In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 111, Section 110: The Shopping Battle, A Little Bit of Willfulness

As dawn broke with the first hint of blue, a soft rustling sound rose from the courtyard of the Shikumen gate, like mice gnawing at the silence.

Zhang Xiuying and Li Guihua, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, pushed open their creaking doors almost simultaneously.

Both men clutched the tickets and loose change they had repeatedly counted under the oil lamp the night before, almost worn rough, revealing a desperate, all-or-nothing attitude.

Their eyes burned with an almost pious anticipation, as if they were not going to buy meat, but to prepare for a sacred battle that would determine the livelihood of their entire family.

The cool morning breeze of early summer brushed against their cheeks, which were slightly flushed from waking up early and being excited, but it couldn't dispel the urgency in their eyes.

"Mom, have you brought the hostage?"

Li Guihua asked in a low voice, while stuffing several pieces of rough and hard cornbread from the previous day into a whitewashed cloth bag as dry rations.

Her rough fingers tightened her belt, as if trying to rein in the wild horse running rampant in her heart.

The image of the long line in front of the grocery store had long been etched in her mind—if she went too late, she might wait until the sun was blazing hot and still not get a single drop of oil.

"It's sitting close to my body, burning hot!"

Zhang Xiuying subconsciously patted the bulging little cloth bag on her chest. The hard, lumpy bag was the only hope for her family to earn a week's worth of oil and fat, and it felt like a hot iron, pressing firmly against her anxious heart.

"Hurry up! Don't dawdle!" she said urgently, with the unquestionable decisiveness of a matriarch. She straightened her thin shoulders and took the lead.

The steps were quick and steady, as if each step was on the beat of a drum leading to the battlefield.

She could almost hear the sizzling sound of fatty meat rendering lard in a scalding iron pot, a monotonous and greasy sound that was more beautiful than any string or wind instrument, and made her blood boil.

The mother-in-law and daughter-in-law hurried through the still-sleeping alleyway.

The damp flagstone path reflected the dim light, and their figures, like two fallen leaves swept up by the wind, quickly disappeared into the morning mist that filled the black gate. Only the soft, hurried footsteps remained, breaking the tranquility of the early morning.

Just as Zhang Xiuying had predicted, a long, winding queue had already formed in front of the grocery store.

The entire procession resembled a giant snake, dragged down by hunger and exhaustion, lying helplessly on the cool morning street.

The air was filled with a complex, pungent smell: freshly picked vegetables smelled of earth, salted fish and seafood smelled cloyingly salty, and people smelled of sweat and coal smoke from the previous night. All of this mixed together to create a unique atmosphere for the mornings of this era of extreme scarcity—anxious, longing, and a touch of habitual numbness.

Zhang Xiuying had already separated from Li Guihua. She got up very early and almost ran all the way here, but now she could only be at the end of the line.

She stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to look ahead, her thin body taut like a fully drawn bow.

A large crowd gathered in front of her, mostly housewives of similar age to Zhang Xiuying, with weathered faces but exceptionally sharp eyes.

They were like experienced hunters, silently waiting for their prey.

There were also a few men, wearing faded and even patched work clothes, with heavy weariness in their eyes, clearly having come straight to queue up after finishing their night shift.

Their gazes were also drawn to the tightly closed door.

Everyone's expression was remarkably similar: beneath the weariness lay an almost instinctive craving for greasy, meaty foods.

In their eyes, that heavy wooden door was the only key to a brief period of sustenance and even a fleeting sense of happiness.

"It's terrible. To buy some meat, we have to stand here before dawn. Our legs must be about to break."

An older woman next to me complained in a low voice, her body swaying slightly and unconsciously with the movement of the queue, like a withered blade of grass being blown by the wind.

"What can we do? Paychecks are issued on the 5th, and everyone's so hungry they can't even scrape together any meat. We're just hoping for this little bit of sustenance to get by," another voice chimed in.

The voice carried a deep sense of helplessness and a habit ingrained in his very being. It wasn't loud, but it struck like a heavy stone against everyone's heart.

Zhang Xiuying pursed her dry, chapped lips and didn't reply.

Her eyes, like those of a seasoned hawk, were fixed on the speed at which the line ahead moved, calculating the rate at which the pieces of meat on the cutting board were disappearing.

