Second Grandmother taught Lin Xia medicine, and Lin Fang also wanted to learn. Unfortunately, after two years, she could recite the “Tangtou Ge” (a traditional Chinese medical rhyme) backward with remarkable speed and fluency—thanks to her extraordinary memory from her past life. However, when it came to identifying and distinguishing herbs, apart from a few common ones, she was utterly clueless. Second Grandmother concluded that Lin Fang lacked not only talent but also the potential to improve through hard work. So, she only taught her to recognize a few emergency herbs for self-protection, like “swelling flower,” “itchy grass,” and “numbing leaf”—though with the warning to use them carefully to avoid harming herself.
“Fang’er, don’t be too stubborn about anything. Go with the flow, and you’ll find true happiness.”
“Old monk, I’m not close enough to you for your nagging.”
“Alright, alright, you’re not close to this old monk—only to his food. Today, I made the ‘five-colored tofu’ you mentioned. Would Fang’er like to try it with me?”
“Five-colored tofu?! Hahaha! Old monk, carry me back quickly! Fang’er hasn’t had it in ages!”
And so, an old foodie carried a little foodie on his back, sprinting away until they vanished from sight. The two maids left behind by Lin Fang knew their young mistress would be fine, but they still hurried after them. By the time they reached Huiyuan’s meditation courtyard, the old and young pair were already busy with their culinary adventure.
On the cutting board lay tofu in red, green, purple, yellow, and pink. Huiyuan chopped the tofu while tending to the fire. Once the pan was hot, the tofu had been cut into large cubes. He added oil to the pan, took the clumsily peeled green onion from Lin Fang, quickly finished peeling it, rinsed it, and sliced it. By then, the oil was hot enough. Using chopsticks, he scooped a lump of fermented bean paste from a jar, dropped it into the oil, and swiftly stirred it, releasing an intoxicating aroma.
The bean paste couldn’t be fried for too long, or it would turn into bitter black bits, ruining both the flavor and texture. After a few quick stirs, Huiyuan tossed in the sliced onions. Lin Fang wiped her teary eyes (from peeling the onion) while sniffing eagerly, practically drooling from the mouthwatering scent.
Once the onions were fragrant, the five-colored tofu went into the pan. Huiyuan gently flipped it with a spatula to ensure even coloring and heating—but not too vigorously, lest it turn into mush. As he stirred, he added salt and five-spice powder. The seasonings were simple, preserving the tofu’s pure taste. Those who liked spice could add chili paste, but Lin Fang would never let Huiyuan add any—she didn’t know if he had already figured out she couldn’t handle spice, but she wasn’t about to reveal that weakness.
The recipe for five-colored tofu was something Lin Fang had found online in her past life—her ex-husband had loved it.
Back then, during their honeymoon phase, Lin Fang, who rarely cooked, had wanted to make dishes her partner enjoyed. Wasn’t there a saying? *To win someone’s heart, first win their stomach.* Unfortunately, her attempts failed due to inexperience. Her then-husband had tenderly kissed her scalded hands and swore that whether she could cook or not, he would cherish her forever. At the time, she had been so moved she would’ve died for him.
Heh. In the end, she *did* die by his hand—while he, far from cherishing her, had wished for her early demise.
Like traditional tofu, colored tofu is made from soybeans. The difference lies in the addition of natural vegetable and fruit juices, which create vibrant hues while retaining nutrients and dietary fiber, making it easier to digest. The basic process is similar to regular tofu, with the key step being the incorporation of vegetable juices.
Lin Fang knew the theory but not the practice. Huiyuan, however, had plenty of time for experimentation. The two foodies were a perfect match.
“Done! Qian’er, bring a big bowl for the tofu and set four bowls and chopsticks on the stone table under the tree. Time to eat!”
“Got it!”
