Chapter 17: Snow Mountain Smothers the Flame

Lin Qingyou, like a dog with its tail between its legs, stumbled and staggered out of the old house.

The freshly fried dried fish needed to cool completely before being mixed with the fermented sauce and chilies. If it was still hot, it would absorb too much sauce, ruining the crispy texture and diminishing the flavor.

After tidying up the chaos in the kitchen, Lin Xiaqing acted as though nothing had happened. She seized the opportunity to focus on bottling her fermented sauce.

Her first batch of stinky sauce totaled 100 jars. Lin Xiaqing had carefully calculated the cost: the raw ingredients—soybeans, ginger, and garlic—were all homegrown. Only salt and sugar had been purchased. For the free tasting samples, she used grass carp that she had asked Zhu Er to catch from the river. He didn’t charge for them, but during a recent market visit, Lin Xiaqing learned that grass carp sold for 0.8 to 0.9 yuan per jin. Zhu Er had already cleaned and dried the fish. A dozen jin of fresh fish shrunk to around four or five jin of dried fish. She also accounted for labor, estimating a debt of 25 yuan to Zhu Er. Combined with a prior loan of 50 yuan, she now owed him 75 yuan total.

The second major cost of the samples was lard. Grass carp have many bones, and she used five to six jin of lard to fry them thoroughly. About three jin of lard could be recovered and reused, which left around 5 yuan in actual cost.

Though called free tasting samples, the truth of commerce is: “the wool comes from the sheep’s back.” Lin Xiaqing spread the costs of the fish and labor across the 100 jars of sauce, setting the price per 400g jar at 1.6 yuan.

The “.6” was deliberate—Chinese people love auspicious numbers, and this made the price feel more “lucky.”

In this era of material shortages, even condiments were hard to come by. Take sesame paste in Beijing, for example: one household could only buy two liang (100g) per person each month with ration tickets. When supplies ran out, people had to pay steep prices on the black market.

Ordinary bean paste cost about 1 yuan per jin, and customers brought their own containers. Lin Xiaqing’s sauce, on the other hand, came in higher-end glass jars. The container alone cost 0.22–0.23 yuan per jar. So in truth, the proper pricing of her sauce was around 1.2 yuan—but she priced it at 1.6 yuan. That extra 0.4 yuan? Supply and demand.

No one else was selling sauce like hers. Lin Xiaqing had the market cornered—and she had full control over the price.

Everything was ready—she just needed a breeze to set sail. Jin Yang had generously ordered ten jars, which meant she only had ninety more to sell.

If she managed to sell them all without giving discounts to the haggling aunties at the market, she’d earn 160 yuan. Subtract 75 yuan in debts and 25 yuan in delivery fees to the glass factory, and she’d be left with 60 yuan in hand.

Sixty yuan—plus the eighteen she had extorted from that beast Lin Qingyou—made 78 yuan in her pocket. In an era when a popsicle cost 0.05 yuan and rural life was simple and self-sufficient, this was enough to support her and her mother comfortably through the end of the year.

Unfortunately, her vat only held around 150 jin of sauce, which meant she could produce no more than two small batches. And since it took three to four months to ferment another batch—and fermentation was not even a guaranteed process—she needed to start planning her next steps early, just as she always did.

Even with all her determination, after hauling a cart of jars back to the hospital on her tricycle, Lin Xiaqing was exhausted. Her eyelids felt heavier than iron weights.

Jin Yang seemed to have been waiting for her return for a while. Before she arrived, he had probably been stationed by the window like a trained soldier, keeping watch on the hospital entrance.

“You got stuck arguing with the guard at the gate, didn’t you?” Jin Yang said. “But you were clever—offering him a pack of Da Qianmen cigarettes. That old smoker had nothing left to say. Forget a tricycle, you could’ve driven in a whole Liberation truck and he’d still wave you through.”

Lin Xiaqing was impressed. What sharp eyes—like a hawk in the sky! He’d seen from that far away that she’d given the guard Da Qianmen?

She’d parked the tricycle where the guard instructed. The kind old man had even helped her cover the jars with a tarp to keep thieves away.