She had experienced far too many mornings like this, and she knew perfectly well that complaining was like spitting on a rock—completely useless.

Only unwavering patience, a touch of luck, and decisive courage at crucial moments can bring back that piece of meat on the chopping board that satisfies the whole family's cravings and brings a moment of joy to the dining table.

She subconsciously pressed the hard stack of ration coupons against her chest again, feeling their thin thickness and heavy weight, as if the pound of meat coupons she had brought was the lifeblood of her entire family. Every inch had to be used wisely, allowing no room for error!

Time crawled by second amidst the anxious waiting.

As the sun gradually rose higher, it dispelled the last wisp of lingering morning mist and poured its scorching rays down on the heads of the queuing crowd without any obstruction.

Sweat trickled down their foreheads and temples, soaking their collars. The air became even thicker and more humid, and the crowd looked listless, like wilted vegetable leaves.

Finally! The heavy, paint-peeled wooden door creaked open slowly from the inside.

The crowd instantly erupted into a frenzy, like water droplets thrown into a pot of boiling oil!
The once lifeless line suddenly surged forward, squeezed, and deformed, as if people were being whipped by an invisible lash, desperately pushing forward.

"Don't push! Line up! Line up! What are you pushing for!"

From behind the counter came the salesperson's hoarse voice, thick with a local accent, a voice that carried an air of authority and impatience, as if it held the power of life and death, instantly drowning out the noise.

Zhang Xiuying's heart jumped into her throat, almost leaping out of her chest!
She was swept and pushed by the surging crowd behind her, and her small body staggered forward several steps involuntarily.

She was tall, and she struggled to look over the sweaty shoulders of the person in front of her, her gaze fixed on the meat counter like a nail—the pieces of meat on it were decreasing and shrinking at a visible and unsettling speed!
Bright red and tempting rib meat, dark red and firm leg meat, thick and alluring fat, and glistening, oily rump meat under the fluorescent light...

Every time a piece of her flesh was slashed away by the salesperson's sharp, greasy knife, her heart would clench, and her breathing would become rapid, like a bellows.

It's her turn!

On the greasy cement cutting board, only two lonely pieces of rib meat remained. One was thick and fat, like an enticing little snow mountain, dazzlingly white in the dim light; the other looked thin and shriveled, its color much duller.

"Comrade! I want this one! This one is thick and meaty!" Zhang Xiuying practically lunged at the counter, leaning forward with half her body pressed against the cold surface.

Her voice was sharp and trembling with extreme urgency and tension, carrying an undeniable determination, her fingers pointing precisely, like nails, at the thick, fatty rib.

Rendering lard! Snow-white lard! Fragrant cracklings! Stir-frying vegetables with cracklings!
The thought was incredibly clear and intense in her mind, instantly overshadowing all her fatigue and the surrounding noise.

The saleswoman was a middle-aged woman with a cold expression. She didn't even lift her eyelids, seemingly numb to this almost frantic eagerness.

She deftly picked up the gleaming, gleaming iron hook, and with a crisp "snap," she hooked the piece of fatty meat firmly. With a flick of her wrist, the meat landed with a whoosh on the equally greasy scale pan, stained with blood and bits of meat.

"One pound of meat coupons! Ninety-six cents!" The voice was crisp and clean, devoid of emotion, like a cold machine.

(Note: In 1969, the price of pork in Shanghai was 0.90-0.98 yuan per jin.)
Zhang Xiuying's heart was still pounding, but her hands remained unusually steady.

She quickly pulled out a pound of meat coupons, slightly damp with sweat, and ninety-six cents, which she had already counted and was now slightly damp and soft, from her close-fitting cloth bag.

With both hands, he offered it out quickly and almost reverently, as if afraid the other person would change their mind or that the piece of meat would disappear into thin air.

When that heavy, oily, and cool-to-the-touch rib meat finally landed in her hands, its solid weight and slippery, oily feel instantly traveled through her entire body.

She let out a long, deep sigh, as if a heavy burden had been lifted, and her tense shoulder blades relaxed instantly.

A relieved smile finally bloomed on his face, even the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothed out, revealing a heartfelt joy and exhaustion from a hard-fought battle and a triumphant return.

This piece of fat is enough to render a small bowl of snow-white lard!

The iron pot at home will once again emit that long-lost, irresistible aroma of meat.

She won this battle!

