In my previous life, I died alone in a foreign land. The stove was cold and there was no one around me.
When he opened his eyes again, Shen Sui returned to Qingxi Village in 1970. He was eighteen years old and had nothing to do, with only three kilograms and seven taels of sorghum noodles left at the bottom of the vat.
Outside the door, the aunt came to "borrow" food with a smile. She knew that if the food was lent out, it would never come back.
In this life, she neither makes a fuss nor makes a fuss. The sign was set up and the weight was clearly written down; a handful of wild vegetables and an earthen stove were used to make the coarse grains fragrant; on the barren slope in the back mountain that no one wanted, she stood at the edge of the field and whispered - it's my turn.
From borrowing grain to make a living to setting up a stall to go to the market, from a small workshop to visiting people from the county, she faced obstacles every step of the way: top relatives pressured her with filial piety, the village chief's son blocked her way, vendors in the town imitated her recipes, and the county section chief blocked her channels.
But she had the stupid tricks she had memorized in her previous life, a pair of hands that could endure, and a person who didn't talk much, but who always finished carrying the water when she turned around.
In this life, she does not seek wealth. She just wants to keep the heat on the stove so that everyone in the family can have a good time.
