Braised Chicken Wings with Shiitake Mushrooms

Xia Jiao gently inched closer to him, and Wen Chongyue instinctively pulled her into his embrace. Although they were still each covered by their own blanket, Xia Jiao’s head rested on Wen Chongyue’s arm, creating an intimate posture.

Wen Chongyue said, “Father’s condition isn’t very good.”

Xia Jiao asked, “Is he taking medication?”

“Yes,” Wen Chongyue replied after a pause. “But he refuses to undergo surgery.”

Xia Jiao’s eyelid twitched.

As people age, it’s unavoidable to develop some chronic conditions. For example, Xia Jiao’s grandparents each have one—high blood pressure and high blood sugar. As long as they maintain a light diet and take their medications on time, it shouldn’t cause any major problems.

But when it comes to surgery… it instinctively feels like a serious, life-threatening condition.

Wen Chongyue continued, “The follow-up test results came back. It’s a heart issue.”

Xia Jiao let out a brief “ah” in response.

Wen Chongyue gently patted her back. Xia Jiao tilted her head up, and her forehead brushed against his chin. She could clearly feel the roughness there, something she hadn’t noticed before. Due to male hormones, facial hair grows quickly, and Xia Jiao had seen Wen Chongyue use a razor and aftershave every day, but now it felt a little prickly, almost like landing on a grassy field in the summer.

“It’s alright,” Wen Chongyue said, “Go to sleep.”

He didn’t mention his father’s condition again. It was the next day when he told Xia Jiao that his father had coronary heart disease. For someone with a heart condition, the greatest concern is the risk of sudden cardiac arrest. Wen Chongyue couldn’t give up his current job and move back home, so he had hired a caregiver to take care of his father’s daily needs. If anything happened, it would be easier to notice and act quickly.

Father Wen, however, didn’t seem too worried about his illness. Later, during a video call, he was still carefree, laughing as he said everything depended on fate.

He was very open-minded, perhaps because of his wide life experience, and was not bound by such concerns.

He even casually reminded Wen Chongyue on the phone, “It’s summer. Did you make Xia Jiao some summer noodles?”

There’s an old saying: “Dumplings on the first day of summer, noodles in the heat of summer.” In Beijing’s summer heat, sesame paste is a must. Xia Jiao remembered her Chinese teacher telling a story about Mr. Lao She, who once called on the government to address the sesame paste supply problem. In the days when food stamps and fabric coupons were still used, sesame paste was even listed on Beijing’s supplemental food ration books.

Xia Jiao wasn’t particularly fond of noodles. Compared to Wen Chongyue, who occasionally ate steamed buns or pancakes, she could go a whole month eating only rice without touching any noodles. If she had to choose, she would pick noodles. They were quick and easy to make. Whether it was long noodles or flat noodles, once cooked, they could be topped with sauce or other ingredients and eaten right away.

Wen Chongyue decided to make the noodles himself.

Father Wen had gone back to his hometown to visit relatives and brought some newly harvested wheat with him. The fresh wheat had a fragrant aroma, unlike old wheat, and it was much better. The wheat was milled into flour without any additives. The flour wasn’t as white as Xia Jiao had expected, but had a slight translucent brown tint.

When the flour arrived, Xia Jiao had been busy in the flower shop for a long time. As it neared closing time, the familiar elderly man appeared again. This time, he unusually bought three roses and asked Xia Jiao to help him come up with a sentence for the card.

“Think of something nice,” the old man said, “Make it a bit longer.”

Xia Jiao asked, “Do you have any other requests?”

The old man didn’t speak. He leaned against the counter, watching Xia Jiao carefully wrap the roses. After a while, he said, “She just had surgery and is being discharged. I can’t think of anything to say. You do it.”

Xia Jiao thought for a moment, then wrote a long message, filling up the entire postcard. The old man paid and left with the flowers.

This was just a small episode. Xia Jiao’s phone vibrated. She took it out and saw a message from Wen Chongyue, reminding her not to be late returning home tonight because there would be noodles waiting.

Xia Jiao removed her apron and walked forward, her head down as she played with her phone. She heard someone call out, “Hey hey,” and felt a tug on her. She was startled and looked up to see a pumpkin vase hanging from the shelf fall to the floor and shatter.

If no one had pulled her, it would have landed on her.

Yu Qingzhen, who had grabbed her, was still shaken. “You really need to watch where you’re going. Lucky it didn’t fall on you…”

Xia Jiao thanked her, and they both helped clean up the broken pieces. Yu Qingzhen looked up at the other vases and muttered, “Looks like I can’t tie them too loosely.”

Yu Qingzhen didn’t look too well. Her clients—the couple in an age-gap relationship—were very picky, criticizing every proposal she suggested. Xia Jiao had overheard Yu Qingzhen complaining on the phone earlier in the afternoon.

But there was nothing to be done. The work had to continue.

After work, Yu Qingzhen left with her bag. Xia Jiao remembered she hadn’t replied to Wen Chongyue’s message and typed a quick reply.

“I’ll be home soon.”

Unknowingly, Xia Jiao had already begun referring to the place where she and Wen Chongyue lived as “home.”

She was actually someone who found it difficult to form close relationships. Social anxiety made it hard to take the first step, and even deeper communication was difficult, especially when unsure if the other person shared her personality.

It was the same back in college. Whenever the group went shopping, Xia Jiao was always the one fading into the crowd. During activities, her role was always to follow, to listen. When electronic payments weren’t as widespread in high school, she’d find out later that the cashier had undercharged her, but she wouldn’t have the courage to ask for the missing change. She would always go to stores with clearly marked prices and no haggling, since she wasn’t good at bargaining.

