Yellow Soybean Tofu Vegetable Soup

It took Wen Chongyue two minutes to figure out what that meant.

He had just washed his hands, rolled up his sleeves, and hadn’t bothered to dry them. He bent down to tease Xia Jiao, who quickly tried to run away. Unfortunately, it was too late. He caught her in his arms like an eagle snatching a chick, swinging her playfully.

“You little naughty monkey,” Wen Chongyue concluded with a laugh, and after Xia Jiao begged for mercy, he flicked her forehead with his finger, sighing, “You’re getting more and more mischievous.”

Xia Jiao covered her forehead and braced herself for another attack. She took the opportunity to remind him, “Teacher Wen, don’t sigh. The carbon dioxide concentration in the air will increase, which will intensify the greenhouse effect and contribute to global warming.”

Wen Chongyue praised her, saying, “You have a great sense of the bigger picture.”

With her “great sense of the bigger picture,” Xia Jiao stood guard over the small lotus leaves and lotus seed pods as they steamed. She watched as Wen Chongyue took them out, placing them into a soup bowl, then poured a ladle of fresh chicken broth over them. He had already used a skimmer to remove the layer of oil floating on top. The small lotus leaves and lotus seed pods gently floated up in the broth, their color slightly darkened after steaming, resembling the deep green of summer lotus leaves. Xia Jiao had already taken her chopsticks, waiting eagerly. As soon as Wen Chongyue brought over the final dish of steamed chicken wrapped in lotus leaves and glutinous rice, she couldn’t resist and took a bite of the lotus seed pod.

The lotus seed pods, made with lotus leaf juice, had the delicate fragrance unique to tender lotus leaves. They were simply seasoned with salt, and the lotus pods and leaves soaked up the broth, capturing a rich meaty flavor. Xia Jiao could easily eat one in two bites, with the chewy dough and savory broth complementing each other perfectly.

The chicken was steamed to perfection. The aroma of lotus, rice wine, glutinous rice, fruit, goji berries, and chicken all blended together. Since they had already made the noodle soup, today’s glutinous rice was served in small bowls. Xia Jiao couldn’t resist the temptation of the delicious food and indulged herself. After several bouts of feeling overly full, Wen Chongyue had to adjust his method and started serving her rice in smaller portions. A spoonful of chicken broth was poured over the rice. Xia Jiao ate the tender steamed chicken, pairing it with a piece of pickled turnip and a refreshing vegetable salad, enjoying a satisfying lunch.

In fact, Wen Chongyue was even better at cooking chicken than Xia Jiao had imagined. He was so skilled in Cantonese cuisine that Xia Jiao began to suspect his graduate studies might have been focused on food.

Wen Chongyue even spent an entire afternoon making Tea-Scented Old Chicken, using Shoumei tea leaves and specifically choosing Longgang chicken. First, he coated the chicken with a mixture of Shoumei tea, huadiao wine, salt, broth, ginger, and shallots. Then, he stuffed the chicken’s belly with a special marinade. Cantonese cooking couldn’t be rushed—just like a good soup that takes time to simmer. This chicken needed to marinate for five hours before steaming, but it couldn’t be fully cooked. It had to be taken out when it was about 70 to 80% done.

Xia Jiao didn’t have that kind of patience, or rather, she couldn’t imagine spending so much time just for a meal. After all, she was the kind of person who couldn’t even boil instant noodles properly and would just pour hot water directly over them. Spending an hour preparing food already felt like the greatest respect for her stomach.

But Wen Chongyue was the opposite. He enjoyed food that took time.

“Food is life, and life is about food,” Wen Chongyue said as he spread the fragrant Shoumei tea leaves on a piece of foil in the pan, adding rice, sugar, and bamboo sugar. He placed the 80% cooked chicken on top, then slowly baked it on low heat. “One should never skimp on their own stomach.”

Xia Jiao thought to herself that he didn’t just take care of his stomach—he took care of every part of his body.

… But she liked it.

Without comparison, Xia Jiao hadn’t realized just how “rough” her life had been. She had gotten used to relying on takeout or instant noodles, or making simple stir-fries. Every time she saw news about “gutter oil,” “fake duck blood,” “moldy vegetables,” or “zombie meat” in her takeout, she would get scared and swear to never order takeout again. Unfortunately, she didn’t often have time to cook herself, so she would still carefully open the food delivery app and try to avoid places with bad reviews or those that had been exposed in the news.