……

As dawn broke, the alleyways gradually filled with a cacophony of sounds: the splashing of toilet bowls, the crackling of coal stoves being lit, and adults urging their children to get up...

Sunshine awoke amidst the symphony of this bustling city.

He deftly filled an enamel basin halfway with cold water, quickly washed up, and wiped his face with a cold towel, dispelling the last bit of sleepiness.

Walking into the cramped kitchen, I saw my father, Yang Yongkang, hunched over, silently using a pair of old, gleaming fire tongs to carefully place a piece of new, black coal into the depths of the furnace.

The orange-red flames leaping from the furnace mouth reflected on his silent, deeply lined face.

"Dad, I'm going out for a bit." Yang Guangming's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the composure unique to young people, yet it also revealed a hint of unwavering certainty and mystery. "I've arranged to get some things from a friend, and I happen to have some free time today, so I'm going to pick them up."

Yang Yongkang's hand was very steady, and the coal briquettes landed accurately on the extinguishing coal blocks, making a slight "plop" sound.

He didn't even raise his head, only letting out a deep "hmm" from deep in his throat, as if to say he understood.

The fire tongs tapped against the furnace wall as usual, producing a crisp "clang" sound. A few tiny sparks flew down and disappeared instantly into the dim light.

He didn't ask a single question.

He chose to silently trust his youngest son's increasingly sophisticated skills and abilities—the ability to bring in extra income and improve their livelihoods during these difficult times.

Or to be more precise, it was a tacit acceptance tinged with deep worry and confusion, yet one that had no choice but to let go.

In this era, there are some things you shouldn't ask, and the less you know, the better.

Having received this silent acquiescence, Yang Guangming turned and left.

The air outside the alleyway in the early morning carried the damp scent of earth after last night's rain, much fresher than the murky smell of coal smoke in the courtyard.

It was still early, so instead of heading straight for the item, he turned and strolled towards a nearby, fairly busy side street. There was a well-known breakfast shop there; the storefront wasn't large, and the faded green paint on the signboard was badly worn, but there was always a long queue outside.

The air nearby was filled with the enticing aroma of pan-fried buns, a blend of caramelized fragrance, meaty aroma, and the scents of scallions and sesame seeds. Like an invisible yet incredibly tempting hand, it made one's stomach rumble and one's fingers itch with desire.

This aroma seemed especially luxurious on a bland morning.

The line moved slowly, mostly consisting of workers who didn't have to rush to work and housewives who got up early to buy groceries.

When it was Yang Guangming's turn, he spoke to the male waiter in the glass window, who was wearing a yellowish-white hat and a similarly greasy apron:
"Comrade, I'd like a serving of pan-fried buns and a bowl of wontons. Here's two cents and one and a half ounces of grain coupons."

He handed over a few small bills and two grain coupons printed with wheat ear patterns.

"Alright! Find a seat inside!" The waiter didn't even look up, deftly tore off two small pieces of white paper with red lettering, and pointed them into the store with his flour- and oil-stained fingers.

The shop is cramped and crowded, with a few small square tables crammed with people, worn black and shiny from years of wear and countless dishes and grease.

Yang Guangming found an empty seat against the wall in the corner and sat down.

The greasy desktop still faintly shows the yellow paint from years ago, but it has long been covered by a thick layer of grease that cannot be wiped off.

Soon it was Yang Guangming's turn to get a number.

A rough porcelain plate holds four pan-fried buns with golden-brown, crispy bottoms and topped with bright green scallions and specks of white sesame seeds.

There was also a bowl of small wontons with a few pieces of dark green seaweed floating on top, a few specks of light brown dried shrimp, and a clear broth.

He served them to the table one after another.

The pan-fried buns were small and delicate, with thin skin and thick bottoms. Yang Guangming picked up the rough bamboo chopsticks on the table, carefully picked up one, brought it to his mouth, and gently bit open a small hole.

Instantly, scalding hot, rich broth, brimming with the aroma of meat, bursts forth, its incredible heat assaulting the lips and tongue.

He quickly sucked on it, and the fresh, sweet, and hot flavor exploded on his tongue, mixed with the firm and chewy meat filling and the crispy crust, creating a kind of street food that is most familiar to the people of Shanghai and most comforting to their stomachs.

The rich, oily aroma that permeates the broth is especially precious and satisfying in this era of bland and watery soups.

