Ye Baiqing didn’t speak, and the doctor could only hold the bamboo sugarcane water and look out the window, furrowing his brow. “Debbie’s time is very precious. A lot has already been wasted here. At the end of the month, she has to record a new album. If she doesn’t return to New York soon, it will cause a lot of delays.”

Ye Baiqing glanced at him after hearing this.

Since the doctor arrived in Shenzhen, he had been advising Debbie to return home as soon as possible, always drawing connections between the city’s medical conditions and the level of Chinese cuisine, concluding that Debbie was just wasting time here.

Occasionally, when he communicated with Debbie, Ye Baiqing always felt something was off.

The doctor’s approach to comforting Debbie always focused on reassuring her that her current state was good enough for the work the record company had arranged for her.

He cared for Debbie deeply, attending to her every need, giving her confidence, telling her how much her fans loved her, how much they were waiting for her.

After every counseling session, he would remind her to take advantage of her rare time off to create.

Debbie was like this—wasn’t it better for her to take a break and focus on recovery?

But over the past few days, Ye Baiqing had learned more about the upcoming schedule.

From next month until late winter, there were singles, albums, music videos, ads, and a global tour.

Her schedule was so packed that even she, usually very busy as a model, was shocked.

Of course, she could also make far more money than Ye Baiqing.

Ye Baiqing couldn’t understand why, with Debbie’s mental and physical state so poor, she still allowed the company to schedule so much work for her.

She also couldn’t figure out why Debbie had brought this doctor along and remained inseparable from him.

Yet, subconsciously, she felt Debbie didn’t like this doctor either.

But Debbie never resisted.

She took her medication when required, obeyed the counseling sessions, and even during these days off in Shenzhen, she continued her creative work.

Had Jin Yaotiao not spoken up earlier, Debbie would likely have followed the doctor’s advice and returned to New York.

She was like a beautiful puppet controlled by invisible strings.

The doctor, sipping the fragrant bamboo sugarcane tea, pulled out his phone with a sound and glanced at Ye Baiqing.

He then stood up and went to a corner to answer a call.

Faintly, Ye Baiqing heard his lowered voice intermittently: “Yes… it was discovered early, the physical damage isn’t severe… I’m trying to persuade her to go back, her resistance isn’t strong. Maybe she just wants a vacation…”

Debbie was invited by Jin Yaotiao into the kitchen.

Among all the guests, only she was allowed inside.

Without the familiar faces around her, facing the unfamiliar Jin Yaotiao, she felt a bit uneasy.

Jin Yaotiao walked towards the cabinet with her back to Debbie, took out a transparent jar, and brought it over.

Meeting Jin Yaotiao’s gaze, Debbie instinctively suppressed her unease and smiled politely. “Is this something you want me to taste?”

She asked, though deep inside, she wasn’t interested in food.

She thought this beautiful dark-haired girl in front of her would probably be like others she had encountered, trying to help her by offering delicious food, comforting her, telling her she didn’t need to diet, that she was already successful, with outstanding talent and so many fans who loved her, living a life better than most people.

But no.

Jin Yaotiao set the jar down and said, “This is just the material.”

Debbie was stunned for a moment.

Jin Yaotiao waved her hand, casually asking, “Come help me.”

Her attitude was so natural, with a touch of familiarity that only friends who understood each other could show.

Looking into her eyes, the wariness in Debbie’s heart seemed to lessen.

She even had the illusion that this girl might understand the pain deep inside her.

Debbie slowly walked over and found that the jar Jin Yaotiao had brought out contained pickled flowers.

When the lid was opened, a sweet fragrance wafted out, surrounding her nose.

Debbie couldn’t help but say, “It smells so good. Is that rose in there?”

She vaguely detected the fragrance of roses.

“Not just that,” Jin Yaotiao replied. “This sauce is difficult to pickle. Since you came from afar, I’m sharing it with you. The roses were pickled last year, and each flower festival we add new things and honey. The longer it pickles, the better it tastes. By this autumn, we can add osmanthus to it, and when the osmanthus fragrance is added, it will be even richer. If you’re curious, you can try it then.”

Debbie didn’t immediately respond, only smiling faintly.

Jin Yaotiao looked at the jar of mixed flowers she had pickled for so long, not pressing the topic further, and changed the subject. “Have you ever cooked?”

Debbie shook her head.

She never cooked. She didn’t have the time, nor did she need to.

Her schedule was packed with work every day, and in between, she had to focus on her creative projects.

The company had arranged enough people to take care of her daily needs, and when it was time to eat, food would be delivered naturally.

For health reasons and to maintain her figure, the food was usually carefully prepared by a nutritionist.

But whether it was healthy meals or the Michelin dishes friends invited her to try, they all tasted the same to her.

