Ch 95: Reborn to Raise My Husband

The ingredients needed for oil-pickled vegetables were quite ordinary: scallions, ginger, garlic, star anise, cassia leaves, and peppercorns.

The main ingredients, however, were homegrown mushrooms, fresh bamboo shoots, and minced pork with snow cabbage.

He still had several boxes of dried mushrooms at home, and snow cabbage was abundant in the markets. Even if it wasn’t, it could easily be pickled from fresh greens.

What proved troublesome this season were the fresh bamboo shoots.

Xiao Yuanbao made a round through the city market. There were indeed plump, golden winter shoots for sale—dug up by sharp-eyed farmers with hoes, coaxed from the earth where they hid stubbornly beneath the soil.

He pinched a piece between his fingers: crisp and tender, with the clean, springlike fragrance that only appeared after the thaw.

These winter shoots would die after the frost; they could not sprout into tall bamboo, but their taste was sweet and delicate, as if nature had meant them to be eaten as a rare treat.

When he asked the price, it was astonishing—one shoot cost more than a hundred coins, pricier than meat. Clearly, they were unsuitable for pickling.

Besides, back in the village, his father had dug winter shoots before—delicious when stewed with pig’s trotters, but not as flavorful in pickles as the young spring shoots gathered in April or May.

Then Xiao Yuanbao slapped his forehead and went to a shop that sold dried goods.

Inside were racks of dried vegetables, meats, and seafood from river and sea alike.

When he asked for bamboo shoots, the clerk led him to the shelves and gestured for him to choose among many varieties: large, small, and medium—麻笋 (ma shoots), 鞭笋 (whip shoots), 苦笋 (bitter shoots), 红壳笋 (red-shell shoots), 白哺鸡笋 (white-feather shoots)…

The man recited the names as if telling a story.

When Xiao Yuanbao asked which kind suited pickled vegetables, the clerk produced a large hemp sack.

“These were harvested in spring and sun-dried to a crisp. Even through the damp winter, they haven’t molded or spoiled. Cheaper than fresh ones, too.”

Xiao Yuanbao’s face lit up as he took the bag of dried shoots.

That afternoon, Qi Beinan came home from work, the snow outside thicker than before.

He’d spent the day inspecting progress on the city’s night market construction. His feet were buried in snow for so long they’d gone numb.

Once he’d changed out of his official robes, he called for Qin Jiang to bring in a bucket of hot water.

“How are the insoles soaked through already?” Xiao Yuanbao exclaimed. He’d been in the kitchen, simmering pig’s trotter soup with the fresh winter shoots he’d bought that morning. Hearing Qin Jiang fetch hot water, he guessed Qi Beinan wanted to soak his feet, so he sliced ginger into the bucket and followed him in.

When he picked up the shoes Qi had taken off, he felt the damp fabric and frowned. He pressed his hand inside; the lining was soaked as well.

“When did you get these wet?” he scolded. “If it happened while you were out, you could’ve just sent word—I would’ve asked Qin Jiang to bring you dry ones.”

Qi Beinan dared not say they’d been wet for hours; it hadn’t been sudden, but rather that the snow had slowly seeped in.

Even changing into cloth boots at home didn’t help much—they soaked easily too.

He smiled, coaxing, “Maybe it happened when I was clearing snow from the roof this afternoon. It was almost time to finish work, so I didn’t want to trouble anyone.”

“Trouble?” Xiao Yuanbao huffed. “The capital’s winter is far colder than the county’s. If you don’t keep warm, your body won’t withstand it.”

“When you’re young, you think strength means you’ll never fall ill,” he added. “It’s only later, when your bones ache, that you learn otherwise.”

Qi Beinan laughed. “Yes, Teacher Xiao speaks true. Tomorrow, if my shoes get wet again, I’ll have someone fetch dry ones—agreed?”

Xiao Yuanbao hesitated. “It’s not your fault. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the leather shop and get two pieces of hide. I’ll cut and sew you a pair of boots, lined thick and soft inside. They’ll be warmer for your official duties.”

“Leather boots are expensive,” Qi Beinan said. “Wouldn’t that be too extravagant?”

“Hmph. And if you fall ill, won’t medicine cost even more?” Xiao Yuanbao retorted.

