Finally unable to hold back any longer, one day after school, Aunt Gu asked Lin Fang, “Little Teacher, when will the Lin family have a carriage going to town? My eggs are about to spoil.”
“I’m just a child. I don’t know much about family matters,” Lin Fang replied. Even if she knew, she couldn’t say—it might cause panic.
Once Aunt Gu started, others chimed in: “Yes, Little Teacher, my salt has run out. These past few days, I’ve been chopping pickles into our dishes, and my children keep complaining the taste is off.”
“Little Teacher, my husband practices with the master whenever he has free time and can’t come to school. At night, he copies characters from the primer over and over, using up paper so fast we’re almost out. We need to go to town to buy more.”
“Little Teacher, my child isn’t even a month old, and my wife doesn’t have enough milk. My mother has tried all sorts of folk remedies, but they haven’t worked well. She says we need to go to town to get medicine to help with lactation.”
The clamor of voices grew louder and more chaotic.
Lin Fang, surrounded by the crowd, was drenched in sweat. Xian’er, her maid, snapped angrily, “Every family has its own troubles. Are you blaming the Lin family for them? The trip to town takes half a day, and the Lin family has never charged you a single coin for the carriage. Even this school—have any of you paid tuition? Where else would you find a family as generous as the Lins? Don’t be ungrateful.”
Xian’er’s words left the crowd embarrassed, and they dispersed one by one. Lin Fang felt deeply unsettled. In truth, the villagers’ problems were minor. With the Lin family’s wealth, she could solve them all with a single word. But if she did, it would set a precedent, and people would grow accustomed to it. Human nature is inherently greedy. What begins as kindness, if withdrawn later, would make them feel owed.
Returning home, Lin Fang was starving. The heat and her worries had sapped her appetite, leaving her listless. Liu Ma, the family servant, fretted in circles. Just then, Li Gen brought over some watermelons. Qian’er picked a ripe one, washed it, cut it into slices, and brought them to Lin Fang to quench her thirst and stave off hunger for a while.
After eating a slice, Lin Fang asked, “Qian’er, do we have any eggs left?”
“Yes, laid by our hens yesterday. Very fresh. Does the Sixth Miss want some?” Qian’er replied.
Lin Fang didn’t answer but asked instead, “Do we have any stewed chicken?”
Before Qian’er could respond, Liu Ma beamed and hurriedly said, “Yes, yes! This old servant will fetch some for the Sixth Miss right away.”
“Wait, Liu Ma,” Lin Fang stopped her, pointing at the watermelon. “Today, let’s make cold noodles with the watermelon rind.”
“Oh dear, Sixth Miss is teasing this old servant again. How can watermelon rind be eaten?” Liu Ma thought to herself. Usually, the rinds were fed to livestock. No one ate them. The Sixth Miss was getting more mischievous by the day.
Lin Fang snapped, “When have I ever joked about food? If I say it’s edible, it’s edible. If you don’t know how to make it, I’ll teach you.”
The Sixth Miss rarely lost her temper, but today was different. Liu Ma was about to ask what was wrong when Qian’er tugged her sleeve and shook her head subtly, then gestured toward Xian’er. Liu Ma quickly held her tongue. Qian’er and Xian’er were always by the Sixth Miss’s side—Qian’er waiting in the courtyard during lessons, Xian’er right beside her. Something must have happened in class to upset their young mistress.
Ignoring their silent exchange, Lin Fang continued, “Peel the green skin and remove the red flesh from the rind. Slice it thinly, sprinkle with salt, let it sit briefly, then drain the liquid. Shred the chicken breast, make an egg pancake, and slice it into thin strips. Cook the noodles, drain them, and mix them in a bowl with the prepared watermelon rind, shredded chicken, egg strips, oil, salt, and a drizzle of vinegar.”
Leaving Qian’er to attend to Lin Fang, Liu Ma pulled Xian’er aside to prepare the meal. Since her return to service, Liu Ma had taken charge of all Lin Fang’s meals. She asked Xian’er what had happened to upset the young mistress, and Xian’er recounted how the villagers had surrounded Lin Fang with their grievances. Liu Ma was furious, cursing them for their ingratitude.
Following Lin Fang’s instructions, Liu Ma peeled and sliced the watermelon rind. She tentatively tasted a piece—it was grassy and bitter. How could this possibly taste good? But with the young mistress in such a mood, she didn’t dare disobey.
After shredding the chicken and preparing the egg strips, Liu Ma noticed liquid had pooled in the bowl of salted rind. She drained it and tried another piece. To her delight, the grassy taste had faded significantly.
Lin Fang loved noodles. Anticipating her return, Liu Ma had already prepared the dough, and the noodles were freshly rolled by the time Lin Fang entered the courtyard.
Once the noodles were cooked and drained, Liu Ma checked the rind again. More liquid had seeped out. She drained it and tasted it—now crisp and refreshing, with only a hint of sweetness. Even after draining, the rind remained juicy, translucent with white centers and edges tinged red and pale green, like jade.
