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

Chapter 118, Section 117: Visit and Gratitude
Sunday morning.

The sky outside the window was just beginning to lighten, and a few slivers of light timidly peeked through the window frame.

The chirping of early birds woke Yang Ming from his light sleep.

He got up quietly, afraid of disturbing his family who were still fast asleep.

He went down to the courtyard, filled a porcelain mug halfway with cold water, picked up his old toothbrush that he had used for many years, squeezed on toothpaste, and carefully brushed his teeth.

After brushing his teeth, he splashed cold water on his face. The icy touch jolted him awake, and he was completely sober.

Stepping out of the alley and across two streets, I found that the familiar breakfast stall had just set up its stove.

The blower hummed loudly, and the furnace fire blazed brightly, casting a red glow on the oil-stained apron of the master craftsman.

The rising steam carries an enticing aroma that permeates the air—a blend of oily, wheaty, and meaty scents, the freshest aroma of the morning.

The experienced craftsman, wearing a shiny apron, moved with the speed and dexterity of a wound-up toy.

Yang Guangming stood at the back of the line, watching the golden fried dough sticks sizzle in the boiling oil, puffing up and becoming crispy, like they were wearing a suit of golden armor.

On the stove to the side, the pan-fried buns in the large iron pan were sizzling, a sound of water and oil clashing fiercely.

The chef skillfully sprinkled on some black sesame seeds and bright green scallions, and the rich aroma seemed to come alive, wafting straight into people's noses.

In the steamer next to it, the freshly steamed white xiaolongbao (soup dumplings) had skins so thin they were translucent, and you could vaguely see the sloshing soup inside, like jewels wrapped in nectar.

Inside the bamboo tray, the freshly roasted "tiger paws" gleamed with an enticing caramel-colored sheen, their shapes endearingly clumsy, and they exuded the unique aroma of alkaline noodles.

There are also freshly cooked, neatly cut squares, and fried until golden and crispy, with each grain of rice distinct.

"Master, two fried dough sticks, one order of pan-fried buns, one order of steamed dumplings, four 'tiger paws' (a type of fried dough), and two pieces of glutinous rice cake." Yang Guangming took the order with practiced ease, his voice carrying the clear, crisp sound of early morning, particularly distinct amidst the bustling atmosphere of the morning.

The master craftsman responded without looking up, and his hands moved even faster.

He skillfully wrapped it in rough kraft paper and oil paper and handed it to him.

The freshly baked pastries were so hot that you could feel the heat even through the paper.

The rich aroma, a blend of oil, wheat, and caramel, powerfully dispelled the last trace of morning chill, bringing warmth straight to the heart.

He carried his heavy, fragrant harvest, walked along the bluestone path, and turned back to his home.

On the drying platform, Zhang Xiuying was squatting beside the coal stove. The coal briquettes in the stove were burning brightly, and the bluish flames licked the blackened furnace, making a soft crackling sound.

She had just stoked the stove until it was scorching hot, and fine beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. She was carefully lifting the heavy aluminum kettle and adding water to the pot, preparing to cook rice porridge.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she looked up.

Seeing the large bag her son was carrying, she was first taken aback, then a surprised and delighted smile spread across her face:
"Mingming, you went to buy breakfast so early? Can't sleep?" Her voice carried a mother's unique concern and a hint of barely perceptible heartache.

"Yeah, I woke up early. I was thinking of giving everyone a change of pace, so you wouldn't have to make rice porridge so early in the morning."

The mother and son went down from the rooftop and returned to the front building.

Yang Guangming placed the paper package on the old wooden table in the inner room and carefully unwrapped it.

The aroma of fried dough sticks, the meat and scallion fragrance of pan-fried dumplings, the fresh aroma of xiaolongbao, the rice fragrance of zifangao... especially the unique caramel aroma of "tiger paw" mixed with alkaline noodles, immediately and domineeringly spread, filling the small main room and instantly overshadowing the smoky atmosphere of the coal stove.

"Ouch! Tiger's paw!" Yang Yongkang also strolled over with his hands behind his back.

He was wearing a faded crew-neck t-shirt. He picked up a heavy "paw" and weighed it in his hand, then brought it close to his nose and smelled it. A rare genuine smile appeared on his face, and deep wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes, like crumpled paper.

"I haven't had it for over two months! It's made by Wang Mazi at the alley entrance, and it still tastes the same! So delicious!" His tone was full of nostalgic satisfaction.

Li Guihua quickly set out the bowls and chopsticks, then carried Zhuangzhuang, who was still rubbing his eyes and babbling, onto the table and placed him on a specially made high wooden stool.

