Shen Miao verified her “official travel permit” at the yamen guard post at Jin Ferry, settled accounts with the boat master, and had the porters carry her two large wooden trunks into the cabin she had booked.
After tipping them two copper coins, she finally sat down inside the cabin and let out a sigh of relief.
Traveling in ancient times was truly no easy feat.
Her so-called “official travel permit” could be understood as an identification document, which had cost her an entire string of cash to bribe a litigation master into pulling strings at the yamen to get it expedited.
Without this document, ordinary commoners wouldn’t be allowed to travel—whether at river crossings, county gates, or city entrances, inspections were mandatory.
Failure to present it could land one in prison!
Leaving aside the miscellaneous expenses—purchasing food for the journey, renting a donkey cart, hiring a driver and porters—the boat ticket alone was already shockingly expensive.
She had chosen to travel on an official grain transport ship, which carried passengers on its return trip after unloading grain.
Although pricier, it was safer, with far fewer ruffians and scoundrels lurking around.
For Shen Miao, traveling alone meant safety was the top priority.
The boat fare from Jinling to Bianjing cost 200 wen, and the water journey would take more than half a month.
Naturally, she opted for a private cabin for better comfort, which cost an additional 100 wen.
There was also a luggage storage fee of 40 wen.
She would still need to eat and wash on the boat.
Most ancient travelers brought their own provisions, so Shen Miao followed suit, ignoring Granny Rong’s scolding, and went to the market before dawn to stock up on supplies: enough flatbreads for ten days, wheat grains for five days, and vegetables and meat for a day.
She also packed a small earthenware jar filled with oil, salt, soy sauce, and vinegar.
But if she wanted to boil water, warm up her bread, or cook porridge, she’d have to borrow the boat master’s stove, which meant extra fees for water and firewood…
No wonder ancient people said, “A poor family, but a rich journey”—traveling was expensive!
Luckily, the 100-wen cabin was worth it—it was spacious and well-lit, and included one free pot of hot water and a small basket of black charcoal daily.
Shen Miao dusted off the slightly moldy wooden bed, spread out her own bedding, then rummaged through her camphor wood chest.
She pulled out a plump, round eggplant, a parcel of pork belly marinated in oil and salt, and scooped out half a bowl of rice, soaking it in warm water in preparation for cooking.
Today marked a new beginning for both her past self and her present self, so Shen Miao decided to celebrate—she planned to borrow a stove from the ship’s kitchen and make herself a bowl of minced pork and eggplant over rice!
The ship was filled with all sorts of people, so she put on her veil hat, bent down to duck out of her cabin, carefully locked the door, and made her way down the narrow wooden staircase to the lower deck.
Passing by two large communal sleeping quarters, she walked toward the stern of the ship, where the boiler room was located.
The place was crowded with passengers fetching water, the hot steam and smoke mixing with various smells, making it stuffy and suffocating.
The boiler room wasn’t large, and people pushed and jostled as they moved around.
A shipworker stood beside the boiling water vat, shouting loudly:
“Freshly boiled, piping hot water! Only three wen per ladle! Cool, refreshing Yangtze River water—just one wen per ladle! Alright, three wen for you, next!”
Shen Miao was caught in the crowd, pushed forward uncontrollably.
Just then, a plump woman behind her shoved her, causing her to stumble forward and accidentally step on the fabric shoe of a tall young man standing slightly ahead to the side.
The young man looked about fifteen or sixteen years old, wearing a simple yet elegant blue robe, which somehow made him appear as steadfast as a pine tree.
He winced in pain at the sudden step on his foot and turned around, revealing a face that, despite being slightly contorted in discomfort, was still remarkably handsome and refined.
His cloth shoes were brand new, and the white socks peeking out from the edges were spotless—now, however, they had a very noticeable footprint on them.
Feeling quite embarrassed, Shen Miao immediately bowed her head and apologized:
“Young master, please don’t take offense. It’s crowded here, and it truly wasn’t intentional.”
The young man glanced at her briefly, then quickly averted his gaze, stepped aside, and waved a hand dismissively:
“It’s fine. I was lost in thought and not paying attention. It’s not your fault, madam.”