Ordering food was like playing Minesweeper. Before she finished one meal, she could never predict if the next bite would be a landmine.

Wen Chongyue gently lifted her out of the danger zone, placing her in his safe little bubble and even helping her put on a helmet.

In terms of food, shelter, and daily life, Xia Jiao really appreciated him.

To use a saying common among people from the North, she could really say she was “enjoying his great blessings.”

Wen Chongyue would patiently spend an entire afternoon preparing a whole Tea-Scented Old Chicken, smoking it for twenty minutes, then brushing it with sesame oil, chopping it into small pieces, and serving it with a thin layer of chicken juice poured over it to thicken the sauce.

On a regular day, Wen Chongyue would cook simpler meals—stir-fried pea shoots with braised meat, blanched Chinese broccoli with shrimp, slow-cooked yellow soybean tofu vegetable soup, and a kale and oatmeal salad.

When he went shopping for ingredients, Wen Chongyue always considered the season. Not only could he cook these seasonal vegetables to bring out their best flavors, but he would also teach Xia Jiao how to pick them. For example, fava beans had to be chosen with plump pods, and they should be shelled as needed. While pre-shelled fava beans were more convenient, the surface had dried out, making them less flavorful. Luffa should be selected with fresh flowers at the stem end, ensuring a high water content and firm flesh. Water bamboo should have a uniform shape with white, clean flesh. Yardlong beans should be chosen with even thickness and full seeds…

But it wasn’t just about picking the right vegetables—it also depended on the intended use.

For tomatoes, if you wanted to eat them raw or in a salad, you’d pick the pinkish ones, which had a mild acidity and low sweetness. For soups or stir-fries, you’d choose the deep red ones, which were more flavorful and had a better balance of sweetness and acidity. When choosing eggplants for braising or stir-frying, you’d pick round ones with thick skin and less moisture, while for oil-braising or steaming, you’d pick long, tender ones with thin skin. Green eggplants were rarely seen in markets because their thick skin and tough texture made them unpopular, but Wen Chongyue would sometimes buy them, peel off the skin, and stir-fry them with shredded meat, which tasted the best.

For cucumbers, the best choice for raw or stewed dishes was the dry yellow cucumber, while milk cucumbers were better for pickling or cold dishes, and jade cucumbers were perfect for salads.

In the summer, when southern China produced Chinese squash, Xia Jiao followed Wen Chongyue’s advice and chose ones with dense fuzz and a glossy sheen under the sun. Sure enough, the ones she picked had less pulp and more flesh. Wen Chongyue praised her again and, that evening, made salted egg and Chinese squash soup, which was sweet, fragrant, and refreshing. Xia Jiao had two small bowls.

Then…

Xia Jiao stepped off the scale, her head hanging low as she told Wen Chongyue, “I really need to lose weight.”

Wen Chongyue suggested, “The term ‘exercise’ might be more suitable.”

Xia Jiao didn’t care much about his wording. Just like how Wen Chongyue didn’t mind whether she called him “brother,” “teacher,” or “uncle” in bed—so long as she didn’t call him “old man.” In this regard, both of them were easygoing and didn’t insist on imposing their preferences on the other.

For example, Xia Jiao liked playing games but never forced Wen Chongyue to play with her. Wen Chongyue was great at cooking but never insisted that Xia Jiao join him in the kitchen.

They both had the same approach to life: “Strict with themselves, tolerant with others.”

After thinking for a while, Xia Jiao decided to join Wen Chongyue for night runs. In the mornings, she just couldn’t wake up. Those who needed to work during the week just wanted to rest, and on weekends, they wanted to catch up on sleep.

Night runs plus evening ‘exercises’ meant Xia Jiao was exhausted every night, more tired than a worker who had built a pyramid all day, or even more tired than Hua Ze Lei from Meteor Garden.

She was just double exhausted.

Strangely, her sleep quality improved as a result. In the mornings, she would be full of energy when she went to work. After thinking about it for a while, Xia Jiao could only guess that physical fitness was like a “masochist”—use it or lose it.

August.

The hottest time in Suzhou had arrived, with temperatures often reaching 40°C. You could leave an egg in the car and it would turn into a rooster. Xia Jiao worked at the flower shop from 8 AM to 5 PM and ate her bento at the shop, thus avoiding the scorching heat. But her peaceful days didn’t last long before a new customer arrived at the shop.