She mixed the noodles with the rind, chicken, egg strips, oil, salt, and vinegar. The result was stunning—the rind like jade, the chicken creamy white, the egg strips golden, the noodles translucent. Just the sight of it whetted the appetite, and the tangy aroma made mouths water. Liu Ma marveled—their young mistress was truly brilliant.
Beaming, Liu Ma brought the cold noodles to Lin Fang. “Oh, this looks delicious just by appearance! Try it, Miss, and see if it needs more salt or vinegar.”
Lin Fang chuckled at Liu Ma’s expression. She took a bite—the noodles were chewy, the rind crisp, the chicken tender, the egg strips rich. Overall, it was refreshingly tangy and delicious.
“Liu Ma, is there more?”
Though the dish looked appealing, Liu Ma hadn’t been sure if Lin Fang would actually eat it, so she’d only prepared a small portion. After finishing the bowl, Lin Fang felt even hungrier.
“Yes, yes!” Liu Ma was overjoyed that her young mistress had an appetite.
Amused by Liu Ma’s delight, Lin Fang reflected on how people dismissed watermelon rind as useless. In truth, it was just as valuable as the flesh—cooling, thirst-quenching, diuretic, and beneficial for conditions like edema, mouth sores, and even diabetes. It also promoted wound healing and skin renewal.
At lunch, the whole family ate the cold noodles. Li Cuimei asked Lin Fang if the dish had a name. Lin Fang, who had improvised the recipe based on something she’d seen online in her past life (though she’d never actually made it herself), glanced at the dish and blurted, “Jade Chicken Noodles.”
Her father, Da Lang, burst out laughing. He could tell she’d made up the name on the spot, but it fit—the rind like jade, paired with chicken and egg strips, served over noodles. His restaurant now had a new summer dish.
After her nap, Lin Fang had devised a solution. She discussed it with her parents, who thought it over and agreed.
The next day, a spare room by the fishery was converted into a makeshift general store, stocked with daily necessities like oil, salt, vinegar, needles, and thread. Writing paper and charcoal pencils for the school were also sold. The store would buy villagers’ goods, paying based on quality.
A notice on the wall announced: “Daily, the Lin family will provide a dedicated carriage to Bai Shui Town, departing at dawn. Round-trip fare is 50 wen per person. One may charter the entire carriage or split the cost with others. Maximum capacity: five passengers excluding the driver.”
“Passengers with goods: If sharing the carriage, small items are allowed. Over 60 jin counts as one person; over 120 jin counts as two; over 200 jin requires a separate charter, priced by cargo. Bulky items also require separate charters.”
“Additional rule: Those going to town must register the day before—number of passengers, goods to be taken (size and weight), and expected return load.”
The store was a boon for the villagers, who were few and frugal. Zhou Yu could manage the shop alone, sparing them trips to town. But the carriage fee caused an uproar—even split five ways, 10 wen per person was steep. For villagers who’d only recently escaped poverty, 10 wen could buy 20 meat buns—a significant expense.
When pressed for reasons, someone mentioned the incident at school. The crowd fell silent.
Xian’er had been right. In other villages, the cheapest tuition was two taels a year—half a year’s expenses for many. The poor stayed illiterate because they couldn’t afford it.
As for the carriage fee: the journey to town was long, requiring an early start and a rushed return. The Lin family’s horses and carriages were top-quality, built for mountain roads, and the drivers were skilled. Even so, the trip took until noon. Ordinary carriages would arrive after dark.
Elsewhere, 50 wen per person for such a trip wouldn’t be excessive. The Lin family charged only 10 wen—barely covering the horses’ feed, let alone the drivers’ wages and meals. Riding for free had been a privilege.
The Lin family was transparent: the store and carriage fees were Lin Fang’s idea, and she’d drafted the rules. Some sneered privately—spoiled rich girl, clueless about prices, charging so little it might as well be free. She’d ruin the family fortune.
But the perceptive realized: the Little Teacher was truly angry.
Others worried she’d start charging tuition. They quietly asked Granny Lan, who, though disgusted, kept her composure and relayed Lin Fang’s stance: basic literacy lessons remained free, but advanced studies would require payment. The villagers pondered this.
The day before, Lin Fang had told her parents about the incident. Expecting her to be upset, they’d tried to comfort her, but she’d remained calm, even lecturing them on human greed and habit. Their daughter’s maturity surprised them. The villagers’ reaction was no shock.
The carriage service also served the Lin family. The clothing workshop had stockpiled goods, and the town’s tailor shops were likely running low. Custom orders from the knitting workshop were ready, and delays risked losing business. The newly harvested grain also needed transporting to make room for autumn’s crop.
Da Lang didn’t need to personally escort every shipment, but this one was special.
Moreover, hiding from the Shangguan family’s harassment wasn’t sustainable. Trouble would come eventually, and avoidance only left them blind and isolated.
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