With nothing else to do on the ship, Shen Miao worried about her dwindling funds.
The journey was all expenses, no income, and she still had to support the original owner’s younger siblings in Bianjing.
She couldn’t afford to run out of money.
Now that an opportunity to earn had appeared, she was tempted.
She questioned the pageboy further.
Though Yan Shu seemed clever, he was simple-minded and soon revealed everything about his young master, “Jiu Ge’er.”
“We’re going to Chenzhou to visit relatives. We’ll disembark tomorrow!”
“My Jiu Ge’er is from Bianjing! Do you know Kaibao Temple? The Imperial Academy is next to it!
He passed the entrance exam young and was admitted to Biyong Academy last year—ranked first! Now he’s an upper-class student!”
Yan Shu puffed out his chest proudly, as if he had taken the exams himself.
A scholar?
Shen Miao’s heart stirred.
In the Song Dynasty, sons were often called “Ge’er” with birth order as a distinction.
This “Jiu Ge’er” must be his young master, likely not yet of age.
The Imperial Academy was as prestigious as Tsinghua or Peking University today.
From the original owner’s memories, admission was strictly for high-ranking officials’ sons.
Her neighbor was young but had a promising future.
As long as they were from a decent family, it was fine.
Besides, they were disembarking tomorrow, so earning money for just one meal with no further entanglements was ideal.
Shen Miao felt reassured.
Moreover, if this “Jiu Ge’er” had raised his pageboy to be well-fed and innocent, it suggested his family was wealthy and well-mannered, making it likely that he was a good-natured person.
After a moment of thought, Shen Miao agreed.
She opened the door, calculated the meal cost with Yan Shu, and asked about the ingredients they had and what they wanted to eat.
Hearing that they had a good supply of finely milled wheat flour, she smiled and suggested:
“I have some dried shiitake mushrooms and cured pork. How about a bowl of wheat noodles in mushroom meat sauce for your young master? If time allows, I can also make a basket of mushroom-stuffed steamed buns.”
Yan Shu had originally hoped for another serving of that fragrant eggplant rice, but remembering his young master’s somber mood, he realized that hot soup and soft buns would be more comforting.
He immediately agreed and quickly returned to his room, bringing back a cloth bag filled with wheat flour for Shen Miao.
“Many thanks, lady. I leave it in your care.”
He gave a formal bow before taking his leave.
Closing the door, Shen Miao weighed the ten copper coins of advance payment in her palm, then looked down at the small bag of fine, snow-white wheat flour.
She thought happily, “This is great! Not only did I earn money, but I also saved some of my own food supplies!”
She had bargained with Yan Shu, reducing her labor fee by five wen in exchange for making three bowls instead of two, so she could have a share as well.
It wasn’t about being cheap—in the Song Dynasty, wheat flour was a luxury.
Unlike in later generations, where flour was readily available, Song Dynasty wheat had to be sifted dozens of times to refine it.
A dou (about 10 liters) of wheat flour cost 30 wen, making it affordable only to officials and wealthy scholars.
Since arriving in this world, Shen Miao had lived on coarse grains.
Under Madam Rong’s torment, she had survived on nothing but dry, choking-hard biscuits in the firewood room.
Even after escaping that misery, she had avoided using fine rice and wheat to save money, but she longed for the smooth, springy texture of noodles.
Since Yan Shu had provided the costly wheat flour, Shen Miao decided to use her own mushrooms, vegetables, and pork, only charging for firewood, water, and her labor.
The total price for three bowls was 50 wen, with 10 wen paid upfront.
Such generosity from the little pageboy made Shen Miao eager to put her best skills to work.
There was still plenty of time, so she could prepare the meal slowly and carefully.
She decided to skip her nap and pulled out two coarse cloth armbands from her chest, tying up her sleeves before starting on the noodles and sauce.
This “Mushroom Meat Sauce Stewed Noodles” was essentially what later generations would call braised wheat noodles with mushroom meat sauce.
