After drinking pumpkin and millet porridge at the breakfast shop at the end of the alley every day for half a month, Su Xiao finally takes notice of Shen Zhi, the one who makes it. He’s always stirring the clay pot in the first light of five in the morning, ladling the thick, creamy porridge into a white porcelain bowl and adding an extra spoonful of soft, tender pumpkin for her. Even the warmth of his fingertips when he hands her the bowl is just right.
Hidden in the porridge simmered in the old clay pot are Shen Zhi’s little expressions of care. When she coughs, he adds a few fritillaria bulbs. When she works late and arrives after hours, there’s always a pot of warm porridge waiting on the stove. Even the pickled vegetables at the shop are made to suit her preferred level of saltiness. The old lady at the alley entrance always jokes, “Shen doesn’t just cook porridge. He’s putting his hope that you’ll come by every day into it.”
When Su Xiao is about to move to a neighboring city, she makes one last visit to the shop. Beneath the bowl of porridge Shen Zhi hands her is a note: “Ever since the first time you said, ‘This porridge is so warm,’ I’ve wanted to save every morning’s first light and every bowl of hot porridge for you. When you come back, I’ll teach you how to make your favorite pumpkin and millet porridge, all right?”