This new customer was an older couple—an elegant woman in her sixties with white hair and a young man who looked to be in his early twenties. At first, everyone thought they were family, but the woman affectionately called the young man “Qingqing,” a somewhat old-fashioned term of endearment, which made Xia Jiao pause for a moment.

However, the new customers didn’t request Xia Jiao’s service. Instead, they chose Yu Qingzhen and asked for a bouquet arrangement for their third wedding anniversary dinner.

After the customer left, Yu Qingzhen pressed her hand against her chest and muttered, “Three-year wedding anniversary? Did I hear that right? And calling him ‘Qingqing’… Oh my God…”

Xia Jiao had long gotten used to this kind of thing.

It was no longer the world it used to be. Not long ago, news reports were full of stories about grandpa-granddaughter relationships or the “one tree of pear blossoms overshadowing the begonia,” and wasn’t it just as normal to have the reverse? In this day and age, not only can people be open about age or sexual orientation, but they could also fall in love with cartoon characters or choose people from different universes, as long as it wasn’t breaking the law or disturbing others. What’s the harm in that?

However, the elderly man today was a little late. The message on the card was still the same as usual. After Xia Jiao wrote it carefully, he seemed distracted. He grabbed the flowers and left, forgetting to ask for change. Xia Jiao chased after him and handed him the money. He absentmindedly thanked her and slowly walked away. After walking a few meters, he suddenly sighed deeply and looked up at the bright sky.

Xia Jiao quietly returned to the shop.

Perhaps people were born to be dissatisfied. There were always so many worries. When Xia Jiao was a child, her biggest concern was that her parents wouldn’t let her go out to play. As she grew older, her troubles expanded—choosing clothes, transitioning from elementary to middle school, from middle school to high school, college entrance exams, graduate school entrance exams, the civil service exams… the list went on.

As her age increased, so did her troubles.

But in the end, the greatest troubles were life, aging, illness, and death. However, Xia Jiao had not yet experienced, nor did she want to experience, these phases.

After marrying Wen Chongyue, her initial worry had been about his mother, Mrs. Bai Ruolang, interfering. But that worry was quickly put to rest. No matter how long Mrs. Bai’s reach was, it didn’t extend to Suzhou. Later, her new worry was that, no matter what she did, she couldn’t provide Wen Chongyue with the emotional value he gave her or contribute positively to their marriage.

“Everyone blooms at different times,” Wen Chongyue had once comforted her.

But this seemingly mismatched exchange in their marriage inevitably made Xia Jiao feel a little anxious. She wasn’t sure why she felt this way, so to cope, she threw herself into taking care of their balcony garden. She focused on creating a beautiful garden, which helped ease her anxiety.

But…

Wen Chongyue had recently noticed that his wife was growing a bit distant.

Xia Jiao had been spending all her time on the balcony garden. She used to relax after work by lying down to read comics or watching movies with him. Now, she headed straight for the balcony after work, first taking care of the plants, sketching ideas, and thinking about how to further improve and structure the garden.

Apart from cooking, Wen Chongyue unconsciously kept an eye on her. She was enthusiastically repotting some succulent plants when her phone rang. She rushed to open the door—probably a male acquaintance or a colleague, tall and thin, bringing flowers to the door.

Although Xia Jiao was usually shy, she was chatting and laughing comfortably with him, seeming quite familiar.

Wen Chongyue brought the flowers to the balcony, rolled up his sleeves, and helped her lift them onto the small wooden rack.

Wen Chongyue asked casually: “Was that your colleague just now?”

Xia Jiao, focused on arranging the pots, replied, “Yes, but he’s in charge of another business area. To be honest, I feel a bit embarrassed. I only ordered two pots, and he even brought them over personally.”

Wen Chongyue said, “Isn’t that normal?”

Xia Jiao shook her head seriously and explained, “Not really. In our store, we only deliver potted plants when the order reaches a certain amount. Isn’t he super gentle? Did you know? Everyone says his personality is just like the male lead in that TV drama. His nickname is even ‘The Gentle God’…”

Wen Chongyue wasn’t aware.

And now that he knew, he wasn’t pleased.

Wen Chongyue adjusted the flower pots, obsessively aligning them to make sure they were centered on the wooden rack, leaving equal space on both sides.

“The Gentle God?” he murmured.

Was that a nickname for a “plague god”?