The soy milk boiled over the fire, thick bubbles rising and bursting, the warm, familiar scent slowly filling …
The soy milk boiled over the fire, thick bubbles rising and bursting, the warm, familiar scent slowly filling the room.
At thirty, Hu Sanli glanced over his shoulder. His wife and son slept in the side chamber. As a child, he could only fall asleep to the sound of his father making tofu. Now it was his son, drifting off to the rhythm of the millstone.
He skimmed the foam from the surface. Now for the hardest part. He climbed onto the stove and threw his entire weight onto the frame, squeezing the milk from the dregs. Since switching to the water-powered mill brought down from Mohist Hill, grinding time had been cut to a fraction. If he hurried a little more, pushed a little harder, maybe he could still finish four batches tonight.
When dawn came, and today's tofu was sold, he might even have time left over. Time to sit with his wife. Time to look at his son.