The little guy perked up immediately at the aroma, his bright black eyes widening as he pointed at the golden "tiger paw" pancakes and plump buns, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth: "Eat! Eat!"

The family sat around the table.

The fried dough sticks are broken apart and soaked in the boiling hot rice porridge. They absorb the rice water and become soft and melt in your mouth.

The bottom of the pan-fried buns is fried to a golden brown and crispy. When you bite into a small hole, the hot and delicious soup will rush into your mouth, making you gasp for breath. The meat filling is firm and chewy, with the aroma of scallions and ginger.

The xiaolongbao (soup dumplings) have paper-thin skins and are filled with juicy soup. Carefully pick one up, dip it in some fragrant vinegar, and gently bite through the skin. The soup instantly fills your mouth, so delicious that it makes your eyes squint.

The "Tiger's Paw" pastry has a crispy and fragrant outer shell, while the inside is chewy and has a subtle sweetness. The more you chew, the more fragrant it becomes, and the alkaline water flavor is just right.

The rice cake is crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside, with a rich rice aroma and the unique charm of being deep-fried.

Zhang Xiuying busily used the tips of her chopsticks to carefully pry open the xiaolongbao skin, blew on it to cool the scalding hot soup inside, and fed it to Zhuangzhuang.

Li Guihua, with her sharp eyes, picked out a pan-fried dumpling with the crispiest, golden-brown bottom for Yang Yongkang and placed it in his bowl.

Yang Guangming carefully broke off the crispiest "claw tip" of the "tiger's paw" and handed it to his father.

On the small, old wooden table, bowls and chopsticks clinked lightly.

The sounds of chewing, soft exclamations of praise, and Zhuangzhuang's indistinct babbling mingled together, creating a warm morning melody.

The sumptuous breakfast, coupled with this unexpected and thoughtful touch, added an extra layer of warmth compared to usual. Even the morning sunlight, streaming in at an angle, seemed to carry warmth, settling on everyone's relaxed brows.

After breakfast, Yang Guangming helped clear the table. Li Guihua washed the dishes efficiently, the water gushing out. Yang Guangyao picked up a broom and carefully swept up the crumbs on the floor, quickly restoring it to its clean state.

After quickly tidying up, he walked to his parents' side, stopped, and spoke in a calm yet solemn tone:
“Dad, Mom, I plan to visit Section Chief Lang this morning. He helped Mom so much by getting her such a great job. I should go and thank him properly. I need to be very polite.”

"Of course! Of course!" Zhang Xiuying replied repeatedly, her face full of sincere gratitude, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes smoothed out as if they had been ironed out.

"Section Chief Lang is a good man, he's been a great help. Wait a minute, Mom will pack some things for you to take with you." She said, turning to go back into the house, her steps hurried, as she reached for her precious camphor wood chest.

"Mom, no need." Yang Guangming gently took his mother's arm, his movements gentle yet carrying a reassuring certainty.

“I’ve prepared everything. I asked a friend to procure a few rare items to take with me, so I’m sure it won’t be impolite. The things you packed are things we need at home, and they probably don’t need them either.” His voice wasn’t loud, but every word was clear and steady.

Zhang Xiuying stopped and looked up at her son.

Yang Guangming's eyes were calm and clear, like two deep pools.

During this time, her son's maturity beyond his years and his seemingly infallible "ability" to always get things done made her doubts dissipate as quickly as a thin mist under the sun.

She nodded, her eyes full of trust: "Okay, I don't mind you handling things. When you go, thank Section Chief Lang properly, and be sincere. Remember to send his regards to his wife, who is not well. Tell her for me to thank Section Chief Lang."

"I know, Mom, don't worry," Yang Guangming replied, his voice as steady as ever.

He went back inside, picked up the faded military satchel, said goodbye to his family, and then left the shikumen (stone gate) to blend into the gradually bustling sounds of the city outside the alley.

Arriving at the platform, Yang Guangming boarded the bus that rattled as it drove by.

The carriage was filled with the smells of sweat, oil, and dust, and it was a bit stuffy. He got off the train one stop away from the residential area of ​​the Hongxing State-owned Cotton Mill.

This place is relatively secluded.

He turned into a narrow alleyway deep inside, lined with mottled high walls, as if he knew the way well.

Thick moss grew damply in the corner of the wall, and overhead, a narrow strip of sky was created by crisscrossing bamboo poles used for drying clothes, allowing only fragments of sunlight to filter through.

