Shen Miao never expected that among the countless people in the world surnamed Xie, the Xie family she had come to would turn out to be the home of the young master and servant she had encountered on the boat. She couldn’t help but marvel at the inexplicable twists of fate, feeling a sense of wonder in her heart. As Xie Qi approached, she curved her eyes into a smile and said, "Greetings, Ninth Brother Xie. Thank you for the crabapples—they added much delight to my journey."
That note he had left was still tucked away at the bottom of her chest, untouched. There was no particular reason—it was simply that the handwriting was so exquisite she couldn’t bear to throw it away.
As for that bag of crabapples… Xie Qi remembered them too.
He had traveled to Jinling in search of rare books, scouring every corner of the city and even venturing into the countryside. But his ill-fated luck had led to one mishap after another. That bag of crabapples had been discovered by a stream after he slipped and tumbled down a hillside while searching for a reclusive scholar, only to be chased by wild dogs with the wailing Yan Shu on his back.
At the time, he was utterly disheveled, his throat parched, and Yan Shu was too terrified to move. With no other choice, he tucked his robes into his waistband and climbed the tree himself to pick the fruit, hoping to stave off their hunger.
Then the branch snapped beneath his feet…
He landed on a thick cushion of rotting leaves and broken twigs, while Yan Shu shrieked in panic, scrambling over to frantically check his limbs and neck, as if fearing he had died from the fall. But as he lay there, gazing up, he saw the crabapples raining down around him, the sky ablaze with sunset hues, the mountains gilded in gold, and drifting clouds passing overhead.
The beauty of it all made him forget the pain. He lay there for a long time, mesmerized by the vast, vibrant sky—until a crabapple struck him square on the forehead, snapping him out of his daze.
That was why he had carried that pouch of crabapples onto the boat, nibbling on them occasionally when fatigue set in. Each bite seemed to carry the memory of that mountain sunset, soothing his weariness and lifting his spirits.
It was precisely because he found them so delightful that he had offered them as a token of gratitude.
Now, hearing Shen Miao mention them, warmth flickered in his chest, and he finally shook his head with a faint laugh. "Yan Shu was the one who acted improperly."
Yan Shu stuck out his tongue sheepishly beside him, though his eyes kept darting toward Sister Xiang, who sat obediently nibbling on a large longevity peach bun, making him swallow hard.
"So you are the Shen Miao my mother mentioned the other day—the one renowned for her delicious pastries on Jinliang Bridge," Xie Qi mused, finding the coincidence too amusing to ignore. "How curious. Though we’ve never formally met before, I’ve already tasted your craftsmanship three times."
Once on the canal boat, and twice with those savory and sweet roasted buns.
"Today, I’m here at Madam Xie’s request to prepare vegetarian pastries for the Dharma assembly. Most of them are already done—this is the last batch," Shen Miao explained truthfully, glancing back at the steaming oven.
The kiln was set up under the corridor, close to the gate. Shen Ji had initially stood up upon hearing the commotion outside, but after listening for a moment, he understood the situation and quietly returned to tending the fire in the oven, occasionally adjusting the charcoal.
Yan Shu had been craving Shen Miao’s cooking ever since returning to the Xie household, often dreaming of her noodle soup. Hearing that she was free now, he shot a pleading look at Xie Qi before adding, "Running into you again is truly a stroke of fate! Ninth Brother hasn’t had a proper meal all day after being so busy outside. Could we trouble you to whip up something delicious to fill our stomachs?"
Xie Qi immediately frowned. "Yan Shu! How rude!"
Yan Shu instantly shrank back, chastened.
Shen Miao didn’t feel offended in the slightest. The eldest lady of the Xie family was generous, having paid the full fee in advance and even tipping handsomely. For such open-handed patrons, Shen Miao was always equally magnanimous. Besides, she was using the Xie family’s ingredients and firewood—it wasn’t as if she was losing anything.
Cooking, after all, was the simplest thing in the world for her.
