A Hearthful of Warmth, Year After Year

After nine years in the Imperial Kitchen, she could make puff pastry with twelve delicate layers and simmer the finest red bean paste. But over a plate of pastries, she was beaten to death outside Shoukang Palace. When she opened her eyes again, she was Wen Ning, a peasant girl who had just died on the road while fleeing famine. The cart jostled along, her chest was bruised from a fall, and her stomach burned with hunger. A gaunt little boy clutched her hand and sobbed, "A Rui won't be greedy anymore. A Rui just wants Big Sister to be all right." Her father was tall and thin, and rarely spoke. Her mother wiped away tears when no one was looking. At the end of the village stood their dilapidated house, bare of everything, with a pot of watery porridge so thin you could see your reflection in it. They had no money, no fields, and even half the courtyard wall had collapsed. But the stove still worked, and they could keep a fire going. The wild greens were sweet, as was the half a persimmon cake her little brother gave her. Her mother took apart the cart to make a dish rack, while her father silently dug out the irrigation ditch, hoe by hoe. She sprinkled some chopped wild garlic into the porridge, and the whole family's eyes lit up. Their life was poor, but no one was going to beat her to death over a plate of pastries anymore. The sky stretched wide, the earth lay open, and the thatched eaves sat low. With the hearth smoke rising, may peace last year after year.

After nine years in the Imperial Kitchen, she could make puff pastry with twelve delicate layers and simmer the finest red bean paste. But over a plate of pastries, she was beaten to death outside Shoukang Palace. When she opened her eyes again, she was Wen Ning, a peasant girl who had just died on the road while fleeing famine.