She was more concerned about protein intake, vitamin intake, starch intake, and energy intake, making sure it didn’t exceed her basal metabolism and cause her to gain weight.

As she thought, Jin Yaotiao had already handed her a mixing bowl with flour. “It’s alright, kneading dough isn’t hard. Not knowing how to cook won’t affect it.”

Flour, milk powder, water, and melted butter were mixed together.

When Debbie saw the butter, she hesitated, but Jin Yaotiao didn’t mind, simply saying, “Try it.”

She wasn’t good at rejecting people, so after a two-second pause, she cleaned her hands and followed along.

It was her first time kneading dough, and when she touched the soft and warm texture, Debbie paused, staring at the slightly yellow dough in her hands.

Jin Yaotiao handed her the task and started doing other things, explaining as she worked, “Cooking is interesting. When you combine ordinary ingredients together, each looks nothing special—flour is just flour, butter is just butter—but when they come together, they turn into a crispy crust.”

She didn’t offer any comforting words, just chatting casually as if with a regular friend, her voice slightly husky, calm, and pleasant to hear.

Debbie slowly got absorbed in the conversation, and though they weren’t familiar, the atmosphere felt unexpectedly harmonious.

As she kneaded the dough absentmindedly, her attention was drawn to Jin Yaotiao’s swift and precise movements, and she suddenly became interested. “What are you making?”

Jin Yaotiao, while handling the chicken, replied, “Drunken Chicken.”

This was a recipe she had seen in a cookbook from a visit to the Ma family with her father.

Since it was from a family heirloom recipe, she wouldn’t casually serve it in her restaurant, but since today’s guests were special, unrelated to business, and since she was interested in the dish, she decided to try it out for fun.

The chefs under Mingde also liked to watch her cook, saying that watching her cook was a pleasure.

Her fingers were long and nimble, and almost effortlessly, she mixed the honeyed flowers with sweet wine and other ingredients to make the sauce.

The recipe for Drunken Chicken was quite interesting.

First, you rub salt on a plump chicken, then coat the skin with a wine-based sauce, and roast it quickly over an open flame.

The blowtorch in Jin Yaotiao’s hand was like a magnificent weapon, and the flames roared as they tightened the skin of the chicken.

Sweet wine and flower nectar contain sugar.

When roasted, the chicken’s skin will quickly turn golden brown as the sugars caramelize. This requires a high level of precision in roasting.

The direct flame is intense, and if the chicken stays in one spot too long or is flipped too many times, the color will become unappealing.

This is naturally not difficult for Jin Yaotiao.

She brushes the chicken with the wine sauce, roasts it, brushes it again, and repeats the process several times.

The surface of the chicken eventually develops a thick layer of wine glaze.

Once the skin turns golden and the shiny oil oozes out, Jin Yaotiao pricks the chicken skin, fills its cavity with the remaining sauce, and places it in a small roasting pan.

At the bottom of the pan, she places other ingredients, according to the recipe—bear paws and sika deer tendons.

But Jin Yaotiao, who refuses to harm protected animals, substitutes them with her own carefully chosen ingredients.

She understands the flavor of food well, and the tendons, soaked in wine, are placed thickly with smoked fish and ham slices.

A small spoonful of broth is added, just enough to cover the tendons, then the pan is sealed and placed in the oven.

Debbie watches her, unable to take her eyes off the process.

It’s one thing to have no appetite for food, but watching someone cook can be fascinating in its own right.

The orderly steps, like the softening dough in her hands, feel almost like a game that relieves stress.

Jin Yaotiao glances at her work and smiles, “It’s ready.”

Debbie watches as she pours out the dough, divides it into portions, flattens them, coats them with butter, and flattens them again.

After several repetitions, she stuffs the dough with filling.

The filling is freshly made, a fragrant flower jam mixed with other soft ingredients.

Jin Yaotiao, noticing Debbie’s curiosity, explains: “This is chestnut paste I made at home recently, with walnut and mung bean paste. It’s not too strong in flavor and pairs well with the flower jam.”

Debbie nods and, without needing to be prompted, helps Jin Yaotiao seal the dough pockets.

The soft dough changes shape in Debbie’s hands, becoming a round, ugly flower.

While her hands are swift and precise when playing the piano, this task seems to be beyond her control, and the result is far from Jin Yaotiao’s refined product.

But as she looks at the misshapen flower, she can’t help but smile.

Once Jin Yaotiao places the finished product into the oven, Debbie doesn’t leave.

She watches through the glass, fascinated by the magical transformation of the dough she made.

The butter mixed into the dough begins to shine as it rises, part of it eagerly appearing on the surface, while the rest bubbles away inside the dough, causing the once ordinary dough to puff up like mushrooms in a rainy season.

