seasoned the cut lamb with salt, chili powder, and scallion-ginger water, tossed and marinated for half an hour so the flavor would penetrate and the meat stay juicy.
While the lamb marinated, Qiu made a soft dough with a bowlful of white flour and water. During cooking, Chunsheng ran to and fro adding wood to the stove, while Jiujiu embroidered under the tree, her eyes straying constantly to the stove in anticipation.
Once the lamb was ready and the dough relaxed, Qiu divided the dough into equal pieces and rolled them thin. He grabbed a handful of lamb and some minced scallions, set them in the dough, wrapped and pressed to make round patties.
The white patties had skins only a thin layer thick; large chunks of lamb were faintly visible inside—mouthwatering to behold. Qiu brushed both sides with soybean oil and slapped them onto the hot iron pot’s wall.
Soon the aroma of lamb filled the courtyard, mingled with chili and scallion—a feast for the appetite. Chunsheng swallowed by the stove; even Jiujiu couldn’t keep stitching.
Mastering the heat, Qiu flipped the breads deftly with a spatula. The golden side now up made even him hungry.
He stepped to the main room’s window, leaned in, and joked to Du Yunse, who had seized time to read after returning, “They say books are food for the spirit. If your spirit is full, can your mortal body still eat my lamb bread later?”
Du returned from the sea of books, looking helpless and tender. Hua-gege always said such novel things; he had never heard “books are food for the spirit,” but on reflection, it made sense.
He smiled. “Books feed the spirit, but this mortal frame still relies on Hua-gege’s cooking.”
After feasting his eyes on the handsome “dragon lad,” Qiu returned to cooking.
One jin of lamb yielded ten thin, fragrant breads. Jiujiu and Chunsheng each had one; Qiu and Du each ate one and shared another. The remaining five went under cloth in a basket to reheat for lunch the next day.
Sitting in a courtyard bathed in golden-red sunset, a bite of the crisp, soft lamb bread burst rich juices in the mouth. The large, tender cubes of lamb were pleasantly chewy, profoundly satisfying. Paired with a ladle of wild-greens tofu soup, the rustic meal pleased body and soul more than any refined and costly capital banquet.
Work when busy, gruel when idle. After a good meal came days of labor.
Cotton seedlings require no less than seventeen degrees to grow; now was the proper time to transplant them into the fields. The Northeast’s temperatures were generally low year-round; any later and the bolls would not mature before autumn and winter chills.
Cotton couldn’t be planted too densely. A county cotton broker told Qiu that in his hometown they could plant over three thousand seedlings per mu. Considering Du Family Village’s particularities, Qiu decided just over two thousand per mu was enough.
To get all the seedlings transplanted quickly and reduce growth disparity, the family of four took the field together. Du put aside his reading; Jiujiu ceased needlework. Qiu had pre-made a large batch of sorghum candy entrusted to Meng Wudong and Meng Yuanling to sell, devoting all time to the three mu of cotton.
At cockcrow, Qiu and Du rose. One prepared food for the day; the other drew water and organized the seedlings, easing separation from their trays.
Once everyone had breakfast, they carried baskets of water, seedling trays, and tools to the fields.
The mule had saved much labor plowing, but transplanting required hand work. On ridges already prepared, Qiu and Du used long hoes to dig shallow holes at one-foot intervals; Jiujiu and Chunsheng followed, setting a seedling in each, hand-pressing soil to firm them.
When a tray of seedlings was done, the children ran home and together brought another.
A tray held over three hundred seedlings; a mu required about seven trays.
They worked from morning till noon, resting on the field ridge with water when tired, chatting when weary. At noon they returned to reheat leftovers and lay on the kang for half an hour.
Luckily, their three irrigated plots were close to the village; otherwise there’d be no time to return at midday—only to nap under a nearby tree.
Only by working the field did they know the farmer’s hardship. Qiu had planted a while in modern times, but this wore him out too.
His body was weak to begin with; by afternoon he could hardly rise, his arms and waist aching as though they were not his own. As he struggled upright, Du entered and pressed him back onto the kang.
“I’ll go alone this afternoon. You and the children rest more.”
Qiu wanted to argue. “How can that be? We agreed to work together—it wouldn’t be right to leave you alone. And we planted only four trays this morning, barely half a mu. I’d hoped to finish transplanting within three days.”
In farming, timing is strange and key. Often being three or four days late meant later seedlings wouldn’t grow as well as earlier ones.
Seeing Qiu’s pale palms reddened from the hoe handle, Du went to the water vat, wet a strip of fine linen, and laid it on Qiu’s hands.
