(The first thing you do when dressing up as an ancient refugee: Make moldy beans into sauce)
As a doctor of food, I live in a deserted village, and a lame and cold-faced god lives next door.
When we first met, he threw me into the leaky hayloft like a rag.
"It stinks, it's troublesome." He dropped these five hard words.
I was so hungry that I exchanged my last few copper coins for moldy beans.
When the strange smell of fermentation filled the small courtyard, he kicked open my broken door, his eyes like knives.
"What kind of magic are you doing?"
I pushed the black sauce bowl over and said, "To borrow the accommodation fee, can you try it?"
He tested the poison with a silver needle, frowned and swallowed it.
The next day, there were bundles of chopped firewood at my door.
Later, I taught the villagers how to make pickles and dried meat, and the small courtyard was filled with aroma.
He remained silent, but began to help me repair the roof and grind beans.
Until someone made things difficult for me, he stood behind me silently.
The lazy guy was scared to death.
That night, he sat at my stone table for the first time: "From now on, this is home."
The fire in the stove is crackling, and the bean porridge is boiling hot.
The fireworks world of General Cold Noodles is heated by my bowl of bean paste.
Not bad, very pretty