Observation No. 75: Never place hot soup within her reach. Observation No. 160: Milk must be processed into pa…
Observation No. 75: Never place hot soup within her reach.
Observation No. 160: Milk must be processed into pastries; served raw, it triggers gastric rebellion.
Observation No. 310: Cucumbers and scallions are rejected. However, via strategic deception, they may occasionally be smuggled past her palate.
...
Grand Artisan Gull sighed; such chronicles already spanned twelve full volumes.
Mechanics and cuisines follow diagrams and recipes, but for the rearing of a child, no such schematics exist.
When a mechanism malfunctions, a firm thwack or a complete teardown usually sets things right. If the hearth-fire falters, one merely endures undercooked rice or charred cakes. A stomachache for a day or two, and life goes on.
But a child allows for no such sloppiness. No one taught him the precise meters of a hug, nor at what age spoon-feeding ought to cease.
Was there ever a mechanism more vexing than this? Grand Artisan Gull was unconvinced. After a lifetime of deciphering sacred Mohist Texts and forging complex wonders, could he truly be bested by a single, picky waif?
Consequently, the workshop, once cluttered with gears and axles, became a hoard of bizarre and exotic ingredients.
And thus, the Grand Artisan of the Mohist Hill embarked upon the journey of no return: the study of ancient gastronomy.
Research, after all, was his forte. Once the data was codified, surely raising a child would be as systematic as any other craft.
"By then," he thought with a swell of pride, "none in Mohist City shall surpass my mastery of fatherhood." And with that, he plunged back into his scrolls.
...And yet, the child had refused to grow according to the dictates of his books. Her palate shifted, and her temper proved just as fickle. She had even mastered the art of outmaneuvering her father, employing stratagems within stratagems, and diversions of the most subtle kind...Yet, watching Xiaoxiao wield a rice paddle longer than her own arm, expertly flipping the fish in the pan, a surge of pride, relief, and humble contrition rose within him... a flavor that no culinary scroll under heaven had ever dared to record.
Grand Artisan Gull resolved to commit this to his journals, for this was a nascent recipe that no soul had yet composed. Perhaps all it required was a measure of time, a constant presence, and a pinch of patient grace. Then, those nameless, nebulous emotions would bloom naturally from the child, quietly intertwining themselves within the father's heart.