So when Xie Qi moved to apologize, she waved it off cheerfully. "It’s nothing. I was just idling here anyway. Since that’s the case, might as well trouble Yan Shu to inform Chef Fang inside, so we don’t intrude unannounced..."
"This servant will go at once!" Yan Shu, granted permission, scurried off immediately.
The kitchen was fully stocked with rice, meat, and vegetables. Chef Fang emerged with a sullen expression, reluctantly unlocking the cellar with the key from his waistband before stepping aside to let Shen Miao pick what she needed.
Yan Shu, however, eagerly followed Shen Miao inside. Xie Qi, who had never set foot in the kitchen before, found it rather intriguing and was about to step in when Chef Fang bowed deeply, ushering him toward a stone pavilion outside with ingratiating politeness. The man’s earlier surly demeanor—where nothing about him seemed agreeable—vanished entirely in the presence of the young master of the Xie household. Instead, he beamed obsequiously, declaring, "Ninth Young Master is a noble guest—how could such a place befit you? This servant will escort you to a quieter spot."
Xie Qi’s steps faltered slightly. Just then, Shen Miao turned back after surveying the cellar, smiling brightly as she asked, "You truly have everything here! But what does Ninth Young Master Xie prefer to eat? The shepherd’s purse in the cellar looks especially fresh—how about some spring rolls with shepherd’s purse? Paired with a bowl of scallion oil noodles? Since it’s already late, something light would be best—no heavy meats, lest it spoil your appetite for dinner."
Before she even finished speaking, Yan Shu was already cheering.
"Perfect, perfect! As expected of Mistress Shen—so thoughtful and thorough!"
Xie Qi flicked Yan Shu’s forehead in mock displeasure before smiling at Shen Miao. "'Spring by the brook, shepherd’s purse in bloom'—indeed, it’s the perfect season for it. Then I’ll leave it entirely to Mistress Shen’s discretion."
"Ninth Young Master, please wait a moment. It won’t take long."
Shen Miao gathered a large handful of shepherd’s purse and headed into the kitchen, first checking the stove at the other end of the corridor. She instructed Shen Ji to fan the flames and add more firewood—if the heat wasn’t strong enough, the roasted color would turn out dull, and that wouldn’t do.
"Shen Ji, I’ll leave this kiln stove to you. Keep the fire just like this—don’t let it weaken, or the batch will be ruined. Remember, just like at home."
"Don’t worry, elder sister." Shen Ji nodded, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the flames.
Then, passing by the door, she ruffled Sister Xiang’s hair before returning inside. Picking up the kitchen knife resting on the Xie family’s chopping board, she weighed it in her hand, running a careful finger along the blade. She couldn’t help marveling inwardly: What a fine knife! The steel seemed far superior to the one she’d bought for eighty coppers.
Chef Fang, who had wandered back in, noticed Shen Miao examining the knife and boasted, "That blade was handcrafted by a master. See the hammer marks on the surface? It costs two taels of silver!"
Shen Miao whistled under her breath: Only a wealthy household could afford a knife like this!
But it was worth it. She flicked the knife deftly in her hand—the weight was just right. This was an excellent blade.
She washed the shepherd's purse, arranging the leaves neatly with a casual flick of her hand before swiftly chopping them with rhythmic precision.
Spring breathed life into all things, and it was the perfect season for shepherd's purse. Known as the "herald of spring" by the Song people, this hardy green would push through the remnants of winter snow, revealing its tender shoots. By the third or fourth month, it reached its prime, and now, at the end of April and early May, it was at its most delicate.
At this time, shepherd's purse was crisp and refreshing—its stems pearl-white, its leaves a vibrant jade green, glistening with moisture. The beauty of seasonal vegetables lay in their natural freshness; as long as the cook didn’t make mistakes, the dish would effortlessly capture the essence of the ingredient.