He was rather good-tempered, even taking the blame upon himself.
Seeing this, Shen Miao’s eyes curved into a smile, and she slightly bowed in return.
The young man, flustered, waved his hand again in a hurry, then turned away and walked forward quickly, as if trying to escape.
After much difficulty, Shen Miao finally squeezed through the crowd and managed to pay a deposit to rent a double-burner red clay stove.
The boatman tied a grass rope around it, making it easier for her to carry.
As she walked out of the boiler room, she glanced back and saw that the young scholar had also purchased a pot of hot water before leaving.
Back in her cabin, Shen Miao let out a long sigh of relief and rolled up her sleeves to start cooking.
The cabin only had a small window, and when she lit the black charcoal, it quickly filled the room with thick smoke.
Worried about carbon monoxide poisoning, she grunted and hauled the stove to the doorway.
This deck was reserved for single-occupancy cabins, located just below the main deck, making them the best accommodations on the grain ship.
There were about seven or eight rooms in a row, and each doorway was occupied—some, like her, were using stoves to cook, while others had servants, who had laid out straw mats and thin blankets to sleep by the door.
As she stepped out, many eyes turned toward her—after all, she was a young, delicate woman traveling alone.
Although dressed modestly and disguised as a married woman, she was still an unusual sight.
She ignored the stares and returned inside to fetch a kitchen knife.
When she reappeared, holding a sharp blade and casually spinning it between her fingers, the watchful gazes quickly withdrew.
This knife was something she had purchased a few days ago on her way to hire the litigation master.
As a chef, she simply could not live without a good knife.
Shen Miao wasn’t overly picky about knives, but she had specific standards for blade shape, material, handle, and sharpening technique.
Her father used to say:
“A good knife can accompany a chef for a lifetime.”
However, Song Dynasty iron working techniques were far inferior to those of later generations, so she had visited multiple knife shops at the market before settling on this one.
By the Song Dynasty, the shape of kitchen knives was already quite similar to modern Chinese cleavers.
Shen Miao, a fan of Chinese-style knives, firmly believed that if she ever had to flee for her life with just one blade, it would definitely be a Chinese cleaver—
“Front for slicing, back for chopping, middle for cutting”—good for self-defense, excellent for slicing meat and bones, and even useful for crushing garlic.
Even with a thicker cleaver, she could easily slice a two-centimeter block of tofu into twenty thin sheets.
She could even prepare the delicate “Wensi Tofu” dish, let alone fillet raw fish.
A true chef had no need to carry a whole set of knives.
As for why her wicked mother-in-law had finally let her go—it wasn’t out of kindness.
After the litigation master forced Madam Rong to return her dowry, the woman had been furious and plotting revenge.
Shen Miao had anticipated this, so she had sat in the courtyard, sharpening her knife and chopping meat while flashing a sinister grin at Madam Rong.
The rhythmic thud, thud, thud of her chopping had been enough to scare Madam Rong into thinking she’d gone mad—so much so that she shrank back into her room for an entire day, too terrified to step outside.
In truth, Shen Miao simply enjoyed sharpening her knife.
She had always believed that tools had a spirit—only by carefully honing and sharpening a blade with her own hands could she fully make it her own.
Of course, this was a luxury only the wealthy could afford.
Given her current financial situation, even buying this barely passable cleaver had required gritting her teeth.
The knife had cost a staggering eighty wen, making it the best laminated steel blade she could find in the knife shops.
Even as her mind wandered, her hands never stopped moving.
Crouching at the cabin doorway, she spread out a thin cutting board and, with swift, precise motions, chopped the pale, plump eggplant into neat segments.
She then placed them into a clay pot to steam over her small stove, while cooking rice on the second burner.
Before long, the fragrant aroma of steaming rice and eggplant filled the air.
For Shen Miao, food was meant to fill the stomach, not to be admired for its appearance.
Unlike a good kitchen knife, which was a “valuable fixed asset,” she had no hesitation in buying the cheaper white eggplants.
