When I was six years old, my grandma put a walnut kernel in the palm of my hand: "The soul of five-nut mooncakes lies in the word 'harmony'. The five kinds of nuts are kneaded together, no one is suppressing them, and no one is covering them. When you take a bite, all five are present."
She taught me how to make peace for twenty years. I never thought that I was also the fifth kind of nut that was rubbed into the house.
In a previous life, I found a letter of intent in my cold storage. My name is written in the "Technical Consultant" column, with a monthly salary of 8,000. The younger brother's name is written in the "Legal Representative" column and he holds 60% of the shares. There is only one condition for it to take effect: I complete the written handover of all core recipes.
At that moment, I squatted in the sub-zero cold storage and suddenly understood that my parents valued me not to make me the head of the family, but to make me a stepping stone for my younger brother.
In this new life, I only want myself.
Now I am in the workshop of the old state-owned food factory, and in front of me is an oven that is older than me. There is grandma's notebook on the operating table. In 1987, she wrote: "Tangerine peel and five kernels are a match made in heaven. Future generations must remember that no addition or deletion is allowed."
Later generations will remember it. When my grandma taught me, she said: "Craftsmanship must first grow in your hands, and then it can grow in your heart."
In this life, I live by myself, not for anyone else.