It wasn’t particularly complicated, but kneading and resting the dough took time, as did soaking mushrooms and simmering the meat sauce.
Speaking of mushrooms, the Song Dynasty was economically prosperous, and its people lived in stability and comfort.
Mushroom cultivation was widespread—in Jinling, almost every household had a small patch of land for growing mushrooms in their courtyards.
Before leaving, Shen Miao had harvested all the mushrooms from the small mushroom plot behind Madam Rong’s house, which had been carefully tended by the original owner.
Not a single one was left behind for that wretched old woman!
Mushrooms were most commonly used for making stuffed buns in this era.
At this time, buns were called “long bing”, which were actually more like stuffed buns of later generations—round and filled.
The true “mantou” of the Song Dynasty was actually “steamed bread”, which was often strip-shaped, much like what Wu Dalang sold in folklore.
Thus, mushroom-stuffed buns were essentially mushroom pork buns.
These were so popular in the Song Dynasty that even the famous food critic Su Shi (Su Dongpo) once traveled a great distance just to eat them. Afterward, he was so impressed that he even wrote a review in his poetry:
“These mushroom pork buns are absolutely amazing!”
Shen Miao decided to first prepare the meat sauce for the stewed noodles.
Stewed noodles were a Henan specialty, and their essence lay in the rich broth.
If she were back in modern times, she would have used top-quality lamb and bones, simmering for at least five hours to make the broth milky-white and rich as cream.
She would then stretch the dough into wide, thin noodles, blanch some vegetables, drizzle chili oil, and serve it with pickled garlic—a flavor so savory it could make one’s eyebrows curl.
But right now, she had neither the ingredients nor the time.
Still, using mushroom meat sauce to stew the noodles had its own unique flavor.
Although pork was cheap, she didn’t want to let it sit too long and spoil.
Since she had already used some for lunch, she decided to use up the rest.
With quick hands, she separated the fatty pork from the lean.
The fatty pieces were set aside, while the lean meat was diced into tiny cubes, about the size of soybeans.
She soaked the dried mushrooms in warm water from the boiler room, then set a clay pot on her small stove and rendered pork fat from the fatty cuts, frying them until they shrank into crispy pork cracklings.
These cracklings were saved for later, as they would be perfect for stuffing the buns.
Next, she added the diced lean pork, stir-frying slowly until it changed color.
Cooking with a clay pot was tricky—it stuck easily.
But Shen Miao, well-versed in kitchen work, flipped the meat rapidly with chopsticks, letting it develop a slight caramelized char, which only deepened the flavor.
She then added the rehydrated mushrooms, diced finely, and continued stir-frying.
Next came the seasonings—scallions, garlic, star anise, followed by a spoonful of her homemade pickled ginger-chili paste, releasing a sharp, spicy aroma.
She then poured in soy sauce, aged vinegar, salt, and Sichuan peppercorns.
Ideally, she should have added black pepper, but pepper was a rare luxury in the Song Dynasty.
One jin of pepper cost several strings of cash, and a single bag of it could be exchanged for a bolt of silk.
Someone like her, a commoner, had no way to buy it.
So she used Sichuan peppercorns as a substitute.
The flavor was not quite the same, but Shen Miao had a trick up her sleeve—adding doubanjiang (fermented chili bean paste).
When she had bought her kitchen knife, she had discovered a sauce shop selling doubanjiang.
Surprised at how advanced Song Dynasty condiments were, she had sampled it, found it quite decent, and bought a small jar.
Now was the perfect time to use it—one heaping spoonful went into the pot, giving the mushroom meat sauce its soul.
Finally, she added two ladles of mushroom soaking water to enhance the umami depth.
She wiped the sweat from her forehead and, using tongs, carefully adjusted the burning charcoal, lowering the heat.
She then added a touch of sugar and sesame seeds, letting the sauce slowly simmer until it turned thick, glossy, and deep reddish-brown.
The aroma—rich, savory, and complex—filled the cabin.
It was no different from the flavors of modern times.
The rich aroma made Shen Miao’s mouth water—it smelled absolutely delicious!