In the 1980s, gatekeepers at public institutions had official posts, not outsourced contracts like today. They were proper hospital employees. After chatting and giving him a pack of cigarettes, Lin Xiaqing had made a good impression. The old man praised her for being such a filial, hardworking daughter—hauling over 100 jin of sauce to sell in town just to pay for her mother’s treatment.

Qiao Chunqin, distressed to see her daughter so worn out, quickly handed over some cooled boiled water.
“You’re home early, but it’s already pitch dark. You must be exhausted after biking so many miles.”

“Come eat. I got dinner from the canteen and kept it warm. I changed the hot water in the basin three times.”

Lin Xiaqing wasn’t that hungry—she’d been snacking while frying fish in the afternoon. But she was pleasantly surprised.
“Mom, you can get out of bed now?”

Qiao Chunqin nodded slightly. “Yes. After two days of fluid drainage, my chest feels less heavy. The antibiotics are working. I even helped Jin Yang get dinner. He didn’t eat earlier, said he had no appetite. But the meal boxes are still warm. You two can eat together. The canteen served sweet and sour meatballs today—I got him a portion. Yours just has stir-fried vegetables and wheat gluten, but I asked for a bit of the meatball sauce for flavor. Once my sweater’s done, I’ll get you some meatballs too.”

Luckily, Lin Xiaqing had brought back borscht—Russian soup. She asked Jin Yang to try it. The tomatoes from the field were ripening fast in the heat, and borscht was the perfect way to use them—tangy and refreshing.

As she ladled out a bowl from the thermal container, Jin Yang’s eyes lit up. Lin Xiaqing watched him carefully, catching the smile that bloomed on his face. Gotcha, she thought proudly. I knew you’d like it. Raised on black rye bread and smoked sausage—this soup is right up your alley.

Jin Yang was stunned. “You know how to make this soup?”

His tone was almost conspiratorial, as if this soup was a secret between them—something no one else in the world was allowed to know.

Lin Xiaqing kept her cover well. She played the role of a naive village girl, batting her lashes innocently.

“No rain for days. The sun’s been baking the tomatoes red. If we didn’t pick them, they’d rot. I picked a basketful. Gave half to Uncle Zhu’s family. Used four for this soup. Ate one on the way home. Still got a dozen left—for dessert or pickling in sugar to go with rice.”

“Snow Mountain Smothers the Flame,” Jin Yang muttered, giving her sugared tomatoes a poetic name. He couldn’t wait to drink this soul-soothing soup after enduring the dreadful hospital food.

Jin Yang took a sip of the soup and was just starting to enjoy himself when a terrible smell suddenly wafted over.

“What are you eating?” he asked, nose wrinkling.

The odor was so overpowering it overwhelmed the borscht in his mouth.

Lin Xiaqing was mixing her rice with stinky sauce and crispy fried fish. She looked up and asked, “Want a bite? Spicy. Has a kick.”

Jin Yang took one look at the red-black-brown mess in her bowl, nearly pinched his nose shut.
“You sure that’s fried fish? Not some biochemical weapon cooked up in a Japanese lab during the war?”

Lin Xiaqing rolled her eyes.
“Ever heard of stinky tofu? Fermented mandarin fish? This is better. My exclusive creation—once you try it, you’re hooked.”

Jin Yang was skeptical—and ready to call a doctor. This stuff smelled deadly.

To show his “respect” for her cooking, he politely shut off his sense of smell and ate only with his mouth. His poor mouth was now multitasking—chewing, sipping, and breathing.

When Lin Xiaqing pretended to offer him a bite, Jin Yang flinched like a wounded hen guarding her chicks, twisting his upper body away.

Dinner became a noisy tug-of-war. Lin Xiaqing tried to make him taste her fish, Jin Yang refused. Jin Yang tried to share his meatballs, Lin Xiaqing ate two and hoarded the rest. He huffed like an angry bull.

That stinky sauce reminded Jin Yang of a traumatic childhood memory: a food poisoning incident after drinking wild mushroom soup in Yunnan. Despite boiling it, the toxins hadn’t been fully broken down. He ended up hallucinating little men dancing in his brain.

Ever since, he had vowed: never again would he touch questionable food.

Now, he deeply regretted agreeing to buy ten jars of Lin Xiaqing’s sauce as gifts.

He was convinced that in the near future, those ten jars might kill ten people.