Then his eyes brightened. He set aside what he was doing, sat beside him, and said, “Actually, I’ve thought of a way to earn money. If it works, buying one hide—or ten—won’t matter.”

Qi Beinan raised a brow. “And what sort of business is this?”

“My oil-pickled vegetables,” Xiao Yuanbao said. “Everyone says they taste good. I used to think they were just ordinary side dishes, nothing special. But in a city like this, where people can eat all kinds of delicacies—even street food is decent—yet Tangtuan still said mine were delicious… perhaps they really are.”

Qi Beinan understood immediately that this was what the younger man had in mind.

He nodded. “You’re not wrong. At the Hanlin Academy, Lord Ren asked me for a jar not long ago—offered to trade his best lamb wine for it, too. I refused, but it shows something. His palate is as sharp as any courtier’s, and even he wanted more. That speaks for the flavor.”

Hearing that, Xiao Yuanbao’s heart filled with delight.

He told Qi Beinan about his plan to gather ingredients.

“What do you think?” he asked eagerly. “It may not be a grand enterprise like your past ventures, but even a few small coins coming in are better than none at all.”

Qi Beinan thought for a moment, then said, “Pickled vegetables are a common food—every household can make and afford them—but no two recipes taste the same. And when it comes to taste, yours leaves little to be improved.”

“Next comes the matter of price,” Qi Beinan said. “As I’ve said before, pickled vegetables are common fare, not a rarity. If you’re going to sell them, the price can’t be too high. What makes ours different from others’ is the use of those fine mushrooms—but since they’re grown at home and cost us nothing, our expenses stay low, which gives us an edge.”

He looked at Xiao Yuanbao. “With both taste and price in our favor, as long as you don’t mind running a humble business, it’s a sound one.”

Xiao Yuanbao’s heart leapt at his agreement—he was already full of plans.

The very next day, he took Wen Ge’er and Hongtang out to buy enough ingredients to fill half an iron cauldron.

They boiled water to soak the dried bamboo shoots and smoked mushrooms.

He minced pork, ground ginger and garlic to paste, and crushed star anise and peppercorns into powder.

Preparing all that took the whole day.

This time, besides minced pork, he bought a free-range chicken, intending to make another version—shredded chicken with oil and pickled sauce.

By the next morning, all the ingredients were ready.

Wearing his apron, Xiao Yuanbao followed the proportions he had worked out in his head: snow cabbage as the base, equal parts bamboo shoots and mushrooms, and a smaller share of minced meat to stir-fry.

He heated a wok with clear oil, frying scallions and coriander until golden, then scooped them out.

The minced pork went in next, sizzling as its aroma filled the room.

After a quick stir-fry, he added the mushrooms, bamboo shoots, and snow cabbage in order, seasoning and tasting as he went.

In the past, his batches were small—he knew by instinct how much seasoning to add—but this time, with a full pot, he made sure the flavor stayed balanced by tasting constantly.

Everyone helping in the kitchen was dazed by the smell.

It was rich and homey, yet mouthwatering. Just a small dish of it, they thought, could make one eat three bowls of rice.

By the time Qi Beinan came home, the big pot had cooled, and Xiao Yuanbao was spooning the pickles into round-bellied clay jars.

Five neat rows lined the wooden shelf against the wall.

Qi Beinan lifted a lid; even cold, the glossy pickles still gave off their fragrance.

The jars were small enough for one hand to hold most of the way around.

“The scent seems a little different from before?” he asked.

“You’ve got quite a nose,” Xiao Yuanbao said, smiling. “This time I used chicken for a new flavor.”

“Wen Ge’er and Hongtang both said it was good. You try and tell me which you like better.”

He placed two small dishes in front of Qi Beinan, one of each kind.

“Because these are made with dried bamboo shoots and mushrooms, the taste has a subtle difference.”

Qi Beinan had eaten already and wasn’t hungry, but once he tried them, he couldn’t stop. The minced pork version was hearty, the bamboo crisp; the shredded chicken one was lighter and more fragrant.

Both were excellent—if food could taste good even when one wasn’t hungry, it meant it was truly well made.

“It’s hard to say which is better,” he said. “Each has its own charm—it just depends on what one prefers. But having multiple flavors is always better than just one.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Xiao Yuanbao said. “If these sell well, I’ll make another with cured pork and fermented beans.”