The cool, damp touch drew a sharp breath; now his palms felt the belated burn. At this rate, he’d lose his hands before finishing the cotton.
Du’s heart ached. “I’ll move seedlings by moonlight tonight. We’ll finish within three days. Lie down.”
Qiu’s mouth moved; the heat in his hands seemed to climb to his face. He couldn’t win and nodded vaguely.
By dinner his soreness had eased. He put food in a basket, grabbed a hoe, and took the coarse cotton gloves he’d directed Jiujiu to stitch that afternoon to the field.
The sun tilted west; the heat was gone. The air was full of earth’s fragrance. Many villagers still labored. From a distance, Qiu spotted Du.
He wore old short clothes, trouser legs rolled, a hemp cord at his waist; dressed no differently than any farmer. Yet to Qiu, even like this Du looked wonderful—sweat trickling from nose to cheek made his heart race.
Du saw Qiu and came with the hoe. “Hua-gege, what are you doing here?”
Unable to resist, Qiu raised a sleeve to wipe his sweat. Du bent and lowered his head, leaning closer to make it easier.
“I brought you food. After you eat, I’ll plant with you.”
Seeing disapproval on Du’s face, Qiu hurried on. “The sun isn’t hot now. I rested all afternoon—I’m not so tired. And look, I had Jiujiu sew two pairs of cotton gloves; with them, the hoe handle won’t chafe.”
They had spare cotton cloth at home; Qiu did not skimp. He’d thought Jiujiu might balk, but once she heard the gloves would protect hands from swelling, she immediately cut cloth and stitched a pair each for her two brothers.
He showed the five-finger gloves and pointed at a big willow by the field ridge. “Come on, let’s sit there to eat—then keep planting.”
Du had planted just over one tray that afternoon—still a bit short of a mu. If they were to finish three mu in three days, they had to plant another tray today.
Sitting under the willow, Qiu opened the basket, handed Du a bamboo tube of bone broth, and unwrapped two freshly reheated white-flour stuffed cakes.
They were stuffed with tofu and wild greens. Qiu had been generous with oil and seasoning; one bite blended the rich filling and wheaten fragrance, comforting bodies after a day’s toil.
Some villagers headed home, passing by. Seeing Du’s food, most smiled kindly.
“I asked Yunse this afternoon why Hua-gege wasn’t in the fields—he said Hua-gege needed rest. I’m so envious.”
“If my man were half as thoughtful as Yunse, I’d burn incense in thanks!”
“Stop dreaming! Look what Hua-gege brought—pure white-flour cakes with tofu and oh-so-much soybean oil.”
“If I had that much white flour and oil, I could make cakes like that too!”
…
Qiu took the friendly teasing with smiles, joking back at times; a few grew jealous and sniped. He didn’t indulge them—he answered back with deadpan sarcasm on the spot.
After a rest, they returned to planting. Jiujiu and Chunsheng brought another tray and cool boiled water midway.
To keep Qiu from working too fast or too hard, Du dug holes while chatting, distracting him. They talked of everything under the sun; as the red sun sank and stars pricked on, the body’s fatigue felt less heavy.
Once they finished a mu, Du took the tools and the basket, and they walked home beneath starlight. A deep rural stillness flowed, broken now and then by a dog’s bark that quickly faded.
“I truly didn’t expect you to have such stamina,” Qiu said, stretching his arms to ease the ache.
Scholars were said to be frail, but Du’s work bore no sign of frailty; he was stronger than Qiu in his previous life. Qiu suspected beneath that straight, lithe frame lay plenty of muscle—the kind of body that looked slim in clothes and muscular without.
He probably had abs…
As the thought flashed by, Qiu twisted his face aside and scolded himself inwardly, ears heating.
Du did not know the cause of Qiu’s oddness and said factually, “The gentleman’s six arts are rites, music, archery, chariotry, writing, and mathematics. Two relate directly to strengthening the body. I have always trained and studied without fail.”
“My teacher often says a Confucian should not be pedantic and weakly; in letters he must argue scripture and law; in arms he must protect and uphold the Way.”
Qiu recalled claims about a “combat Confucius”—that “hearing the Way in the morning” meant learning the enemy’s route in the morning and killing him by evening; that “time flows like a river” meant sitting by the river while corpses floated past… (Note 1)
Some of this was deliberate mockery; some arose from cultural differences and bad translations, foreign misunderstandings then re-imported—hardly to be taken seriously. But the real Confucius was no frail, corrupt pedant—he was an eight-chi-tall swordsman traveling the states with countless disciples, an advocate of “repaying injustice with uprightness.”