While the eggplants steamed, she chopped some scallions and garlic, then mixed a sauce using oil, salt, and soy sauce.
The Song Dynasty didn’t have chili peppers, but Song people loved spicy flavors.
Back then, spiciness was referred to as “xīn” flavor rather than “là”.
Recalling the original owner’s memories, before setting out, Shen Miao had racked her brain to create a Song-style spicy pickle.
She had finely minced ginger, garlic, and leeks, ground them into a paste, and added pepper, salt, and water to ferment the mixture.
Now, she scooped out a small spoonful and mixed it into the sauce to replace chili peppers as a flavor enhancer.
Her movements were swift and practiced. In no time, the steamed eggplants were set aside to cool, and she heated a spoonful of oil in a clay pot.
As soon as she stir-fried the scallions, a satisfying sizzle filled the air, followed by the rich aroma of hot oil.
She then added the minced pork, stirring vigorously.
The fragrance of the meat and scallion oil spread through the air, and Shen Miao, generous with her oil, continued stir-frying while adding the sauce.
Next, she tossed in the softened eggplant and minced garlic, letting them absorb the flavors, and finally, sprinkled fresh scallions before taking it off the heat.
Just as the eggplant dish was ready, the rice in the other clay pot had finished cooking.
Unlike the rice of later generations, she wasn’t eating polished white rice, but instead, a mix of millet and panicled millet, which was cheaper.
Before steaming, she had lightly crushed the grains with a bowl bottom, so they would cook faster.
She poured the savory, fragrant minced pork eggplant dish—sauce and all—over the steaming hot rice, then mixed it with a wooden spoon.
The presentation was ruined, but the aroma intensified!
Each grain of rice was coated in thick, flavorful sauce, infused with the essence of meat and eggplant.
She took a bite—not bad.
Even with limited ingredients, her cooking skills hadn’t declined.
Just as she was about to enjoy her meal, she looked up—only to realize that the corridor outside was filled with people craning their necks, silently staring at her.
At the door of the neighboring cabin, a round, chubby little pageboy—about six or seven years old with his hair tied in two “zǒng jiǎo” loops—stood frozen in place, eyes fixed on her clay pot, swallowing hungrily.
The other onlookers weren’t much better off, their eyes practically glowing green with envy.
In modern times, this was just an ordinary home-cooked dish.
But to servants who barely got to eat meat, this was a rare delicacy.
In the narrow corridor, the aroma lingered, making everyone’s throats tighten.
Sensing the situation, Shen Miao immediately clutched her bowl and retreated into her room.
She quickly dragged her stove inside, then locked the door with a wary hand on her knife.
She wasn’t rich and was traveling alone—it was best not to show too much kindness.
Inside her cabin, she hurriedly finished her meal, then peeked out to check that the hallway had cleared before heading downstairs to the boiler room to fetch water and wash her dishes.
She wasn’t returning the stove anytime soon—she still had many meals to cook on this long journey.
But next time, she’d keep it simple.
She had little confidence in ancient security.
Though the Song Dynasty was wealthy, and there were few truly impoverished people aboard an expensive grain ship, she was still a woman traveling alone—caution was never a mistake.
After cleaning up, Shen Miao was about to rest with her knife under her pillow when a hesitant knock sounded at her door.
She grabbed her knife and slid back the door latch slightly, opening a tiny crack to peek outside.
Standing at her door was none other than the chubby little pageboy, who had been drooling over her meal earlier.
Seeing her looking at him, the round-faced boy clutched his clothes nervously and flashed her a fawning smile.
Shen Miao did not open the door, but she asked politely:
“Little one, what brings you here?”
The pageboy bowed respectfully in an overly formal manner, imitating an adult:
“Pardon my intrusion. My name is Yan Shu, and I live next door.”
He then dug into his pockets and pulled out twenty copper coins, offering them to Shen Miao with both hands as he earnestly pleaded:
“Lady, your cooking smelled amazing just now. If you have time, could you make a meal for my young master tonight?”
As soon as he finished speaking, his stomach let out a loud growl, making his plea all the more pitiful.