The wonton wrappers are as thin as gauze, almost transparent, revealing the tender pink meat filling. The broth is refreshing with a subtle hint of sweetness from the pork bones and dried shrimp.

He ate slowly, savoring the simple yet genuine flavors of everyday life, his gaze calmly sweeping over the other diners who were engrossed in their meals.
A middle-aged man wearing faded blue overalls with shiny elbows and cuffs, even showing loose threads, hurriedly ate his meal, seemingly rushing to work.

Housewives carrying bamboo baskets carefully ate their pan-fried dumplings while exchanging information about vegetable prices and meat ration coupons in hushed tones.

There were also a few young people around his age, dressed in simple khaki clothing, who had come early to try it out with excitement on their faces.

In the early morning of July in Shanghai, the atmosphere unfolds vividly amidst the steaming heat of the breakfast stalls, the rich aroma of food, the soft clinking of bowls and chopsticks, and the hushed conversations of people, bearing the unique mark of this era—the search for solace in scarcity.

After leaving the breakfast stall, feeling a warmth in his stomach, Yang Guangming didn't immediately go to get the supplies.

It was still early, and there weren't many people on the street. He strolled along at a leisurely pace toward a green space two blocks from his home.

It was a small, even somewhat cramped, park in the middle of the street, but it was shaded by green trees and was a rare place for nearby residents to relax and get some fresh air.

The sign hanging at the entrance was already somewhat blurred.

Several elderly men, dressed in faded blue or gray practice clothes with frayed cuffs and trouser hems, were slowly practicing Tai Chi.

Their movements were slow and focused, methodical, with calm and reserved eyes, as if the surrounding noise had nothing to do with them, and they were immersed in a secluded tranquility and the slow flow of time.

Beside a nursery in a corner of the park, an old gardener with a worn-out straw hat and a hunched back was bending over, carefully watering a few sparsely blooming rose bushes with a chipped tin can, his movements as gentle as if he were treating a baby.

Several children wearing bright red scarves chased and played in the only small open space, their laughter clear and loud, like birds hopping in the forest.

Although their clothes were clean and tidy, the knees and cuffs were mostly patched with fine, evenly stitched patches, a common feature of children in that era.

Near the wall, clumps of oleanders were in full bloom, their pink and white flowers standing out against the lush green leaves, emitting a faint, slightly sweet fragrance.

This is a common sight in the park, carrying the unique vitality of that era—a vitality that tenaciously grows amidst simplicity and poverty.

On the park's bulletin board, there are some faded propaganda posters and printed slogans, mostly with slogans like "Seize the opportunity to promote production" and "Prepare for war and famine for the people," in red on white, which look somewhat out of place under the green shade.

Yang Guangming walked slowly along the gravel path.

He watched the slow, focused figures of the elderly men practicing martial arts, listened to the carefree laughter of the children, and felt the patience and meticulousness of the old gardener tending to the flowers and plants.

The warm sunshine of early summer falls gently on my body, carrying the fresh scent of plants.

However, his thoughts drifted far away.

The dazzling array of goods in the refrigerator—imported chocolates with fancy packaging and cashews with exotic flair—seemed so out of place in this environment, like a hot potato, exuding a dangerous aura.

Take it out? It's too conspicuous, too flashy, tantamount to playing with fire.

What he needs are things that can perfectly blend into the everyday life of the Shikumen neighborhood, things that are simple and unpretentious in appearance, even a bit "rustic," but that can truly warm people's hearts and improve their quality of life.

Rice noodles, lard, milk powder, sausages, chestnuts... and that braised pork knuckle were all the result of his repeated consideration and careful selection.

They are ordinary, like the "condiments" that might appear in this era, yet within their ordinariness lies a richness and quality that transcends this time.

He walked over and sat down next to a wooden bench that was damp with night dew and looked dark in color.

The paint on the bench had long since peeled off, revealing the original color of the wood.

Sunlight filters through the gaps in the leaves, warmly bathing the body and dispelling the last chill of the morning, bringing a sense of lazy comfort.

He raised his wrist and looked at the slightly worn Shanghai-brand watch—it was almost time.

As noon approached, the shopping of each household should have been nearing its end, and the Shikumen (stone gate) was in a "chaotic" moment of bustling noise, clattering pots and pans, and the coming and going of goods.