Still, he didn’t rush to make too many varieties—if they didn’t sell, it would be a waste. They could eat them at home, of course, but there was no need to hoard jars upon jars.

That night, they discussed the business plan. The pickles didn’t need a proper shop—just a stall in the marketplace.

Pickled vegetables weren’t like tea leaves, silk, or ginseng—they didn’t need fancy storefronts to attract customers. A simple stand was enough.

And since the price was modest, too elegant a stall might actually drive common buyers away. Only the wealthy paid high prices for everyday foods.

In the capital’s bustling market, stalls were far from shabby—some sold exotic creatures and rare goods. Sometimes, the quality at a street stall even surpassed that of an established shop.

Many well-off people enjoyed shopping the markets themselves.

So they decided: rent a stall in the main outer-city market by day, and if sales went well, take one in the night market too.

After asking around, they learned a stall cost 180 copper coins per month.

The market was lively, but the price was steep—nearly what it cost to rent a small back-alley shop in the county.

After some haggling, they secured one for 150 coins a month.

Now that Xiao Yuanbao was an official’s spouse, it wouldn’t do for him to appear publicly shouting to sell pickles—if the wrong eyes saw, gossip would follow.

So he had Qin Jiang find a talkative helper to mind the stall.

Qi Beinan tested applicants carefully. He gave each a sample jar to taste and asked them to come back the next day with a sales pitch. The one who could describe the flavor best would get the job.

By early morning, the main market street outside the city was coming alive.

After breakfast, Xiao Yuanbao and Qi Beinan lingered at home for a while, then around mid-morning—when the market was at its busiest—they went out to see how the pickles were selling.

The two rode out by carriage. Though the winter roads were slick with ice, it did little to dampen people’s enthusiasm for shopping and strolling.

In a city as vast as the capital, there was never a quiet day.

The carriage moved in fits and starts through the crowded streets until they finally reached the outer market.

Getting down, they slipped into a nearby teahouse, climbed to the second floor, and leaned over the balcony. From there, they could see their pickle stall across the street, clearly visible in the flow of people.

It was a modest stand covered with an oilcloth canopy, a signboard hanging in front with the bold words: “Xiangdangdang Pickled Delicacies.”

Rows of jars were stacked on tiered wooden racks—nothing especially striking among the long stretch of market stalls.

But the man minding the stall was quick-tongued and lively.

With a bamboo clapper in one hand, he chanted a catchy rhyme:

“Pickles so fine, pickles so strong,
Want the best pickles? Xiangdangdang!”

“There’s meat, there’s veg, there’s broth so nice,
Fragrant and rich, worth every price!”

All the while, his free hand beckoned passersby closer.

“What’s so special about your pickles?” one onlooker called out.

“Wouldn’t dare boast,” the man said, grinning. “But my pickles taste so good, you’ll think you’ve eaten the food of immortals!”

As he spoke, he opened a jar for them to see.

“Smell that—doesn’t it make your mouth water?”

“Smells wonderful,” the customer admitted, eyes lighting up. “Can I try a bite?”

“How could I not let you?” the seller replied. “We sell food here—it’d be a shame if fine folks like you didn’t taste for yourselves.”

He tore a bit of thin flatbread, dabbed it in the pickles, and handed it over. “Just try it—you’ll be hooked where you stand.”

The man took the bite, and everyone watching leaned in.

After chewing, the customer slapped his thigh. “You weren’t lying—this is good stuff. Worthy of your signboard! How much for a jar?”

“Thirty copper coins a jar,” the seller said smoothly. “Two jars for fifty-five. You just tried the minced pork flavor—take another with shredded chicken, they pair well.”

The man paid on the spot and left with two jars in hand.

At once, a bystander muttered, “Thirty coins for a jar of pickles? That’s outrageous! The Seven Flavors shop sells bigger jars for twenty-five—and yours are smaller! That man was probably your shill!”

“By heaven and earth, madam, you wrong me!” the seller protested loudly. “I swear before the magistrate, I don’t know that gentleman at all!”

He tore another piece of flatbread, scooped up some pickles, and held it out for her to see. “Look here, madam—this isn’t just any pickle. See what’s in it—mushrooms, dried bamboo shoots, snow cabbage, real meat! That’s mushroom you’re smelling—go find me another stall in this market that dares use such fine ingredients!”

