Chapter Seven: The First Thematic Photoshoot

Cheng Jie’s home was on the opposite side of C University. Her father-in-law had once been a university professor; after retirement, he took up a position as a consultant at the library, specializing in the restoration and organization of ancient texts.

Their house was a classic old-style building. The riverside courtyard was not particularly spacious, but the property stretched back a long way. At its center was a skywell, and beyond that, a small garden. The rear gate of the garden led to a narrow alley, across from which stood the high wall of a temple. The lane itself was so narrow that two bicycles, side by side, would fill it completely.

Cheng Jie’s family of three lived in the front courtyard. On either side of the small garden behind the skywell were annex rooms, occupied by Professor Song and his wife, along with the housekeeper who took care of them. The kitchen was situated between the two annexes, with the dining room directly opposite. After a thorough renovation, the old residence had been fitted with modern conveniences. A glass canopy had been added in front of the dining room, with hanging greenery dividing the space into indoor and outdoor sections.

On fine days, the elderly couple and the housekeeper would dine in the skywell; when there were more guests in the evening, everyone sat at the large dining table indoors.

Cheng Jie and Teacher Song had planned to set up a tastefully decorated small table in the skywell for a touch of bourgeois charm, just enough to capture a few beautiful photos.

However, after Chen Xin met with Teacher Song and discussed his plan, she realized his real intention was to showcase the region’s culinary specialties—from breakfast to late-night snacks: three main meals, two snacks, and an extra supper.

Chen Xin suggested not bothering to redecorate. Instead, she brought out the wooden table and chairs that Professor Song usually used for tea in the garden, covered them with coarse cotton cloth, arranged the food in large bowls and platters, and set out rustic ceramic tableware—bamboo chopsticks and plain white porcelain spoons.

Professor Song, a lover of old culture, happened to have collected just such items. At Chen Xin’s suggestion, everyone tried out this arrangement, setting the table in the skywell, beside the old wooden staircase. As they set up the table, chairs, and dishes, Chen Xin quickly whipped up two authentic local breakfasts.

One was a noodle dish: bright red dry-mixed noodles, topped with savory pork, diced pickled vegetables, freshly fried peanuts crushed with a knife, chopped fresh chili peppers, and a ring of finely sliced scallions. The colorful toppings over the pale yellow noodles looked irresistibly appetizing.

Next, she mixed a ladle of batter in a large bowl, added an egg and the leftover scallions from the noodles, blended it all and fried four soft, pancake-sized flatbreads in a skillet, then arranged them on a plate. She peeled four sausage links, scored them with a knife, and fried them in a bit of rapeseed oil. As they sizzled, the slits curled open, turning each sausage into a flower-shaped roll. She placed the sausages on a long platter alongside the pancakes, and filled a small bowl with two scoops of local spicy sauce—making the perfect wraps.

Now, all that was missing was a bowl of porridge.

She hadn’t made mung bean porridge, as that took too long. Earlier, Chen Xin had simmered a broth from bones stripped of meat; although it wasn’t fully ready, it was flavorful enough for porridge. She chopped the leftover meat into soybean-sized pieces, seasoned it with salt, MSG, and pepper, and thinned it with water. Once the rice and ginger slices simmered into a rolling boil in the bone broth, she turned off the heat, stirred in the minced meat, covered the pot, and let it sit for ten minutes.

When she finally lifted the lid and scattered scallions on top, a wave of fresh, savory aroma billowed out with the steam, making everyone’s stomachs rumble.

Before adding the minced meat, Chen Xin had already set aside a bowl for the two children. They were small, and the bone broth porridge without the extra meat was plenty for them—too much oil might upset their stomachs.

"Watching Chen Xin cook, I feel like my own meals are pig slop…" Cheng Jie gazed longingly at the pot, doing her best to restrain herself—even though she’d already had breakfast, she suddenly felt ravenous again.

"No wonder Chen Xin dares to open a restaurant; with skills like hers, she’s bound to draw crowds of customers."

"Teacher Song, you flatter me. These are just home-cooked dishes. Normally, we don’t bother with presentation; everything’s thrown together. But for photos, you have to add some color. It all tastes the same, though," Chen Xin replied.

Song wanted to say more, but Cheng Jie nudged her husband, stopping him.

Meanwhile, Aunt Yao, the housekeeper, looked on with a sour expression, never once offering to help. She watched over the Song family’s child, but wouldn’t so much as touch Zhang Zhang.

Cheng Jie said nothing at first, but seeing Aunt Yao holding her own child, she went to pick up Zhang Zhang. As soon as her hand touched his clothes, Aunt Yao remarked sarcastically that Cheng Jie preferred to hold other people’s children instead of her own, as if Zhang Zhang were really her son.

"Just mind your own business. If you don’t want to take care of the child, put her down," Cheng Jie retorted. Her family wasn’t lacking in status or means, so she wasn’t afraid to offend the older couple. Besides, the housekeeper was paid to do her job; who did she think she was to mock her employers?

Embarrassed in front of everyone, Aunt Yao flushed, snorted, set the little girl down, muttered about other chores, and left.

Professor Song’s wife was displeased and started to rebuke Cheng Jie, but her son spoke first.

"Mom, Dad, I think it’s time to let Aunt Yao retire and enjoy life at home. She’s getting on in years and can’t do much anymore. If she gets hurt, we can’t answer to her children. Besides, Xiao Yun is in daycare now. Cheng Jie and I are home mornings and evenings. If you find it inconvenient, we’ll move out, or else hire a younger housekeeper."

Aunt Yao was a distant relative from his mother’s hometown. Years ago, her family was too poor to eat, so she worked for his family to support her own. Back then, she’d skimp and squirrel away little things to send home, and he didn’t say a word—no object was worth more than a life. But years of indulgence had emboldened her; now she took things openly, gave them attitude when displeased, and was especially rude to Cheng Jie, resenting that she hadn’t managed to marry her own daughter to Teacher Song.

Teacher Song’s mother was surnamed Gu, and her maternal grandmother was a Yao; thus, Aunt Yao considered herself an elder. But on the family tree, she and Grandma Gu were distant relatives, well beyond five degrees of kinship, merely sharing a surname with Gu’s mother. She lost her sense of boundaries in their tolerance, thinking her age gave her authority. If not for Grandma Gu’s sake, Teacher Song would have dismissed her long ago.

Today was a breaking point, perhaps because there were guests. Teacher Song did not press the issue further, but showed no concern for his mother’s feelings. It was Professor Song who comforted his wife, then called Aunt Yao’s son to fetch her.

Professor Song, accustomed to authority, rarely fussed, but once he made a decision, there was no turning back.

When Aunt Yao learned she was being sent away, she planned to make a scene. But Professor Song told her that if she left quietly, they’d pay her what she was due for years of service. If she caused trouble, they’d call the police and have her account for everything she’d stolen from the family.

"That stationery you took from my study last time was an antique, worth twenty or thirty thousand yuan. If you want to make a fuss, that alone is enough to send you to prison."

Faced with Professor Song’s cold gaze, Aunt Yao lost her nerve, packed her things, and let her son take her away that afternoon.

Her son was more sensible. Realizing his mother had truly angered the Song family—and feeling guilty himself—he returned the inkstone she’d nearly sold.

When Aunt Yao saw the inkstone, she nearly lunged for it; that was worth thousands! But her son stopped her, and she left, still bitter.

"Let’s just hire a professional housekeeper. Let our son handle it. We’re old; we should just look after ourselves and not worry about anything else," Professor Song said, patting his wife’s shoulder. He then walked to the front courtyard with great interest, watching the young people bustle about, feeling a touch of youth himself.