Shepherd's purse had a clean, light flavor, while spring roll wrappers were deep-fried to a crisp. In cooking, balance was key—too much of anything ruined the dish. The ideal was a golden, flaky exterior giving way to a tender, flavorful filling.
A large bunch of greens was chopped in no time. Shen Miao was accustomed to quick knife work, and this blade felt even more comfortable than her own. In the blink of an eye, the shepherd's purse was reduced to fine, uniform pieces. The swift, precise cuts left little juice on the cutting board, preserving the vegetable’s natural sweetness.
Shen Miao always treated ingredients with care. The sweetness of shepherd's purse lay in its juices—if chopped sloppily, leaving the board drenched in liquid, the dish would be ruined. Without its natural sweetness, the filling would turn tough and bitter when fried, leaving an unpleasant, fibrous texture.
Thus, a sharp knife was essential. She wasn’t showing off—it was simply the right way to do it.
But Chef Fang, who had been pretending to work nearby, had been stealing glances from the corner of his eye. Witnessing Shen Miao’s masterful knife skills, some of his initial disdain and resentment faded.
He was a third-generation servant of the Xie family, born and raised in their household. His family had served as their cooks for generations, and their skills were nothing to scoff at. But when the lady of the house suddenly rejected his pastries in favor of street vendors, he was left disheartened, resentful, and even a little fearful.
Would the culinary legacy of the Fang family end with him?
Then Shen Miao arrived—a young woman who seemed barely out of her youth. His frustration deepened—how could someone so inexperienced possibly cook anything worthwhile?
Cooking was a craft honed over decades. How could one master the cutting board without twenty years of practice?
Chef Fang had been skeptical.
But now, watching Shen Miao wield the knife with effortless precision—chopping swiftly, evenly, and cleanly—he found himself reluctantly impressed.
After finishing the greens, Shen Miao sliced a piece of rib-eye beef—marbled with just the right amount of fat. Earlier, in the Xie family’s cellar, she had been stunned to find half a cow. In the Song dynasty, plow oxen were only sold at market after they died, and the price was exorbitant. Common folk might never taste beef in their lifetime, yet here in the Xie household, it seemed as ordinary as any other meat.
They must have their own cattle farm somewhere, Shen Miao mused.
Rib-eye was perfect for grilling—tender and rich with fat. Using it as spring roll filling was almost extravagant, but paired with shepherd's purse, the result was sublime. One bite would yield a crisp, juicy burst of sweetness.
Shen Miao glanced around, then picked up another knife from a nearby cutting board right in front of Chef Fang. Gripping it with both hands, she swiftly minced the beef into fine bits. After setting the knife down, she scooped a ladle of water to rinse it clean before placing it back in its spot. As she turned, she effortlessly gathered soy sauce, salt, oil, ginger slices, and cooking wine to marinate the meat, then mixed it thoroughly with shepherd’s purse—thus preparing the filling for the spring rolls.
Chef Fang kneaded the dough, staring dumbfounded as she worked. Her movements were precise and fluid, her knife rising and falling without a single misstep. Alone, she carried the energy of three people.
In no time, the filling was ready, the fire was lit, and the oil in the wok began to sizzle.
Shen Miao was entirely absorbed in her cooking, completely unaware of Chef Fang’s gaze. Her grandfather had always said that those who lacked focus had no place in the kitchen—not only would they fail to master the heat, but they’d even cut their own fingers while chopping. Such people were prone to overthinking and would never endure the hardships of the craft.
Only those with single-minded determination could create truly good dishes.
Of course, Shen Miao refused to admit she was one of those single-minded people.
She began making the spring roll wrappers.
This part was simple too, especially since Chef Fang had already prepared the dough. Shen Miao turned to ask him for it, only to find him standing stiffly, lost in thought. It took calling his name two or three times before he snapped back to reality and nodded, granting her permission to take what she needed.
