Chapter 38: Planted by Hand the Year My Wife Died

"Oh, Grandpa Feng, it’s been a long time. How have you been?" Chen Zhou greeted him warmly.

Old Man Feng was a stickler for the social customs of the village entrance. Even though he couldn't immediately recall exactly who Chen Zhou was, he responded with equal enthusiasm.

"Look at you, all grown up! You must be married with kids by now, right?"

Chen Zhou nodded. "I’ve settled down. I used to come to your porridge stall all the time when I was little."

"Oh," Old Man Feng mused, "I remember a couple who loved bringing their kid to my stall back then. You were probably the one crawling under the tables."

"That’s it!"

Chen Zhou ran a street stall himself and met so many customers every day that he knew the old man couldn't possibly remember him clearly. They traded anecdotes, piecing together their scattered memories, eventually finding a common wavelength. When Chen Zhou mentioned how much he missed the flavors of the past, Old Man Feng excitedly insisted on taking him to see the old porridge stall.

Chen Zhou wanted to go, of course, but asked politely, "Is it convenient?"

Old Man Feng laughed. "I live alone and love having someone to talk to. Of course it’s convenient."

And so, Chen Zhou hopped on his electric scooter and followed the old man’s mobility scooter. Halfway there, Old Man Feng rolled down his window to chat about the changes over the years.

"After I got too old, my son took over for a few years, but when the village was slated for demolition, he found it too tiring and just gave it up. As for my grandson, it’s even worse. Back in the day, everyone in town had tasted our porridge..."

The two arrived at the Feng Family Porridge Stall. The painted sign was peeling and mottled, though you could still faintly make out the original characters. While it was a "porridge stall," it was nothing like a commercial storefront in the city; it was just a self-built house in the town where the front two rooms were used for business.

Chen Zhou locked his scooter and pulled out the items he had brought in his basket. Seeing this, Old Man Feng quickly said, "You’re just here to chat with an old man; there was no need to buy fruit."

Chen Zhou patted the bag through the plastic. "It’s such a hot day, I figured I’d buy a watermelon."

Old Man Feng offered a few more polite protests before happily accepting the bag and heading to the kitchen. "Make yourself at home, young man."

"Will do, Grandpa."

Old Man Feng cut up the watermelon, and the two began to eat and chat. Chen Zhou steered the conversation toward the porridge and that old earthenware pot.

"Tell me, why was that lean meat and century egg porridge you made so delicious?"

Old Man Feng spat a watermelon seed casually into a flowerbed. "You must mean the cornmeal porridge."

"Right, the corn porridge," Chen Zhou corrected himself, continuing, "Was there some special secret to how you brewed it?"

Old Man Feng wore an expression of "all that is in the past," and said, "Bah, what secret could there be in a run-down porridge stall in the village? It’s just..."

"Wait a moment, Grandpa." Chen Zhou interrupted. A stall that had lasted decades surely had a flavor that had stood the test of time. He pulled out his phone, ready to diligently record the secrets of the Feng Family Porridge Stall. "Grandpa, do you mind if I record this?"

"Recording? Sure, go ahead." Old Man Feng cleared his throat. "Ahem, yes!"

"Our Feng Family Porridge Stall grew out of the old commune canteen. My father started cooking porridge there when he was young, and it has been passed down through three generations. The secret to our porridge, besides the old earthenware pot we’ve used ever since, lies in the method, which emphasizes..."

Old Man Feng enjoyed the respect of a young person, and he genuinely wanted to pass on his family's craft. He detailed the recipes for millet porridge, pumpkin millet porridge, and cornmeal sweet potato porridge with great care. Chen Zhou nodded from time to time, recording every detail.

*I didn't expect to accidentally stumble upon the recipes of a sixty-year-old porridge stall.* It was a pleasant surprise.

Of course, Chen Zhou hadn't forgotten his main purpose. "Grandpa, could I see that earthenware pot you mentioned? Why does the porridge taste different when cooked in it?"

The old man said proudly, "You really can't buy a pot like this on the market anymore. It was made by the last generation of artisans from the Twin Kilns."

When someone mentioned the pot, Old Man Feng couldn't help but recall the past and his late wife. "She used to be in charge of the porridge while I handled the customers. She was always hunched over, working until her back eventually became crooked. But that pot... let me think, where did I put it?"

Chen Zhou pointed to a corner. "Is that it over there?"

Old Man Feng looked at the pickle jar in the corner and shook his head. "No, that’s for pickling vegetables."

That had to be it! Chen Zhou stepped forward. "The one sitting on top of the pickle jar!"

Old Man Feng had a sudden realization. "Oh, my! I’d completely forgotten. You young people sure have sharp eyes."

Chen Zhou smiled. "It seems this is quite precious to you. You really should keep a close watch on it so it doesn't get lost."

Old Man Feng nodded. "I’ve been thinking about moving into an apartment lately. If my grandson comes to help, he’ll probably just toss these old things out."

Grandparents always know their grandchildren best. Chen Zhou, feeling grateful for the recipes, offered, "Whenever you move, I’ll come over and help you carry the pot up."

The old man didn't answer. He gestured with his eyes toward the fruit tree in the courtyard.

*The year my wife passed away, I planted this with my own hands...* Chen Zhou looked at the tree, moved by the old man's deep devotion. "You planted this yourself back then?"

"Heh heh, it hasn't been there that long," Old Man Feng leaned in close to Chen Zhou and whispered, "The government gives you more money for fruit trees when they demolish the place."

Chen Zhou’s hand, still holding the watermelon, froze. *Grandpa, we were talking about your longing for your wife and the sentimental value of your old belongings. How did you suddenly switch to talking about petty gains?*

Chen Zhou was puzzled and couldn't bring himself to ask further. He could only listen as Old Man Feng continued:

"At my age, I just want to avoid burdening my descendants and leave them a bit more money. They think this pot is just in the way; once I'm gone, they'll surely clear it out. I’d rather not make you young ones go through the trouble. My wife suffered a lot with me when she was young; her passing away early just meant she went to enjoy a better life. Eventually, I'll go find her."

Hearing this, Chen Zhou finally understood the old man’s frame of mind. As one ages, the importance of material things fades, leaving only memories of a lost beloved and concern for the children left behind. Chen Zhou felt a heaviness in his heart—after all, he was a father now, too.

He coughed twice. "Grandpa, if I said I wanted to take your pot with me now, would that ruin the mood?"

Old Man Feng replied, "Take it, take it! Take the pickle jar too!"

The pickle jar was too big for Chen Zhou’s small electric scooter, so he could only take the old earthenware pot.

...

Old Man Feng watched Chen Zhou’s retreating back and muttered to himself:

"My memory really is failing. Why can't I remember this young man ever coming here before? That bit about the couple was just something I made up."