Qiu felt the image of the great scholar Wen Huiyang in his mind shift. “Your teacher wouldn’t also be a ‘tough guy,’ would he?”
Du had by now learned to decode Qiu’s odd phrasings. “In his youth, my teacher once argued with the Prince of Ping about the mistreatment of scholars. When persuasion failed, he drew the emperor’s gifted sword and cut off the prince’s cap tassel.”
Qiu clicked his tongue. A tough guy indeed.
He stole a glance at Du. With such a master, Du surely had a thunderous side—though under what conditions it would appear, he did not know.
Back home, Du heated water for Qiu; they washed in turn and collapsed on the kang.
As Qiu slipped into sweet, dark sleep, his last thought was how fortunate they had changed to new cotton quilts—or the cold, hard kang would have been torture.
In dreams he saw fields of ripe cotton; before he could rejoice, the ever-lingering Qiu Chuanzong and Madame Zhou came to sponge off him, claiming the harvest of those three mu as theirs.
As he argued with them, the clan head appeared and drove them off with other villagers. He had just sighed in relief when he turned to see Madame Zhao smirking behind him; she pushed him into an abyss while Du Yunjing, Li Guer, and Fubao’s grating laughter crowed overhead like crows.
“Hua-gege, Hua-gege, wake up.”
Head throbbing, Qiu opened his eyes to find himself still on the kang in the left east room. Dawn had broken outside. Du stood by the kang, worry in his eyes; the two children were already up and gone.
“What time is it?” Qiu’s voice was hoarse.
“Just after the rooster crowed. Jiujiu and Chunsheng saw you still sleeping and didn’t wake you. I was outside and thought you were having a nightmare?”
Qiu took a sip of cool boiled water at Du’s lips and gave a trimmed version of his dream.
“Thinking a bit, I know Qiu Chuanzong’s clan has been escorted to the capital, and Madame Zhao’s family to the prefectural city; they couldn’t appear. But in the dream I couldn’t realize it and kept circling in it.”
Du gently smoothed his hair. “You’re too exhausted.”
Qiu half nuzzled into his warm palm. “We’ll finish transplanting in two days, then pickle the red furu in jars, and we can rest a few days. Once we’ve sold the red furu, it’ll be almost time for you to go to the prefectural city for the exam—we’ll go together and stroll a bit.”
He spoke of rest while laying plans. Du could only resolve privately to keep a closer eye on Hua-gege and see he rested more—no more overstraining himself.
The clan head’s family had only one mu of cotton and finished transplanting in a day. The next day, they sent two men to help at Qiu’s, greatly easing the burden.
They refused money, so Qiu had Jiujiu stitch two pairs of cotton gloves and fed them three meals.
With the gloves in hand, the clan head’s second and third sons marveled. “I’ve farmed for years; first time putting cotton on my hands. Hua-gege really knows how to care. We’re basking in his glow.”
With those gloves, the past two days’ labor felt worthwhile—and Hua-gege’s meals were hearty and delicious. Even without their father urging, they were happy to come help.
Seeing Qiu stooped and aching, they insisted he not force himself; Du likewise insisted he rest.
“Hua-gege, with Yunse and us, another day and a half will finish all three mu. Go rest. If you ruin your health, that’s the real loss.”
Qiu knew they were right and returned home to cook, bringing water and food to the field at mealtime.
Madam Hu Qiuyan’s household had few hands too, but only one mu of cotton—no rush. She took two or three days to finish, then fished a plump carp from the pond to celebrate at Qiu’s.
Qiu flash-fried chilies and—finally—bought Sichuan peppercorns to smoke the pot, added sour cabbage sent by the clan head’s second daughter-in-law for fragrance, then boiling water and thick-cut carp slices to make a huge bowl of tangy, spicy suancai fish for all who had helped.
After the seedlings took root, there was a half-month recovery period, with occasional filling-in or moving seedlings based on development. Compared to mass transplanting, it was trivial labor.
For Qiu’s cotton-only household, a long stretch of agricultural downtime lay ahead.
Jiujiu was close with Cunlan, the clan head’s second son Baoyi’s daughter. The two whispered at the table for a while; after the meal and others had left, Jiujiu shyly came to Qiu.
“Hua-gege, could I… could I ask you a favor?”
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Note 1: The “battlefield Confucius” renderings cited are internet memes and incorrect translations. The “time flows like a river” line was misquoted by an Arabic outlet as “following Confucius’s teachings, China sits quietly by a river with enemies’ corpses floating past”—hard to imagine the original from that!
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