Without hesitation, she scooped up the dough. As she divided it into smaller portions, she noticed its firm yet smooth texture and couldn’t help but praise Chef Fang. “Chef Fang, your dough is excellent. Those unfamiliar with the culinary arts don’t realize that kneading is its own profound skill. Just by touching it, I can tell—this must be a family tradition, right?”
The last traces of Chef Fang’s earlier defiance melted away at her words. His face flushed, but he nodded proudly. “For three generations, my family has served as chefs for the Xie household. This knowledge has been passed down through the years. I started learning to knead dough when I was still shorter than the stove.”
Shen Miao smiled faintly, a touch of nostalgia in her voice as she spread the dough into thin sheets on a griddle, cooking them over low heat until translucent. “What a coincidence—so did I. As a child, I had to stand on a stool just to reach the counter. My arms would ache so much from kneading that I could barely lift them, but I didn’t dare stop. If I rested, the dough wouldn’t rise properly, and my grandfather’s rolling pin would come down on me.”
Learning to cook as a child had been chaotic—her grandfather chasing her through the village with that rolling pin, her tiny legs scrambling to escape. The strength and endurance she had now? All earned through years of kneading, hauling water, flipping woks, and running for her life.
But that girl was gone now. Her grandfather was ninety years old. If he knew she was dead, how heartbroken would he be?
“That’s how it is when learning to cook—who hasn’t been beaten for it?”
Their voices were soft, heavy with memories that lingered between them, a shared understanding no outsider could grasp. A pang of melancholy rose in Chef Fang’s chest, and he lowered his head, sighing in agreement.
The Xie family’s culinary legacy had been passed down through generations, and now it was his turn to lead the kitchen—only because his father and grandfather were gone. His tone carried unmistakable grief and longing.
As he watched Shen Miao deftly frying the spring roll wrappers, something inside him stirred—a sense of kinship, even admiration. He had completely forgotten how wary he had been of her just moments ago.
In just a few words, Shen Miao had finished making the spring roll wrappers, while on the other side, Chef Fang volunteered to help her prepare the suotiao.
Suotiao is essentially hand-pulled noodles, but the Song Dynasty had an incredibly meticulous classification for food. Soup noodles were called tangbing, steamed buns were referred to as chuibing, and when it came to mixed noodles, the name changed again—this time to ganban suotiao. A simple category like noodles ended up with a multitude of names.
When Shen Miao first transmigrated here, she had to spend quite some time adjusting to these varied terms. Though she no longer made mistakes when speaking, in her heart, she still often referred to tangbing and suotiao simply as "noodles." This habit from her modern days might be hard to shake off...
Having help was always welcome. Shen Miao flashed him a smile before turning her attention back to the spring rolls—first evenly spreading the filling onto the wrapper, then gently rolling it up, folding both ends inward to prevent leaks, and finally sealing the edge with a dab of flour paste.
By the time she finished, the oil in the wok, prepared earlier, had reached the perfect temperature.
The thin, almost translucent spring roll wrappers turned golden in the sizzling hot oil in an instant.
Soon, the rich aroma filled the air. The fried shepherd’s purse spring rolls had a crispy exterior and an exceptionally savory filling. Shen Miao piled a full plate and asked Chef Fang to carry it out for her. Three smaller rolls remained in the wok—she had run a bit short on wrappers toward the end, so these were bite-sized. Seizing the opportunity, she swiftly fished them out and popped one into Shen Ji’s mouth.
Shen Ji nearly jumped from the heat, but the flavor was too delicious to spit out. He puffed out breaths, torn between the burn and the taste.
Especially when Shen Miao whispered, "It’s beef filling!"
Shen Ji had never tasted beef in his life. Once the initial heat subsided, he chewed eagerly, savoring the blend of fragrant shepherd’s purse and tender beef that enveloped his senses, making him reluctant to swallow.
Shen Miao then stealthily slipped one to Sister Xiang as well. Returning, she blew on the last one before taking a bite herself and nodding in satisfaction. No wonder the ancients always said, "Follow the seasons in eating—what’s not in season, do not eat."