This is also the best time to "fish in troubled waters" and legitimately bring things home.

Taking advantage of the fact that every household has income and is buying things after receiving their salaries at the beginning of the month, it would seem reasonable for him to take out a little extra to supplement his household income, and it wouldn't arouse too much suspicion.

Yang Ming got up and quickly scanned the park with his sharp eyes, finding the quietest corner.

Here, a thick, lush camphor tree with mottled, cracked bark stands against the ground, its dense canopy casting large, deep shadows.

Beside it were neatly trimmed and extremely lush holly bushes, taller than a person, forming a natural, impenetrable green barrier.

He focused his mind and listened intently for a moment, confirming that no one was around. The old man practicing martial arts in the distance had his back to him, and the children's laughter was coming from the other side. No one paid any attention to this inconspicuous corner.

The only sound I could hear was the rustling of the wind through the leaves.

With a slight thought, the first thing I took out from the refrigerator was a slightly worn, large canvas shoulder bag that I had prepared the night before.

The canvas bag was military green, washed until it was faded and grayish, with badly worn edges that revealed rough threads inside. The handles were carefully reinforced with several stitches of dark blue cloth—it was the most common and inconspicuous style of that era, and one could even say it carried a symbolic meaning of "hardship and frugality".

This is one of the pieces of equipment he carefully selected for his future regular use.

Next, he began selecting supplies. With his mind focused, items appeared out of thin air and were quickly and systematically stuffed into his large satchel, as if he were planning a meticulous task.
Four pounds of rice noodles. Wrapped neatly in the most ordinary, thick, and rough kraft paper, with sharp edges, and then tied tightly with sturdy paper rope, it looked like a heavy gray brick.

One pound of lard. It solidified into a snow-white, delicate paste, like mutton fat jade, and was stored in a rough, dark brown earthenware jar.

The jar was sealed tightly to ensure that not a single drop of oil would leak out; only by getting close could one smell a very faint, meaty aroma of solidified fat.

One pound of milk powder. This was a nutritional supplement he specially prepared for his little nephew, Zhuangzhuang.

The milk powder was carefully poured into an old glass jar with a faded "Bright" logo, and the lid was screwed on tightly.

Two pounds of chestnut kernels. Each one was golden and glossy, plump and tempting, exuding the unique, warm aroma of nuts. They were also wrapped tightly in rough yellow straw paper. From the outside, the paper package looked nothing special.

Two pounds of Chinese sausage. The sausages are deep red, oily and firm, with naturally dried wrinkles and fine white salt crystals on the surface, subtly revealing the mellow aroma of sorghum liquor and the salty and fresh taste of selected pork.

Also carefully wrapped in yellow straw paper, the unique, rich aroma mixed with the fragrance of wine and meat was locked in by the thick paper.

A braised pork knuckle. This is today's main attraction, and also the "hard currency."

Its deep, alluring reddish-brown color, the trembling, translucent gelatinous layer shimmering with an enticing sheen under the light, the firm lean meat with its distinct texture, and the translucent fat.

The rich aroma of the braising sauce blends perfectly with the meaty fragrance, creating an irresistible flavor.

It was wrapped tightly in layers of thick, oil-resistant kraft paper, and then bound tightly with fine hemp rope.

Even so, in the smallest gaps, a tantalizing, mouthwatering aroma of meat stubbornly escaped and entered the nostrils.

The handbag quickly became bulging and heavy, the canvas strap digging deeply into my shoulder.

Yang Guangming crouched down and, using the shade of the trees, carefully inspected the package again: all the packages were tightly sealed, with no obvious flaws, and looked like ordinary canvas bags that had been filled quite full after shopping.

He weighed it in his hand; the heavy, tangible sense of accomplishment pressed down on his palm and on his heart, bringing a reassuring warmth, but also a slight tension from the clandestine operation.

We couldn't have brought any more things home!
He knew perfectly well that what he had packed in his bag was already a bit unusual. But faced with this rare opportunity, he decided to indulge himself a little.

He has a refrigerator that's refreshed daily, but he's constrained by reality and doesn't dare to subsidize his family too much, which is also a kind of torment.

Once he had confirmed that everything was in order, he picked up the canvas bag, slung it over his shoulder, took a deep breath, composed himself, and walked steadily out of the dense shade of the camphor trees, merging into the growing crowd on the street.

(End of this chapter)