He stopped, listened intently, and held his breath. He confirmed that the alley was empty, with only the distant, indistinct sounds of the city buzzing like background noise.

He focused his mind slightly, and the satchel on his shoulder suddenly became heavy, with a real weight, and the canvas strap tightened around his shoulder.

He pulled back a corner of the thick, military-green canvas and quickly and carefully examined it.

The first thing that catches the eye is a square package wrapped in thick kraft paper, with sharp edges, and it feels quite heavy.

Inside are two pounds of high-quality dried sea cucumbers.

The needles are distinct, each one standing upright, with a dark, glossy black color tinged with a faint grayish-brown. They are dry and stiff, exuding the unique, pure, salty smell of the ocean, as if they were the essence of the sea.

Next to it was a heavy, transparent glass bottle filled with a thick, clear, almost stringy amber liquid—pure honey.

Next was a slightly worn, earthy yellow cardboard box. Opening the lid revealed a pound of neatly cut, deep-colored, lacquer-like, hard, and glossy donkey-hide gelatin blocks.

These donkey-hide gelatin blocks exude a unique, somber aroma characteristic of medicinal herbs, simple yet profound.

Finally, there was a clean, tightly sealed canning jar.

Inside was a full bottle of glossy black scallion oil sauce, fragrant with caramelized scallion bits—a small gift he had prepared for Zhao Guodong.

The solidified oil, like amber, enveloped the crispy, dark brown fried scallions, its aroma so overpowering it seemed to burst through the bottle cap and awaken dormant taste buds.

He carefully rearranged the items in his bag, making sure they were secure and wouldn't get damaged.

He covered himself up tightly with the cloth again, took a deep breath, straightened his collar, picked up the expensive handbag, and walked back onto the bustling, sun-drenched road, heading towards the residential area of ​​the Hongxing State-owned Cotton Mill.

Yang Guangming has excellent eyesight and could see Lang Tianrui waiting anxiously by the peeling iron gate of the family compound from afar.

He wore a slightly worn gray short-sleeved shirt, the collar buttoned up meticulously, and his hair was slicked back and neatly combed. He stood with his hands behind his back, but his toes tapped nervously on the ground, betraying his inner anxiety.

Upon seeing Yang Guangming's familiar figure appear, he immediately springed into action, his face instantly filled with a heartfelt and enthusiastic smile that almost overflowed from the corners of his eyes and brows, even deepening his nasolabial folds.

His eyes held an undisguised anticipation, along with a hint of barely perceptible trepidation. He practically jogged to greet him, his steps hurried. "Xiao Yang! You're here! Thank you so much for coming so early! I'm so sorry, so sorry!"

Lang Tianrui's voice was a few decibels higher than usual, revealing barely suppressed excitement.

He subconsciously reached out to take the bag from Yang Guangming's shoulder, his gesture carrying a hint of eagerness and ingratiation.

"Section Chief Lang, you're too kind. It's nothing."

With a polite smile on his face, Yang Guangming subtly shifted his footsteps, avoiding Lang Tianrui's outstretched hand and preventing him from touching his bag.

This subtle gesture made Lang Tianrui's eyes suddenly brighten, and the weight that had been hanging over him seemed to lift a little, making his smile even more earnest.

The houses in the family compound are mostly three- or four-story red brick buildings constructed in the 1950s and 60s. Over the years, the red bricks on the exterior walls have become mottled, covered with dark green moss and rainwater stains.

Lang Tianrui, as the head of the Labor and Wages Department, was a middle-level cadre in the factory, and the house he was assigned was on the third floor.

Pushing open the wooden door, painted green with some peeling paint, you enter a narrow hallway, barely wide enough to turn around in.

To the right is a tiny kitchen, barely big enough for one person to turn around in, crammed full of pots and pans. To the left are two bedrooms, one slightly larger and the other very small, probably only big enough for a single bed and a small cabinet.

Against the wall in the hall was a dark-colored square table and four chairs of different styles.

A calendar with the words "Seize opportunities, promote production" printed in bright red hangs on the wall.

Although this apartment is only a little over 50 square meters, in this era of extreme housing shortage, being allocated such an apartment with a separate kitchen and bathroom is already an enviable treatment for a middle-level cadre.

The cement floor beneath my feet gleamed, reflecting blurry silhouettes. Several pieces of old furniture were arranged neatly, exuding a sense of urgency and careful management of this small space, appearing clean and tidy.

"Shufen! Xiaoyang is here!" Lang Tianrui called out to the inner room, his voice filled with joy and a sense of relief.