Locally grown seasonal vegetables carried a freshness and sweetness that greenhouse produce simply couldn’t match.
Delicious!
After washing her hands again, she dropped the noodles Chef Fang had prepared into the boiling water. Meanwhile, she prepped a bowl with soy sauce, salt, and chopped scallions. She then sliced more scallions into long segments, discarding the white parts, and fried them in another pan until they turned dry and golden.
Shen Miao reduced the heat slightly, letting the scallions fry slowly. As they turned fully golden—some even slightly blackened—she carefully picked them out with chopsticks. Overcooked scallions would lend a bitter note to the oil, ruining the noodles’ flavor.
The scallion oil carried a rich, aromatic depth with a hint of toasty fragrance. For mixed noodles, aside from soy sauce, nothing was more essential than a spoonful of freshly made, piping-hot scallion oil. Poured over the noodles while still sizzling, it melded the flavors of the noodles, oil, and scallions into something truly soul-satisfying.
Shen Miao drizzled the freshly fried scallion oil directly over the pre-seasoned sauce. By then, the noodles in the pot were perfectly cooked. She drained them into the bowl, tossed them with the fragrant oil-infused sauce, and the dish was ready.
Scallion oil noodles were simple to make, but when done well, their taste was anything but ordinary.
Just as the noodles were finished, the last batch of red bean buns emerged from the oven.
Hearing Shen Ji call for her, Shen Miao hurried over. Using copper tongs, she pulled the iron tray from the stove, revealing the freshly baked red bean buns inside.
A gust of heat surged from the stove, making Shen Miao stagger back as she waved her hands to disperse the smoky haze. When the steam cleared, the red bean buns before her had risen perfectly—each golden and fluffy, their aroma rich with wheat and sweet red bean.
Satisfied, Shen Miao set them on the table and stretched her back. Today’s work was done.
Relieved, she carried the noodles outside with a smile.
Beside the path outside the kitchen stood a stone pavilion. As she approached, Xie Qi was savoring a spring roll with delicate precision, while Yan Shu, crouching just outside the pavilion, had nearly finished a separate plate of them.
When Yan Shu spotted her bringing two steaming bowls of fragrant noodles, his eyes lit up.
Shen Miao handed them over with a chuckle.
Xie Qi, unusually hearty in his appetite, ate with refined manners but had already polished off several spring rolls unnoticed. Glancing at Shen Miao, he sighed in admiration, "After so many days, your skills have improved yet again, Shen Miao."
She replied honestly, "It’s the quality of the Xie family’s ingredients."
Back on the cargo boats, they’d never had such fine supplies—vegetables were often a day or two old.
Xie Qi disagreed. "Good ingredients still need a skilled hand."
Accepting the praise with a smile, Shen Miao glanced at the sky. Soon, Yan Qi would arrive to fetch them, so she bowed slightly to take her leave, ready to gather her eight large steamers.
Yan Shu slurped his noodles eagerly, his face alight with hope. "Will you come again tomorrow, miss?"
The spring rolls and noodles were so delicious he could’ve swallowed his tongue.
Xie Qi raised his chopsticks, feigning a strike at the boy’s head, and scolded in mock exasperation, "Yan Shu! I’ll have Zheng Neizhi discipline you when we return!"
Zheng Neizhi was all smiles to outsiders and his masters, but to young servants like them, he was a demon—known for wielding bamboo strips that left stinging welts.
Yan Shu shrank at the threat, ducking his head and focusing intently on his noodles.
So good, so good! He devoured them noisily, his mouth glistening with scallion oil and soy sauce.
Shen Miao pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at his ravenous, feast-or-famine expression.
Over by the kitchen, Yan Qi had arrived as promised, peering cautiously from the doorway. Spotting Shen Miao in the pavilion—and Xie Qi present—he didn’t dare approach, lingering at a distance.