The first time her friend encouraged her to visit one of those street shops where bargaining was the norm, Xia Jiao had nervously named a price, about 30% less than the original. The shopkeeper responded, “Oh no, this really won’t work…”

Before the shopkeeper could continue, Xia Jiao blushed and quickly gave in. “Alright, that’s fine. Please wrap it up for me.”

The next day, her friend went to the same shop and bought the same dress for half the price.

After that, Xia Jiao decided to say goodbye to the whole art of bargaining.

When Xia Jiao returned home, Wen Chongyue had just placed the prepared noodles into the pot to cook. For summer noodles, the best kind is hand-pulled noodles. Most people can barely pull the noodles a few times, but hand-pulling them thin and even, clean and tidy, requires skill. Wen Chongyue had explained before that the more times you pull the noodles, the thinner they get, but if they’re too thin, they won’t cook well and may even dissolve before reaching the boiling point.

Wen Chongyue didn’t know how to do it himself, but back in Beijing, he had taken Xia Jiao to a skilled master who demonstrated. The master pulled the noodles thirteen times, creating 8192 strands of noodles that, from a distance, looked like a waterfall, and up close, like fine silk, with not a single strand broken.

But it was just for show. These noodles couldn’t be eaten.

The hand-pulled noodles served outside are usually wide and thick, lacking much chewiness. Wen Chongyue’s homemade noodles are different. He is meticulous in his cooking, striving for perfection. The noodles are cut evenly and carefully, then slowly boiled in the pot.

Xia Jiao arranged the flowers she brought into a glass vase, spreading them out. After playing with the two cats for a while, she poured some freeze-dried food, soaked it in warm water to dissolve, and mixed in some crushed catnip leaves.

Once everything was ready, she clapped her hands and went to the kitchen to see if there was anything she could help with.

Wen Chongyue had already prepared mushroom-braised chicken wings and didn’t need her help for the moment. He was focused on frying Sichuan peppercorns in peanut oil.

The sesame noodles sold outside are usually topped with just sesame paste and some cucumber slices as filler. Authentic Beijing-style noodles are more refined. First, half a bowl of good soy sauce is poured in, followed by finely chopped green onions—small tender ones, not the thick ones that are taller than a person. It should be mildly spicy with a touch of sweetness, without any rough bits. The fried peppercorn oil poured over them must be made with peppercorns from Zhaitang Town in Mentougou, not Sichuan peppercorns, which are too numbing. The dish also calls for mustard paste made fresh with mustard powder, and rice vinegar with a light, refreshing taste.

These are the basic ingredients, and the side dishes must include thinly sliced cucumber, minced green garlic, pickled toon, shredded carrots, shredded radishes, and bean sprouts blanched in hot water.

None of these ingredients are particularly fancy, but it’s rare to gather them all for this dish.

Xia Jiao watched eagerly, remarking, “I didn’t expect that making an authentic bowl of noodles would be so complicated.”

Wen Chongyue smiled. “Isn’t the point of working to eat well, drink well, play well, and sleep well? I’m frying the peppercorns now. It’s pungent; you should step outside for a moment.”

Even though the kitchen fan was on, the strong aroma of the special seasoning still filled the room. Xia Jiao hesitated, but she had just chopped a cucumber, something a friend from Northeast China had taught her.

She found watching Wen Chongyue cook enjoyable.

When he cooked, he was calm and unhurried, handling everything smoothly, just like how he dealt with her—decisive and efficient.

The peanut oil heated to a slight smoke before the peppercorns were added. The sharp, numbing fragrance spread and filled the small kitchen.

Xia Jiao’s nose itched, and she turned away to sneeze. Wen Chongyue’s phone rang. Noticing the peppercorns frying, releasing golden bubbles of oil, he said to Xia Jiao, “Can you pick up my phone? My hands are full.”

Having just sneezed, Xia Jiao rubbed her nose, took the phone from his pocket, and looked at the screen.

“It’s Song Xiao,” she said.

“Answer it, put it on speaker,” Wen Chongyue instructed.

Xia Jiao accepted the call. Song Xiao, sounding a bit confused upon hearing her voice, immediately switched to a formal tone and inquired about a work matter.

Wen Chongyue poured the fried peppercorn oil into a bowl, calmly offering instructions. Then, he glanced at Xia Jiao—she was slightly bowed, staring at the seasoning bowl, as if it held more interest than he did.

She didn’t seem to care at all.

After the call ended, Wen Chongyue added mustard powder to a bowl and mixed it with a bit of water to form a paste. Xia Jiao leaned over to see. “What’s this?” she asked, holding her nose as the strong, pungent smell of mustard hit her.

“That’s mustard paste,” Wen Chongyue explained.

“Wow, it’s spicy,” Xia Jiao remarked.

“It’s hot and humid in the summer; this helps refresh and clear your mind,” Wen Chongyue said.

Clear your mind.

Wen Chongyue continued, “She was pushed into this by her parents, and they didn’t inform me beforehand. Once this project is over, I’ll suggest transferring her to another department.”

Xia Jiao blinked, confused. “Why transfer her?”

She seemed genuinely puzzled.

Wen Chongyue placed the mustard paste on a small pot to steam. For authenticity, it’s usually inverted on the lid to steam, but he thought his wife’s delicate nose might not handle that kind of stimulation.

Wen Chongyue casually picked up a bottle of rice vinegar. Without looking at Xia Jiao, he asked in a low voice, “Are you jealous?”

Xia Jiao glanced at the bottle in his hand, hesitated for half a second, and admitted she was a bit afraid of sour flavors. However, she worried that skipping the vinegar would take away the authentic taste of the summer noodles. She said softly, “…Maybe just a little?”

Wen Chongyue added a small amount of vinegar to the dipping sauce bowl.

But it wasn’t “just a little.”

In truth, she wasn’t jealous at all.