Food Intelligence King

Chapter 38: The year my wife died, my hands were planted
"Oh, Uncle Feng, it's been a long time! How are you doing?" Chen Zhou greeted him warmly.

Old Feng was a man who strictly adhered to the social rules of the village.

Although he couldn't remember who Chen Zhou was for a moment, he still responded enthusiastically.

"You've grown up so much in the blink of an eye. You must be married and have kids by now."

Chen Zhou nodded, "I'm married now. I used to come to your porridge shop often for porridge."

“Oh,” Old Feng thought for a moment, “Back then there was a couple who liked to bring their child to my place for porridge. You were even crawling under the table back then.”

"Correct!"

Chen Zhou also runs a stall and encounters so many customers every day that he knows he probably can't remember everything clearly.

The two of them took turns talking, piecing together their memories.

We've finally found our groove.

Hearing Chen Zhou say he missed the taste of the old porridge, Old Feng was very excited and wanted to take him to the porridge shop.

Chen Zhou certainly wanted to go, but still politely asked:
"convenient?"

Old Feng laughed, "I live alone, and I like to talk to people, so of course it's convenient."

And so, Chen Zhou rode his electric bike and followed the other man's bicycle.

Halfway there, Old Feng rolled down the car window and started talking about the changes over the years.

“After I got old, my son took over for a few years, but then the village was demolished, and he quit because he thought it was too tiring. It was even worse when it came to my grandson.”

Back in the day, everyone in the town drank our porridge.

The two arrived at Feng's Congee Shop.

The paint on the signboard is peeling and crumbling, but you can still vaguely make out the original "Majimi" sign.

Although it's called a porridge shop, it's completely different from the shops on the ground floor in the city. It's a self-built house in the town, with the front two rooms used for business.

Chen Zhou locked the electric bike and took the items out of the basket.

Seeing this, Old Feng quickly said:
"Why do you insist on buying fruit when you just want to chat with this old man?"

Chen Zhou patted the bag through the bag.
"It's so hot outside, let's buy a watermelon."

After exchanging polite pleasantries twice, Old Feng finally accepted the bag happily and headed towards the kitchen.

"Please, sit wherever you like, young man."

"Okay, sir."

Old Feng cut out a watermelon, and the two ate and chatted.

Chen Zhou intentionally or unintentionally steered the conversation toward porridge and that old clay pot.

"Why is your congee with preserved egg and lean pork so delicious?"

Old Feng casually spat watermelon seeds onto the flower bed.
"You mean cornmeal porridge, right?"

"Yes, corn porridge," Chen Zhou changed his mind and continued, "Is there any special secret to making the porridge?"

Old Feng, with a look of "all that is past," said:
"Hey, what secret could my humble village porridge stall possibly have for cooking two pots of porridge? It's just..."

"Please wait a moment, sir."

Chen Zhou interrupted.

A porridge shop that has been open for decades must have a porridge flavor that has stood the test of time. He took out his phone, ready to carefully record the porridge-making experience of Feng's Porridge Shop.

"Sir, may I record something?"

"Recording? Sure." Old Feng cleared his throat. "Ahem, uh-huh!"

"Our Feng's Congee Shop originated from the commune canteen. My father started cooking congee there when he was young, and it's been run by three generations. The secret to cooking congee, besides the old clay pot we still use today, lies in the method of cooking—it's all about technique."

Old Feng enjoyed the feeling of being respected by the young people.
Secondly, he did indeed have the idea of ​​passing on his family's skills.

Therefore, the recipes for several types of porridge, such as millet porridge, millet and pumpkin porridge, and cornmeal and sweet potato porridge, are described in great detail.

Chen Zhou nodded in response from time to time, recording the entire content.

'I never expected to unexpectedly find the recipe for a 60-year-old porridge shop.' This is quite a pleasant surprise.

Of course, Chen Zhou didn't forget the purpose of his visit and reminded him, "Sir, could you take a look at that clay pot you mentioned? Why does the food cooked in this clay pot taste different?"

The old man said proudly, "You really can't buy a clay pot like this on the market now. It was made by hand by the last generation of kiln workers from Shuangyaokou."

Old Feng heard someone mention the casserole dish.
It's inevitable that he'll recall the past and his deceased wife.

“She used to be in charge of cooking porridge, and I was in charge of entertaining people. She always worked with her back bent, and eventually she became hunched over.”

But where did I put that pot again?

Chen Zhou pointed to the corner of the wall: "Is that over there?"

Old Feng looked at the soy sauce vat in the corner and shook his head.

"No, that's for pickling vegetables."

That is!
Chen Zhou could only take a few more steps forward:
"This is what's on top of the pickle jar!"

Old Feng suddenly realized, "Oh dear, I had forgotten all that. You young people have such sharp eyes."

Chen Zhou laughed and said, "It seems this thing is quite precious to you. You must take good care of it and make sure you don't lose it again someday."

Old Feng nodded. "I've been thinking about moving upstairs these past few days. If my grandson comes over to help, he'll definitely get rid of all these old things."

Grandpas are always right when it comes to looking at their grandsons.

Chen Zhou had already received the recipe from Old Feng and was grateful to him.

So he suggested, "Whenever you're moving it, I'll come over and help you carry this clay pot upstairs."

The old man didn't say anything.

He gestured to Chen Zhou with his eyes towards the fruit tree in the yard.

This was planted by my wife in the year she died. Looking at the fruit tree, Chen Zhou couldn't help but feel moved by Old Feng's deep affection.

"Did you plant these yourself back then?"

"Hehe, they haven't been planted for many years," Old Feng leaned closer to Chen Zhou and whispered, "They'll get more money for the fruit trees when the land is demolished."

Chen Zhou's hand, holding the watermelon, suddenly stiffened.

Grandpa, we're talking about your longing for your wife and the sorrow you've expressed through your old objects.

Why are you suddenly bringing up the topic of taking advantage of others?

Chen Zhou was puzzled but couldn't ask any further questions.

We could only listen to Old Feng continue:
"At my age, I just want to cause less trouble for future generations and leave them more money."

They think this clay pot is in the way, and they'll definitely have to get rid of it after I leave.

I won't let you younger generation go through all that trouble.

My wife suffered a lot with me when she was young. Passing away a few years early meant she could enjoy a better life. Afterwards, I'll go to find her.

Hearing this, Chen Zhou finally understood Old Feng's feelings.

As people get older, they become less concerned with material possessions and only think about their deceased loved ones and the children they have raised.

Chen Zhou felt a little heavy-hearted, after all, he was a father now.

He coughed twice: "Sir, if I were to say now that I want to take your casserole away, wouldn't that be a bit of a mood killer?"

Old Feng: "Take it, take it, and bring that pickled vegetable jar too!"

The pickle jar was too big; Chen Zhou's small electric appliance couldn't fit it.

We could only take that old clay pot back.

Watching Chen Zhou's departing figure, Old Feng couldn't help but mutter to himself:

"My memory is really bad. I can't remember this young man ever being here before. I made up that couple."

(End of this chapter)