The curtain to the inner room was lifted, and a woman wearing a slightly worn but clean, lightweight light blue short-sleeved shirt came out.

She had short, ear-length hair, wore black-rimmed glasses, had a slender face, and possessed a quiet and composed demeanor. She was Su Shufen, Lang Tianrui's wife.

Her gaze swept quickly and precisely over Yang Guangming, carrying the subtle scrutiny characteristic of an intellectual woman, gentle yet distant.

"Hello, Aunt Su." Yang Guangming bowed slightly, greeting her politely, his posture neither humble nor arrogant.

"Comrade Xiaoyang, hello, please have a seat." Su Shufen's face showed a just-right smile, neither overly enthusiastic nor impolite.

She greeted them warmly, then turned around, picked up a bamboo-cased thermos from the dresser, poured warm water into two white porcelain cups with the words "Labor is Glorious" printed in red, and brought them over.

"Have some water." Her attitude was polite and gentle, but clearly not as overtly agitated as her husband's; she maintained a proper, observant distance.

"Where is the old lady?" Lang Tianrui asked, his tone concerned.

“She’s sitting in the rattan chair in the inner room,” Su Shufen replied softly.

Lang Tianrui led Yang Guangming into the slightly larger bedroom.

Sitting in a wicker chair by the window was an old woman with gray hair and a thin figure, like a withered branch in the wind.

It was a hot July day, and she was only wearing a short-sleeved, diagonally-buttoned cotton jacket, dark blue, which had faded and turned grayish from being starched. A thin blanket was draped over her legs, as if she were very afraid of the cold.

The wrinkles on her face were deep and crisscrossed, like they were carved by a knife, and her complexion was sallow from prolonged illness. Her eyes were somewhat cloudy, and her eye sockets were sunken, like two black holes.

Seeing someone enter, she forced a weak smile, as if struggling to tug at an old piece of cloth. Her withered hands unconsciously rubbed against the armrests of the wicker chair, their knuckles bony.

"Mother, this is Comrade Xiao Yang, the secretary of Director Zhao from the factory I mentioned to you. He came to visit you specially." Lang Tianrui leaned down, close to his mother's ear, and spoke softly and gently, with the patience and care of someone coaxing a child.

"Grandma Lang, hello. This is Yang Guangming. Are you feeling better?"

Yang Guangming stepped forward, bowed slightly, and greeted the old lady with a gentle and sincere tone. His gaze fell on her face with concern, as if he were looking at a fragile piece of porcelain.

The old woman nodded slowly, making a muffled sound like a broken bellows: "Okay...okay little girl...thank you for your trouble..." Her speech was intermittent, her breath short and labored. Each word seemed to require all her strength, her chest rising and falling slightly.

"Don't be so polite," Yang Guangming said, casually placing his handbag on the chair next to him. He then calmly took out the bottle of clear honey and the box of donkey-hide gelatin from the bag and gently placed them on the small tea table next to the old lady.

"Grandma Lang, this is a small token of my appreciation. I heard you're not feeling well. Honey is mild and can soothe your lungs. Donkey-hide gelatin replenishes your qi and blood. Please have Section Chief Lang and Aunt Su stew some for you as the doctor recommended, so you can gradually recover."

His voice was not loud, but every word was clear, carrying a comforting power.

The old woman strained to focus her cloudy eyes, her gaze landing with difficulty on the two precious items on the coffee table in this era of scarcity, before slowly shifting her gaze to the young and sincere face bathed in sunlight.

Her lips trembled a few times, but she couldn't say anything more. She just nodded vigorously, and there seemed to be a faint glimmer of water in her deep-set eyes, like a reflection in a dry riverbed.

Lang Tianrui and Su Shufen were both surprised when they saw the two items that Yang Guangming took out.

The honey was golden and translucent, so thick that it was almost non-flowing. It was clearly a rare and high-quality product, and it was not usually available. Even if you could occasionally buy it, the price would be nearly one yuan per kilogram.

That box of Dong'e donkey-hide gelatin was a highly sought-after and rare tonic, something ordinary people could never afford. Even if you managed to find a way to buy it, the price was outrageously high, around eight yuan per kilogram.

Su Shufen's gaze behind her glasses instantly became complex, filled with surprise, solemnity, and then a deep, genuine gratitude.

The scrutiny in her eyes when she looked at Yang Guangming had completely vanished, replaced by warmth and gratitude. Her lips moved, but in the end, she simply gave a silent, grateful smile.

"Xiao Yang! This...this is far too expensive! You've gone to so much trouble! I can't accept this..."