Noticing him, Shen Miao hurriedly said, "I should go." Then, glancing at Xie Qi, she pleaded for Yan Shu, "Ninth Young Master, please don’t punish him."
Xie Qi had only been teasing—otherwise, Yan Shu would never have grown so bold. With a resigned sigh, he relented.
Rising to see her off, he clasped his hands. "Thank you for your efforts today, Shen Miao. Ah—Chef Fang, fetch some meat and vegetables for her to take home."
He’d considered giving silver but feared it might seem dismissive, so he amended the gesture.
Shen Miao waved her hands in protest. "Your lady has already paid generously—far more than my work is worth. These were just simple dishes, Ninth Young Master. I merely lent my hands. It’s nothing."
Xie Qi smiled, nodding toward the spring rolls. "Consider it thanks for letting me taste the unique flavor of spring shepherd’s purse."
Meeting his gaze, she saw his quiet insistence behind the smile.
Reluctantly, she accepted.
This Xie Qi was a man of gentle demeanor and speech, yet it seemed nearly impossible to sway him once his mind was made up. Standing there in the spring twilight, smiling softly at you, he embodied the saying, "A gentleman is like jade—warm to the touch."
Yan Shu clutched his bowl of noodles, watching helplessly as Shen Miao and Yan Qi disappeared into the kitchen. Before long, Yan Qi emerged carrying a shoulder pole with baskets.
Chef Fang from the outer courtyard, uncharacteristically generous, had stuffed Shen Miao’s bamboo steamers full of meats and vegetables. So full, in fact, that the top lid couldn’t even close properly, leaving a tender lamb shank peeking out, swaying with the rhythm of the pole.
Before leaving, Shen Miao turned back for one last glance, bending her knees slightly in farewell.
Yan Shu hastily stood, waving his bowl in response, while Xie Qi stepped out of the pavilion to see her off.
She smiled, then took the little girl’s hand and followed Yan Qi away. Behind her, the older boy who had come with them bowed deeply before the three of them vanished down the path.
Xie Qi watched the siblings quietly.
The apricot-yellow figure of Shen Miao gradually melted into the sunset, the light catching the strands of hair at her temples, making them gleam. Her profile, bathed in the golden glow, seemed almost translucent. Slowly, she reached the edge of the sunlight, the radiance receding from her bit by bit—her nose, her jawline, the slender curve of her neck—each contour softened and defined by the gathering shadows.
At last, the sunset stretched into long, slanting shadows, swallowed bit by bit by the flowering trees along the path.
And then she was gone.
"If only Shen Miao could come bake steamed buns for us every day," Yan Shu sighed, staring mournfully at the last half-bowl of scallion-oil noodles and two spring rolls in his hands. "These noodles—just seasoned with sauce, salt, and oil—how can they taste so divine?"
Xie Qi turned back and finally couldn’t resist flicking Yan Shu’s food-obsessed head. "Enough. Do you really expect her to come bake for us daily? Unless Grandfather’s memorial rites last forty-nine days? Reciting scriptures for that long—are we trying to elevate him straight to immortality?"
Yan Shu tilted his head. Well, why not?
"Must your mind be filled with nothing but food? If only you’d apply yourself to reading and writing, I could take you to the academy with me." Xie Qi picked up a spring roll from the plate and strode off. "Come, let’s pay our respects to Great-Grandmother."
Yan Shu shoveled the remaining noodles into his mouth and hurried after him.
Wiping his lips, he stuck out his tongue at Xie Qi’s retreating back. What was so great about studying? He had no intention of suffering at the academy! Qiu Hao always came back five or six pounds thinner after following Xie Qi there. He’d said it himself—the academy served nothing but steamed dishes, morning till night, and they were awful.
His heart was already set on tomorrow.
Yan Shu had a plan: he’d time it just right and sneak off to find Shen Miao.
She was kind-hearted—he’d ask her to whip up something special, then devour it all by himself in the kitchen.
And he wouldn’t tell Xie Qi a thing!