While the meat sauce simmered, she began kneading the dough.
Kneading dough was a skill in itself.
But Shen Miao had learned it at five years old.
While other kids practiced piano and dance, she was learning to slice tofu and knead dough.
By the time she was seven or eight, her parents stopped cooking entirely, leaving her to handle all three daily meals.
By middle school, she was even in charge of New Year’s Eve dinner.
For stewed noodles, the dough had to be mixed with warm water.
Water was added gradually as the flour was worked into a crumbly texture, then quickly kneaded into a smooth, elastic dough.
This step was critical—if kneading took too long, the heat from her hands would accelerate fermentation, ruining the texture.
She also added a pinch of salt—the secret to making the noodles chewy and firm.
After kneading, she covered the dough with a damp cloth and let it rest for 15-30 minutes.
Then, she rolled it into long strips and cut them into wide, two-finger-thick noodles.
Once the noodles were ready, she took a sip of water, rested briefly, and prepared the vegetables.
She had brought a head of white cabbage, which was actually the ancestor of modern napa cabbage.
It was said that this variety was developed in Yangzhou during the Tang Dynasty, described as:
“Leaves round and large, crisp and tender, with no fibrous residue, can be grown all year round, and is excellent for pickling.”
Since then, it had become a household favorite.
Interestingly, Shen Miao’s childhood nickname was “Song Song.”
Her mother had eaten spicy kimchi right before going into labor, and her father had jokingly suggested naming her “Spicy Cabbage.”
Her mother had beaten him up for it, but in the end, they still picked a name inspired by cabbage.
Besides cabbage, she had brought radishes, spinach, cucumbers, and coriander—half of her two travel chests were filled with food.
Though these were common vegetables, there was a saying:
“A winter snowfall fattens the wheat, while spring rain makes vegetables cheap.”
Spring vegetables were fresh and affordable, and with the cool weather, they could last a few days at room temperature.
Still, Shen Miao hadn’t bought too much—since the grain ship docked at ports along the way, she could buy more when needed.
She sliced half a radish into thin strips—spring radishes were crisp and sweet.
She also prepared shredded cabbage and cucumber, and chopped coriander, leaving it on a plate for optional garnish.
After all, the debate over cilantro had been raging for centuries—some loved it, some despised it.
With everything prepped, the “Mushroom Meat Sauce Stewed Noodles” was nearly ready.
Since she still had extra time, Shen Miao started making mushroom-stuffed buns.
She had saved some mushrooms and pork, mixed in chopped crispy pork cracklings, creating a fragrant filling.
She wrapped three buns, placed them on chopsticks over the clay pot, and steamed them.
By the time they were done, night had fallen.
She washed the pot, boiled water, blanched the vegetables and noodles, then added the mushroom meat sauce and its rich broth.
A sprinkle of scallions, and it was done.
She eagerly took a bite—the chewy noodles had soaked up the thick, savory broth, filling her mouth with layers of umami.
Perfect—no mistakes.
She plated her own bowl, wrapped the mushroom buns in oil paper, and carried the clay pot to the next cabin.
When she arrived, only Yan Shu was inside.
The room was similar to hers, but scattered with old, tattered books—likely belonging to “Jiu Ge’er.”
Shen Miao didn’t step inside.
She placed the food down, collected the rest of the payment, then smiled at Yan Shu:
“You and your young master should eat while it’s hot, or the noodles will turn soggy.”
With that, she left.
Yan Shu had already smelled the delicious aroma drifting from the neighboring cabin.
Now, he stared blankly at the steaming clay pot, circling it like a hungry cat, sniffing it over and over.
He was so entranced by the smell that he barely remembered to swallow his saliva.
He anxiously glanced toward the door—
His young master had gone to the latrine.
Why wasn’t he back yet?!
Just then, the door creaked open.
A young scholar in a simple blue robe entered, his expression distant and distracted.
On his feet, he wore a pair of plain cloth shoes—
One of them still had a faint, half-smudged footprint on it.