Qian’er and Xian’er were Lin Fang’s maids, bought two years ago—one fourteen, the other ten. Both were sharp-witted and unusually strong for their age, personally selected by Li Cuimei, trained in self-defense by Dalang, and meticulously groomed by Granny Liu to keep up with their restless young mistress, whose tiny feet didn’t stop her from running everywhere. The names were Lin Fang’s doing—she spent her days fiddling with yarn and knitting, so she named the two orphaned maids “Qian’er” (Needle) and “Xian’er” (Thread).
Of course, the Lin family’s treasured sixth daughter wouldn’t go out with just two maids. Servants had escorted her up the mountain, only leaving after seeing her safely with Huiyuan. When it was time to return, Huiyuan would personally see her back down.
Huiyuan was an eccentric—he loved lively meals. Whenever Lin children were present, he insisted everyone, master or servant, sit together and eat in a spirited scramble. His call for four sets of utensils signaled an impending free-for-all. Lin Fang and her maids eagerly took their seats, chopsticks at the ready, poised to strike the moment the tofu arrived.
“Here we go—”
The large bowl landed on the table. Lin Fang hesitated, reluctant to take the first bite. The five-colored tofu, now coated in sauce, somehow looked even brighter than before. Scattered white-and-green onion slices added to the visual feast. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply—the rich aroma of fermented beans and onions made her mouth water.
“Haha, what’s the hold-up? If you wait too long, it’ll cool and lose flavor. If you won’t eat, this old monk won’t hold back!”
“Not a chance! Qian’er, Xian’er—attack!”
At her command, four pairs of chopsticks flew into action. Lin Fang, uncoordinated, kept dropping tofu back into the bowl or onto the table and floor. The more she rushed, the more she fumbled—half of what she grabbed never made it to her mouth. By the time the bowl was empty, her surroundings were a mess.
“*Burp*—so good! The tofu’s tender yet springy, with a hint of fruit and veggie sweetness, savory and delicious. Cui’s Restaurant has a new dish!”
Shamelessly ignoring the chaos around her, Lin Fang let Xian’er clean up the evidence—scooping fallen tofu into a bowl and wiping the table—while she delivered her verdict.
The first part pleased Huiyuan, his round face beaming with pride, as if stamped with *”I’m amazing!”* But her last sentence made him grimace.
“Fang’er, this time, can we *not* say it was my invention?”
Lin Fang was a true foodie. Aside from period dramas, she loved cooking shows, and her memory was freakishly good. Though she couldn’t cook herself, she never forgot recipes or ingredients. Over the past three years, Huiyuan had often coaxed recipes out of her—usually by promising to satisfy her cravings. But there was a condition: once perfected, the dish had to be taught to Li Cuihong.
Li Cuihong’s restaurant business had boomed, expanding to two more branches in three years—one in Liangping Town’s center, the other in Jile Town—thanks in part to regular menu updates.
Five-colored tofu, being novel and made with this world’s pristine, untainted produce (far superior to the pesticide-laden stuff of Lin Fang’s past life), was sure to sell well. Li Cuihong had a natural gift—every recipe Huiyuan passed on, she’d adapt into multiple variations. No wonder her business thrived.
But there was a catch: Lin Fang insisted the recipes be credited to Huiyuan alone. If anyone knew she was the source, she’d stop sharing. This left Huiyuan torn—he loved experimenting, but as a monk, he’d sought peace. Instead, thanks to his “innovations,” his quiet days were long gone.
Sometimes, he considered wandering off again—just to escape Lin Fang’s meddling.
But at sixty, he wasn’t keen on roaming. Besides… *heh*… he couldn’t resist the endless stream of delicious ideas.
“That’s your problem—work it out with Aunt Hong.” Lin Fang shrugged.
“Such a slippery one. Fine, we’ll say Cuihong came up with it.” (Another busy stretch for Li Cuihong.)
“Fang’er, your family’s shop has new knitwear. You owe this old monk a set.” Huiyuan still felt shortchanged.
“Pfft—HAHAHAHA! Old monk, HAHAHA—”
The mental image was too much: a bald, rotund monk in a hole-riddled knit robe, wielding a fire poker in one hand and a spatula in the other. Lin Fang barely kept from spitting out her tofu.
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