11 Green Rice Dumplings

At the entrance of the Imperial Academy, few students remained; the lively bustle had dispersed, and many stall owners were slouching about without much purpose.

Hang Yao shook his head slightly. He was surprised that a mere few words from a student had influenced him. Even if the dining hall's food was unappetizing, these snack stalls did not look any more appealing.

He decided to return to the dining hall for a simple bowl of plain noodles. Just as this thought crossed his mind, his attention was caught by a red paper sign ahead.

Staring at the bold five characters "Wen’s Handmade Pancakes," his brows furrowed increasingly.

The calligraphy lacked proper starting strokes, transitional strokes, and finishing strokes; the characters were rounded and soft, with no sharp edges, each roughly the same size vertically and horizontally, giving a plump, rounded appearance.

Who dared to use such handwriting to advertise? This stall must have been deceived.

Hang Yao strolled over casually.

Wen Zhongxia had just tidied up the counter and, seeing another customer approaching, quickly put on a smile. “Honored guest, would you like to buy a handmade pancake?”

After standing under the sun for half a day, her fair cheeks were slightly flushed, and her bright, watery eyes shone vividly.

Hang Yao originally intended to advise them to find a better calligrapher, but the words changed as he spoke: “Do you have white steamed buns with meat?”

“Sorry, honored guest, the meat-stuffed buns are sold out.” As expected, people loved meat; once offered, they were received enthusiastically.

“We still have handmade pancakes, with side dishes too, and they taste very good.”

“Then I’ll have one,” Hang Yao said, pointing to the ceramic basin, choosing shredded potatoes and tofu skin as side dishes, requesting no chili.

Wen Zhongxia skillfully cooked the pancake, stealing a glance at him.

Not for any other reason than that the student looked handsome and refined, tall and slender, very pleasing to the eye.

However, he wore a cyan cross-collared long robe rather than the students’ uniform.

Wen Zhongxia thought perhaps the Imperial Academy did not strictly require uniforms.

Hang Yao cleared his throat awkwardly, unaccustomed to a woman openly scrutinizing a stranger like this.

He resigned himself to the thought that she probably lacked education and did not understand the principle of “do not look inappropriately.”

He took copper coins from his pouch, wondering where to place the money.

“Honored guest, just give the money to me,” Wen Mengdong appeared from behind the counter, holding a money box.

Xu Xiu had gone to empty the waste water bucket, so Wen Mengdong had temporarily taken over the cashier duties.

Bending slightly, Hang Yao looked down at the small figure. “Do you know how to count money?”

“Yes,” Wen Mengdong replied, looking at Wen Zhongxia, his small voice soft and sweet, “I’ve already memorized the multiplication table, Sister taught me.”

The little one was always curious about arithmetic tricks; Wen Zhongxia had started teaching him the basic multiplication table. He learned quickly and now recited it fluently.

Hang Yao was somewhat surprised; it seemed she had received some education after all.

Wen Mengdong took the copper coins Hang Yao gave him, counting carefully one by one to confirm there were eleven coins before putting them into the box.

The pancake was ready just then. Wen Zhongxia, guessing no other students would come by soon, was especially generous with the side dishes, wrapping them thickly in oil paper.

Hang Yao took the pancake, thanked her, and turned to leave.

Wen Zhongxia found it odd; this customer seemed hesitant, as if wanting to say something but holding back.

Perhaps ancient students bore heavy academic pressure, hence their furrowed brows.

Hang Yao carried the pancake back to his study room. He was not truly hungry and set it aside at a corner of his desk.

On the desk lay a stack of books and a pile of students’ essays, awaiting his correction.

He lifted his robe to sit down, picked up his brush, but his gaze lingered on the first line.

The rich, fragrant aroma wafted intermittently, impossible to ignore.

Might as well eat it; leaving it was troublesome.

The pancake was rather thick; holding it with both hands, he was unsure where to start biting.

The study room was empty; unconcerned about appearances, he found a thinner spot and took a bite.

The crispness of the shredded potatoes, the tender smoothness of the tofu skin, and the soft pancake blended perfectly.

The sweet bean sauce looked dark and unappetizing, but its flavor was savory and rich, whetting the appetite.

Each ingredient was ordinary, commonly made in the dining hall, yet never before had they combined to create such a taste.

Before Hang Yao could fully react, he took another big bite.

It seemed slightly better than the dining hall’s fare.

Perhaps it was just the novelty of the first taste; as he prepared to take another bite, a call came from outside.

“Is Scholar Yang here? A student wishes to disturb you.”

The study room door stood open; a student peeked in.

Luckily, Hang Yao’s desk was set inward; without changing expression, he covered the pancake with some books and replied calmly, “Scholar Yang is not here. Please seek him elsewhere.”

The student hurriedly bowed and retreated, scratching his head and muttering that he thought he saw a stain at the corner of Doctor Hang’s mouth.

Surely a misperception; Doctor Hang was the most particular about his appearance at the Imperial Academy.

Hang Yao looked at the pancake in his hand, pursed his lips; he realized he had done the same as Qin Qian earlier.

After a long pause, he took another bite.

A gentleman must not waste even a grain of rice; he would eat this one time.

...

When swallows arrive, new societies form; after pear blossoms fall, Qingming arrives.

Three days remained until Qingming Festival. In the Song Dynasty, Qingming was a significant holiday. Together with the Cold Food Festival, it formed a five-day long holiday.