Lang Tianrui rubbed his hands together, so excited that he was incoherent. His face was flushed, and he was at a loss for words, not knowing how to express this sudden and profound affection. He only felt his throat tighten.

"It's just a small token of my appreciation, a little something to help Grandma recover. It's only right." Yang Guangming waved his hand dismissively, his tone calm and natural, as if he had only done a trivial thing, lightly brushing aside the preciousness of the gesture.

He then said a few words of comfort to the old lady, mainly relaying her vague responses and glances.

Lang Tianrui then said to his wife, "Shufen, keep your mother company and talk to her." He then turned to Yang Guangming and lowered his voice, "Xiaoyang, let's go sit in the outer hall and have some water."

Su Shufen nodded knowingly, knowing that her husband and Yang Guangming had something important to discuss privately.

She considerately sat down on the edge of the bed next to the old lady and gently held her mother-in-law's withered and cold hand.

Yang Guangming picked up his bag and followed Lang Tianrui back to the narrow hallway.

As soon as the two sat down at the square table, Lang Tianrui leaned forward impatiently, lowered his voice, and his eyes burned with an intense, almost scorching heat, like burning embers.

"Xiaoyang, that... thing..." His fingers tapped the table unconsciously and rapidly, revealing his urgency and a hint of barely perceptible tension.

Yang Guangming didn't speak, maintaining a calm smile on his face.

He took out the tightly wrapped, angular package from his satchel, placed it on the polished table, and gently pushed it towards Lang Tianrui with steady movements.

Lang Tianrui's hands trembled uncontrollably, and his breathing became heavy.

He took a deep breath, as if performing some kind of sacred ritual, with an almost pious solemnity, carefully peeling away the tough parchment layer by layer, his movements slow and focused.

When the finest dried sea cucumbers, neatly arranged, glossy black like ink jade, with hard, distinct spines, and exuding a pure and rich salty ocean aroma, are fully revealed before your eyes.

He gasped sharply, his eyes widened, and his mouth opened slightly, as if someone had grabbed his throat and he was almost completely holding his breath!
The overwhelming surprise left him speechless for a moment.

"This...this many!" Lang Tianrui's voice trembled with disbelief and ecstasy.

He stretched out his finger, hovering a few centimeters above the sea cucumber, wanting to touch it but not daring to, as if afraid of shattering this precious hope.

Overwhelmed by immense surprise and gratitude, he was so excited that his eyes instantly welled up with tears, and his voice was choked with emotion.

"Xiao Yang...this...this must weigh...about two jin, right?" He needed to confirm this miracle again.

"Yes, exactly two pounds." Yang Guangming nodded calmly, his tone as firm as a rock.

"My God..." Lang Tianrui murmured to himself, the immense happiness making him a little dizzy, as if he were walking on clouds.

He stood up abruptly, and the chair legs screeched on the concrete floor with a loud creak.

He rushed into the inner bedroom and quickly came out, clutching a thick brown paper envelope and a thick stack of tickets of various colors and sizes, tightly bound with an old rubber band.

The envelope was bulging, and the tickets also seemed quite substantial.

He shoved the envelopes and tickets onto the table, pushing them towards Yang Guangming. His voice, trembling with excitement and urgency, carried a desperate sincerity:

"Xiao Yang! I can't thank you enough! This is the money I prepared in advance."

I'll price the money at 100 yuan per kilogram! Two hundred yuan! Not a penny less!
I know tickets...tickets are valuable.

I tried my best to scrape together this little bit..."

He spoke rapidly, his fingers trembling slightly as he pointed to the stack of tickets tightly bound with rubber bands, as if he were presenting his entire fortune:
"Four jin of wool coupons... two pairs of leather shoe coupons... three jin of cotton coupons... sixteen feet of cloth coupons... fourteen industrial coupons..."

There were also thirteen jin of grain coupons, one jin of oil coupons, and two jin of meat coupons.

It's really... really not respectable enough!
If you give me a little more time, I'll sell everything I own to help your friend get the remaining tickets!
"Just tell me what tickets you need! I, Lang Tianrui, mean what I say!"

His tone was resolute, carrying an almost solemn and unquestionable determination, as if he were making an oath.

Looking at the thick stack of money and the ration coupons symbolizing various daily necessities on the table, and then at Lang Tianrui's face, which was flushed with excitement, gratitude, and shame for not having enough, Yang Guangming sighed inwardly, a complex emotion rising within him.

He knew the weight of this "sentiment" and understood Lang Tianrui's current situation.

(End of this chapter)