She’s seen many flaky pastries before, but this is her first time watching dough evolve into puff pastry.

The layers that appear on the surface resemble skin splitting open from a wound, but they are so beautiful.

The sweet aroma wafts through the air. Meanwhile, in another oven, the wine-roasted chicken begins to emit its own delicious fragrance.

The kitchen in Mingde’s restaurant is always neat. Sunlight streams in, and smelling the mixed fragrances, Debbie suddenly feels lighthearted and wants to talk.

She looks at Jin Yaotiao’s profile illuminated by the sunlight, her curves delicate and beautiful. For a moment, she becomes lost in thought.

Jin Yaotiao doesn’t notice, as she’s busy preparing a bunch of tender shepherd’s purse.

She smiles and says, “Cooking is fun, right?”

Debbie smiles and nods, and without Jin Yaotiao asking, she goes to wash the shepherd’s purse. “I’ve never seen this vegetable before.”

The shepherd’s purse is so tender it could almost be squeezed for juice.

Jin Yaotiao explains: “Actually, you have this in your country, just don’t know how to eat it. In our country, seasonal vegetables are a part of our food culture. Every month has its own unique flavors. You have to take the time to discover them, one by one. When you’re done tasting the spring vegetables, you’ll wait for autumn. And then, when you move from shepherd’s purse to winter bamboo shoots, the year will soon end. Time passes so quickly.”

From this calm speech, Debbie seems to glimpse the long river of time and the subtle yet powerful energy of a country she doesn’t know.

She softly says, “Yes, time goes by so fast. Jin, someone as wonderful as you must live a very happy life every day.”

Jin Yaotiao smiles and asks, “Do you know why I started cooking?”

Debbie, feeling like she’s talking to a trusted friend, shakes her head, “I don’t know.”

Jin Yaotiao replies, “It was to pursue a man.”

Debbie is taken aback.

She can’t picture this confident, decisive girl chasing after someone.

Connecting it to herself, she sighs and says, “Then you must have been very happy.”

“No,” Jin Yaotiao smiles, “We broke up. I was the one who ended it.”

Debbie is shocked. “Why?”

Jin Yaotiao rarely talks about her emotions, but seeing Debbie so trapped in her own struggle, she finds it easy to open up.

She finds that sharing these buried feelings is healing for herself too.

She answers candidly, “Because I was tired. Not being loved is very painful.”

Debbie freezes, almost thinking Jin Yaotiao can see through her.

But she quickly dismisses the thought.

After all, this is their first meeting.

Gradually, Debbie calms down and, after a long pause, says, “Someone like you, how could you not be loved?”

Jin Yaotiao smiles and asks, “Why not?”

Debbie softly says, “I thought that if you’re good enough, if you do even better, you’ll be loved.”

“Debbie,” Jin Yaotiao finally understands why Debbie ended up in such a situation. “Sometimes, deceiving yourself doesn’t help.”

Debbie stares blankly, then smiles bitterly, “Yes, you’re right. It doesn’t help.”

She looks at Jin Yaotiao, feeling confused, “But don’t you feel sad?”

Jin Yaotiao shakes the freshly washed shepherd’s purse and gives her a side glance. “What’s there to be sad about? Some people are just not meant to have love, like me. But look, without love, I’m much happier now. I have a career, family, and friends. Debbie, look at this vegetable.”

The tender shepherd’s purse, after being blanched, is placed into a boiling broth. It quickly becomes soft, and Jin Yaotiao scoops it out and serves it in a bowl.

Jin Yaotiao says, “Try it. It’s a vegetable, very low in calories.”

Debbie’s eyes well up with tears.

She looks at Jin Yaotiao for a while before accepting the fork she hands her.

She pierces a soft leaf and puts it in her mouth.

It’s different from the boiled vegetables she’s used to.

The flavor of the rich broth fills her tongue, and the novelty of the vegetable, with its very faint bitterness, is unlike anything she’s ever tasted.

But it’s not unpleasant.

Maybe it’s prepared so well that even the slight bitterness seems to symbolize freshness, blending perfectly with the sweetness of the broth.

For a moment, she recalls what Jin Yaotiao said — “The flavor of the season.”

Jin Yaotiao asks, “How is it?”

Debbie nods. The tears in her eyes fall, and with a choked voice, she says, “It’s delicious. I’ve never had anything like it.”

“There’s much more you’ve never tried,” Jin Yaotiao smiles. “Our country has countless wild vegetables—acacia flowers, elm seeds, Chinese toon, dandelions… In every season, from spring to winter, mushrooms in the rainy season, and from the easternmost to the westernmost cities, many foods I can’t even name.”

Debbie listens in a daze as the pastries in the oven are ready.

Jin Yaotiao pulls her over to see, handing her a pair of heat-resistant gloves. “Be careful.”