The woman frowned skeptically but took the offered bite.

Her eyes lit up after chewing. “There really are mushrooms in this!”

“Would I lie to you, madam?” the man said with mock dignity. “Still think that other customer was my accomplice?”

The woman chuckled, embarrassed. “Good lad, my old eyes just didn’t know quality when I saw it. Be kind now—give me a better price, eh? I’ll take a jar home for the New Year and tell everyone how good your pickles are.”

“It’s not that I won’t give you a deal, madam,” the man said, smiling. “But you’ve got a keen eye—you know this price is already low. If I cut any more, I’d be selling at a loss.”

The woman huffed, clearly reluctant but tempted all the same. The aroma was too much to resist.

Finally, grumbling, she took out a handkerchief, untied a string of coins, and handed them over. “You’re a stingy one, boy—but fine, you win.”

“Come again if you liked it,” he said cheerfully, pretending not to hear her muttering. He passed her the jar tied neatly with straw twine.

From their seat above, Xiao Yuanbao and Qi Beinan watched with fascination. Their tea had long gone cold, untouched.

Xiao Yuanbao couldn’t hide his grin. “The people in this capital really are clever. Look at that clerk—rhymes, clappers, and all. He’s got a full act going.”

Qi Beinan smiled. “The city’s prosperous. Folks here have to be sharp to make a living.”

He added, “And don’t forget—we’re paying him over a whole string of cash. If he didn’t have the skill, we’d be the ones losing money.”

Xiao Yuanbao nodded, still amused.

The business seemed to be off to a good start. He barely needed to lift a finger—he just had to make the pickles, and everything else, from buying ingredients to selling, was handled for him.

It all seemed easy enough, though he knew costs were adding up, and real profit might not be much.

Before he could dwell on that, a messenger came by noon from the stall: the pickles were nearly sold out. If they couldn’t restock soon, they’d have to close early for the day.

When Xiao Yuanbao heard the message, he felt both delighted and anxious.

That morning, they had sent forty jars to the stall—yet in just a few hours, nearly all were gone. At this rate, by day’s end they might sell a hundred jars of pickles.

But he had only made a little over a hundred jars in total. If they sent everything at once, there’d be nothing left to sell tomorrow.

So he decided to send just twenty more jars for now and told the clerk to close up once those were gone.

Meanwhile, he called the servants to hurry out and buy more spices, dried bamboo shoots, snow cabbage, and jars. The dried shoots and mushrooms had to be soaked tonight so they could start a new batch of pickles in the morning.

Qi Beinan watched as Xiao Yuanbao gave his orders efficiently, busying himself around the house. He looked no less occupied than Qi Beinan himself was at work.

When everything was arranged, Xiao Yuanbao turned and caught sight of Qi Beinan leaning against the study doorframe, half-hidden and silent.

He frowned. “Why are you spying on me?”

“Boss Xiao, prosperous across the four seas, wealth pouring in from every direction—this humble man can only stand in awe,” Qi Beinan said solemnly.

Xiao Yuanbao pursed his lips, immediately realizing he was being teased.

With his hands on his hips and chin raised, he replied proudly, “In honor of your admiration, when Boss Xiao becomes rich, he’ll build you a golden house.”

Qi Beinan chuckled, reached out, and pulled him close, closing the study door behind them.

“A golden house, hmm? To hide your beloved in?”

Xiao Yuanbao pressed his lips together, thinking bitterly that he could never earn enough to build such a house—and besides, his brother wasn’t exactly a fragile beauty to be hidden away.

Qi Beinan saw his silence and lightly pinched his cold, reddened ear.

Xiao Yuanbao, fearing he’d go further and kiss his ear again, quickly covered both ears with his hands.

“What’s this?” Qi Beinan asked, laughing at the sight.

“Cold,” Xiao Yuanbao muttered.

Qi Beinan looked down at those round eyes gazing up at him—like a startled little rabbit.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, then bent down to kiss the tip of the little rabbit’s nose.

It was cool and soft, like a grape freshly dipped in well water.

“Still cold?” Qi Beinan asked gently, watching his blushing face.

Xiao Yuanbao thought to himself, this man really is terrible.

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