Students at the Imperial Academy were no exception; most would take advantage of the break to visit family and friends, perform ancestral rites, and enjoy outings.

Wen Zhongxia, a modern-era transplant, keenly understood that every festival was an excellent opportunity for commerce. She had long planned to create a festival-exclusive delicacy before the students’ holiday—green rice balls.

In her previous life, she always made green rice balls around Qingming; they were delicious and popular among fans.

She planned four flavors: two savory and two sweet. The savory fillings were diced bamboo shoots with meat and shepherd’s purse with meat; the sweet ones were classic red bean paste and black sesame paste.

Her favorite was actually salted egg yolk filling—a whole golden salted egg yolk wrapped inside, with a rich, sandy texture. One bite was pure bliss.

Unfortunately, there was no time to prepare salted duck eggs now, but four flavors would suffice.

The savory fillings were simple; the sweet ones required more effort.

Red beans had been soaked overnight, their skins slightly cracked and easily crushed by hand. After cooking, they were mashed into a fine paste and then fried into red bean paste.

“When frying, use low heat and add sugar in several batches. Adjust sweetness to taste,” Wen Zhongxia gently stirred the spatula, the sweet aroma of red bean paste filling the air.

“Adding so much sugar will surely make it delicious,” Xu Xiu swallowed hard. “Luckily, we’ve saved some money; otherwise, where would we afford so much sugar?”

“So we must price these green rice balls reasonably,” Wen Zhongxia added a final handful of sugar to the pot.

The red bean paste was cooked until slightly dry, then set aside.

The black sesame filling was much simpler: roasted sesame seeds ground into powder, mixed with white sugar and pork lard. The pure white lard was key, not only enhancing the aroma of animal fat but also helping the filling bind together.

Wen Zhongxia had bought a large sack of fresh mugwort. Mugwort was a traditional medicinal herb, so it was available in the market.

While washing, Xu Xiu laughed, “In all my life, I’ve only ever used mugwort at the Dragon Boat Festival to ward off evil spirits or to fumigate against insects. I never thought it could be made into food.”

“By the Dragon Boat Festival, mugwort is too old to eat; now is when it’s freshest and most tender. Not eating it would be a waste,” Wen Zhongxia carefully picked out weeds mixed in with the mugwort.

“Dong’er, change the water.”

“All right!”

Aside from the stove, Wen Mengdong eagerly volunteered for every chore. He said laziness would earn him a scolding from Father someday.

Wen Zhongxia deeply agreed with this philosophy, though she had yet to meet her father.

Though small, Wen Mengdong could carry half a small bucket of water from the well, thanks to the strength Wen Zhongxia had helped him build recently.

The little fellow gripped the bucket handle with both hands, body leaning forward, clearly exerting all his strength; his cheeks puffed out.

“Sister, here’s water for you.”

He did not feel tired at all, brimming with enthusiasm.

When boiling the mugwort, a bit of alkaline powder was added to preserve its vibrant green color.

The softened mugwort paste was mixed with prepared glutinous rice flour, both raw and cooked, kneaded into a pale green dough.

Making green rice balls was simple; even little Dong’er could do it.

Pinching off a piece of dough, shaping it into a bowl, rolling the red bean paste into a small ball, placing it inside, then sealing the dough—one green rice ball was completed.

“Sister, I made one!” Wen Mengdong proudly presented his creation.

Wen Zhongxia and Xu Xiu looked down and burst out laughing. They had clearly overestimated his skill; the little rice ball was leaking filling everywhere.

Wen Mengdong blushed in embarrassment.

“No worries, we’ll patch it up. You can eat it yourself after it’s steamed,” Wen Zhongxia said, adding some dough patches to his green rice ball.

The wood-fired stove was powerful; the rice balls steamed quickly.

When the steamer was lifted, a misty cloud of steam infused with a faint fragrance suddenly enveloped their faces.

Each deep green rice ball was round and plump, its surface gleaming slightly—the color truly like jade.

Wen Mengdong immediately bit into his patched red bean green rice ball, blowing hard to cool it, after being burned.

Wen Zhongxia cautioned, “Eat slowly; hot food can easily hurt your throat.”

Obediently, he blew several times before biting again. The rice ball’s skin was soft and glutinous; the red bean paste delicate and sweet, so delicious he widened his eyes and stomped his feet in delight.

Xu Xiu ate the sesame-filled one; the mixture of sesame and lard was molten and rich.

“Wow, it’s oozing oil,” she hurried to catch it with her mouth before it dripped.

“I’ll try the diced bamboo and meat one.”

Bamboo shoots at this season were the most tender. No heavy seasoning was needed; their naturally fresh, crisp texture was enough to delight the palate. Paired with the unique flavor of mugwort, each bite tasted like spring itself.

The three had no other dinner, just several green rice balls, leaving their bellies pleasantly full.

Xu Xiu looked satisfied. “Xia’er, students will definitely love the green rice balls. Tomorrow, we should prepare fewer meat-stuffed buns and handmade pancakes.”

Wen Zhongxia nodded; too many would be hard to manage.

The next day, they arrived even earlier than usual.

Wen Zhongxia covered the old red paper sign on the counter with a new one, reading: “Qingming Festival Limited Green Rice Balls, six coins each.”

The round, plump characters were written by her own hand.