Shen Qing made a rough estimate of the molds at home and figured that they could make about fourteen jin (approximately 7 kg) of soap at a time.

Each jin could be cut into five pieces, meaning that one batch would yield seventy bars of soap.

Both the number of bars and the amount of oil required for a single batch were quite substantial for them at the moment.

The financial investment was high, and so was the risk.

Moreover, if they made fourteen jin at once, she and Huo Bing would be exhausted, and fatigue often led to mistakes.

“We’ll make sesame oil soap and lard soap separately. Sesame oil soap every five days, lard soap every seven days, with five jin per batch. Once we see which sells better, we can adjust and produce more accordingly.

Lard needs to be rendered, while sesame oil soap just needs time to saponify.

We can make the sesame oil soap one day and leave it to saponify.

The next day, we’ll render the lard, and on the third day, we’ll make the lard soap. Then, we’ll unmold the saponified soap.”

The schedule wasn’t too tight, but it wasn’t leisurely either—now was not the time to take it easy.

Huo Bing thought the plan seemed a bit too relaxed, but then she remembered the raw materials soaking in the yard.

Mother would probably use the freed-up time to make brushes.

With the soap-making settled, Shen Qing turned her attention to studying brush-making.

The raw materials were soaking, and the soonest she could test their usability would be the day after tomorrow.

If they weren’t ready, they’d need to soak for another one to two days.

But she didn’t want to waste the next two days. While the materials soaked, she could at least start crafting the brush handles.

“Ah Bing, are there still bamboo stalks in the woodshed?” The ones stored there had been cut long ago and were now dry and yellowed—unsuitable for brush handles.

But although Xingcheng didn’t have large bamboo, it did have plenty of thin bamboo.

“There should still be some. Last time, the head of the household found another patch, lots of it, but it’s quite far away—takes about an hour to go and return.” This wild bamboo wasn’t used for food because its shoots were bitter and astringent.

Since there were other wild vegetables available, no one bothered to eat it.

And because bamboo joints crackled loudly when burned, many households avoided using them as firewood, fearing they might damage their iron pots.

However, in Qili Village, firewood was scarce due to the proximity to the town, and even wild grass for burning was fiercely contested.

With no other options, they had to go farther to gather fuel.

At least wild bamboo was still usable.

After all, buying firewood required money—who could afford that?

Shen Qing heard that Jiang Xiangdong had gone to cut bamboo, so she dropped the topic.

---

By dinnertime, Jiang Xiangdong indeed returned, just in time for the meal.

As they ate, Shen Qing instructed him, “Eldest son, tomorrow morning, go back to where you cut bamboo last time and bring back as much as possible.”

Jiang Xiangdong was breaking a steamed bun in half and stuffing it with vegetables.

A bowl of purslane soup with pork bones sat on the ground in front of him.

Without even looking up, he responded, “Alright. I’ll take a carrying pole so I can haul back two large bundles. Will that be enough?”

Yesterday, they had meat. Today, both breakfast and dinner had meat too—this kind of meal made any labor worthwhile.

Especially after seeing what Second Brother endured at the dike—carrying logs, moving stones, hauling mud…

With a labor overseer standing just a few steps away, the moment anyone slowed down, the whip came down!

Second Brother, tall and sturdy, had already lost a lot of weight.

Thinking back to his own past experiences at the dike, Jiang Xiangdong couldn’t help but shudder.

The dike underwent minor repairs every year and major overhauls every few years.

Now, it was taller than the entire Xingcheng.

Today, as he looked at it, a terrifying thought crossed his mind—if a flood ever broke through the dike, Xingcheng would be…

No, no, he had to stop thinking such unlucky thoughts!

Besides, right now, he had white flour steamed buns to eat!

Yes, the big steamed buns from last night—solid, fist-sized buns!

Mother had packed over twenty of them for Second Brother, saying they’d send more when he ran out.

The rest were for the family.

If only they could have white flour steamed buns again tomorrow…

Shen Qing, considering the next two days’ plans, turned to Jiang Xiangdong again. “Eldest son, I need you to prepare more dough and let it ferment overnight to make more steamed buns.

Make plenty—we’ll all be busy the next two days. We can cook a big pot of egg soup to go with the buns, so we can eat quickly and save time.”

The fresh meat would be finished soon, and they wouldn’t buy more until they earned money from the brushes.

Fried fish and shrimp took too long to prepare, so they wouldn’t be making those anytime soon either.

For now, the only way to supplement their nutrition was through egg soup.

Fortunately, they had enough rice and flour—not the best, but better than nothing.

Jiang Xiangdong: …Dream come true!

Everyone else: …This is no simple meal! Steamed buns and egg soup? This was already luxurious!

Shen Qing then looked at Huo Bing. “I bought rice, millet, and mung beans. For breakfast, you can cook porridge—vegetable porridge, mung bean porridge, or shrimp porridge, whichever you prefer.”

She had been eating flour-based meals for days and missed the taste of rice.

Cooking rice required side dishes, but they only had one pot and no proper stove.

The thatched house had no main room, so there was no dining table either.

Stir-frying dishes took time, and there was nowhere to place them once cooked.

Right now, everyone simply squatted under the eaves or in the yard while eating.

These past two days, they had huddled around the stove in the kitchen when there were vegetables to eat.

Given their current hardships, porridge would at least satisfy her craving for rice.

In the future, when conditions improved, they would be able to eat proper rice meals.

Vegetable porridge, mung bean porridge, shrimp porridge—each one sounded delicious.

Little Hua(Xiao Hua) blinked her eyes and tilted her small head. “Little Aunt, does rice porridge taste good?”

Jiang Shui swallowed her saliva.

She had no idea—she had never eaten rice before.

In Qili Village, no one grew rice.

They only planted wheat and corn.

Since childhood, she had mainly eaten cornmeal, with the occasional flour-based meal, but never rice.

Seeing her auntie remain silent, Little Hua turned to ask her father.

Overwhelmed, Jiang Xiangdong scratched his head. “I don’t know either. Only your Great-Aunt Ying’s family has rice in our village.”

Rice was a luxury.

The grain shops sold it, but farming families rarely bought it.

Only their mother was willing to spend money to let them have this experience.

Does rice porridge taste good?

A memory surfaced in Huo Bing’s mind—a voice saying, “Yes, very good.”

She lowered her head, trying hard to recall. But all she found was emptiness.

The more she tried to remember, the more her head throbbed with pain.

The pain made her tremble, but she couldn’t stop herself from thinking deeper.

Sitting opposite her, Shen Qing was the first to notice something was wrong. Concerned, she asked, “Ah Bing, are you feeling unwell? Have you been overworked lately?”

Huo Bing felt a voice pierce through the haze, pulling her back from her thoughts.

The pain receded.

When she first arrived at the Jiang family, this happened often.

Back then, she was ten years old and still couldn’t remember her past.

Now, over a decade later, it was even less likely.

She hadn’t thought about it in a long time, and with life improving, she had no reason to.

She shook her head and forced a smile. “No, Mother, I’m fine. I’m doing very well.”

It had only hurt for a moment.

Back then, without Mother around, the pain had lasted half the night—until she fell asleep.