Chapter 73 Making Dumplings Together for the New Year!

Winter nights are always long and dry. After three consecutive days of heavy snow, the long-awaited Spring Festival finally arrived.

On New Year’s Eve, Jiang Zao put down her tablet and followed Aunt Hui into the kitchen to learn how to make dumplings.

“Back in my hometown, every New Year, the whole family gathers to make dumplings together,” Aunt Hui said, pouring boiling water into a bowl of flour with one hand, while the other hand stirred ceaselessly with chopsticks, making sure the water and flour mixed thoroughly.

Halfway through, she added the prepared cool boiled water, patiently explaining, “This is called a half-scalded dough. It’s perfect for steamed dumplings—the skins are firm but won’t harden when cold.”

Jiang Zao, pressing down the edge of the bowl as instructed, asked, “So I just mix it together like this? Nothing else needed?”

Aunt Hui kneaded the dough as she replied, “Once the dough is ready, we’ll let it rest over there. Then we can prepare the filling.”

Jiang Zao watched Aunt Hui’s busy hands with a bright smile, helping to wash vegetables and fetch ingredients from time to time.

After a long preparation, the rested dough and the seasoned filling were finally brought to the table together.

Jiang Zao, rolling pin in hand, was just about to learn how to roll out the dough when Aunt Hui suddenly remembered something.

“Oh, I forgot! I didn’t add the freshly made oil.”

She brought out a small bowl of oil from the kitchen, with a few pieces of dried chili floating in it.

“This chili is from my hometown,” she explained with a smile, “not spicy, but very fragrant. Pouring hot oil over it draws out the aroma—it’s the best way to add flavor to dumplings.”

Once the chili oil was mixed evenly into the filling, Jiang Zao’s grand dumpling-making adventure began.

Aunt Hui had already demonstrated all the essential techniques.

Yet no matter how hard Jiang Zao tried, her hands could not make the dough as thin and round as Aunt Hui’s with the rolling pin.

Rolling out the skins proved tricky, but wrapping the dumplings was still within her grasp. Aunt Hui quickly enveloped the filling with the expertly rolled skins, pinching out delicate, tidy steamed dumplings within moments.

Jiang Zao, imitating Aunt Hui’s gestures and holding fast to the philosophy that “as long as the filling doesn’t leak, it’s a good dumpling,” managed to wrap hers into odd, lumpy “meat rice balls,” each with its own peculiar shape.

Side by side, the two kinds of dumplings seemed to belong to entirely different worlds. Jiang Zao’s initial enthusiasm from the morning instantly vanished in the face of defeat.

“Hui-jie, am I just hopelessly clumsy?” she sighed.

Aunt Hui laughed, “Everyone has different talents. Perhaps Miss Jiang’s gifts lie elsewhere.”

Jiang Zao gave a helpless thumbs-up. “You’re good at comforting people, Aunt Hui.”

She placed her own dumplings next to Aunt Hui’s perfect ones, snapped a few photos, and prepared to post them on her social feed.

Caption: “Wasting food is a shame—there’s still time to stop now.”

Not long after, her post was flooded with New Year’s greetings.

Meng Qiaoyuan sent a private message with a photo of the Meng family’s New Year’s dinner table, along with a red envelope of 1888 yuan for good fortune.

Jiang Zao accepted the gift and replied with a freshly made Crayon Shin-chan New Year’s greeting image.

Meng Qiaoyuan gleefully changed all her backgrounds and screensavers to Crayon Shin-chan.

Jiang Zao then sent a New Year’s greeting and the same 1888 yuan red envelope to Zhou Jiayan. But this time, as if unseen, there was no reply at all, even late into the night.

She closed the chat, unconcerned. This year, Zhou Kuan had returned to the old family home for the New Year. After half a year of rivalry with Zhou Lichuan, they still had to sit at the same table for the reunion dinner. The atmosphere could be easily imagined. Zhou Jiayan, caught in the middle, would hardly be able to stay out of things—especially since there would be more drama in the days ahead.

For the first time, Jiang Zao was grateful she had chosen to leave before the New Year, seizing control of her own fate.

While waiting for Aunt Hui’s steamed dumplings, Jiang Zao scrolled through Weibo, watching reruns of previous Spring Festival Galas on TV and refreshing her feed.

Until, suddenly, an unfamiliar account caught her eye. Under the hashtag #BestWishesForTheNewYear#, someone had posted a slightly melancholy message:

“All conditioned phenomena are like dreams, illusions, bubbles, and shadows; like dew and lightning—thus should you contemplate them.”

Attached was a painting.

A painting by Jiang Zao.

Deep red roses, thorny dark green vines tightly entwined around plump, dewy grapes.

Seduction laced with danger: at any moment, the tender grapes seemed ready to be pierced by the rose’s thorns.

Several transparent bubbles floated across the canvas, turning static objects into moments in time—using the inevitable fragility of bubbles to deconstruct the stillness with their imminent demise.

Only two people had ever seen this painting in its entirety: the artist herself, Jiang Zao, and its collector—Zhou Lichuan.

That name had long since faded from Jiang Zao’s life. She no longer wished to hear it, and no one around her would mention him—it was as if, so long as no one spoke of him, he simply ceased to exist.

Aunt Hui brought the dumplings to the table and called, “Miss Jiang, what are you thinking about? Time to eat.”

Jiang Zao put down her phone and sat at the table, watching Aunt Hui bustling about with vinegar and minced garlic. “What did Zhou Lichuan say when he visited you the other day?” she asked.

Aunt Hui paused, a little embarrassed. “You knew, Miss Jiang?”

Jiang Zao nodded. “I saw you get into his car from the bathroom window.”

Aunt Hui sighed. “He didn’t say much—just asked me about the past. I thought, well, it’s all in the past, so I didn’t mind telling him.”

Jiang Zao poured a little vinegar and some minced garlic into her bowl. “Did he say anything else? About himself? How his recovery is going?”

Aunt Hui shook her head. “He didn’t say, but I could tell he looked exhausted. He had deep dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t seem as well as before—much thinner, too.”

Jiang Zao nodded thoughtfully. “If he comes looking for you again, don’t see him. Tell him I said so.”

Aunt Hui hesitated, but finally agreed.

A competent live-in housekeeper knows who really calls the shots. While she might wish to see them back together, it was not her place to meddle in their private matters.

Jiang Zao was the one who paid her salary—following the boss’s orders was always the safest choice.

The dumplings were delicious and fragrant. Jiang Zao ate happily, the discomfort brought by that single Weibo post soothed by the food.

After dinner, she sat on the sofa with Aunt Hui, watching the Spring Festival Gala. While chatting with Meng Qiaoyuan on her phone, she also checked in on the progress of Li Baixiu.

Li Baixiu sent several videos of cats—white cats kept by the elderly Mrs. Li for company, filmed on his phone.

The lazy white cats basked in the background, while the soundtrack was filled with Li Mingyi arguing with his relatives.

The disadvantage of a mixed-race child who had lived abroad for years was now glaringly obvious: Li Mingyi wasn’t adept at arguing in Chinese, nor could he grasp the subtle idioms often used. His retorts fell flat, drawing nothing but amused ridicule.