Volume One: From Peasant to Official Chapter 14: The Family’s Inherited Skill

The Xie family had always operated this way: for small matters, Xie Gensheng made the decisions; for big ones, it was Wang Cuicui who held sway. Yet, Wang Cuicui always made sure her husband retained his dignity. She would settle the matter, and Xie Gensheng would make the announcement.

“That’s good then. Since it was the teacher’s suggestion, let’s give it a try. This year, soybeans fetch a poor price and won’t bring in much. We’ll set aside half a dou to start; if it works out, it’ll be another way to make money,” Xie Gensheng declared in his naturally quick-tempered way. “The autumn harvest is nearly over, so this afternoon, no one goes to the fields—everyone stays home to make tofu. Doumiao, go fetch some soybeans.”

“Yes, Father!” Doumiao hurried off to the granary, delighted. If they really succeeded in making tofu, it would boost the family’s income, and his son could continue his studies for years to come.

“Grandpa, making tofu can’t be rushed; first we have to soak the beans…” Chuliu explained the process in detail, and only then did Xie Gensheng realize he’d been too hasty. He called Doumiao back, and together they listened to Chuliu’s lesson.

The entire family was filled with curiosity and anticipation as they attempted tofu-making for the first time. Following Chuliu’s instructions, they selected the best soybeans, ground them with a stone mill, and soaked them overnight in clear water.

At dawn the next day, they washed the mill clean and began grinding the soaked beans. This was Doumiao’s job. As the creamy soy milk and bean pulp flowed together into the wooden tub, Zheng Mei’s eyes sparkled—it was just as her son had described.

She swiftly strained the mixture through muslin, separating the soy milk from the pulp. The pulp was set aside; Chuliu had said it could be used to fry fritters or make pancakes. The soy milk was poured into the pot and brought to a vigorous boil, the foam skimmed off. After a brief rest, what remained in the pot was cooked soy milk.

Soon, a delicate yellow skin formed on the surface. Zheng Mei lifted it out with chopsticks to dry—it was, as Chuliu had said, yuba.

By keeping the fire going and letting the milk settle, more yuba could be collected.

The family had brine on hand, which, when dissolved in water, became the essential coagulant for tofu. This was the key.

They removed the yuba, poured the brine into the milky soy liquid, and stirred slowly with a wooden ladle. Once well mixed, they let it stand. The soy milk gradually lost its liquidity, slowly setting into the delicate, silken mass known as douhua.

This curd was then transferred to a mold lined with cloth, covered, a board placed atop, and stones piled on for weight. When the stones were finally removed and the cloth lifted, the sight of fully formed tofu brought the whole family to delighted excitement.

The teacher was a good man. His knowledge not only opened the path to officialdom through the civil service but also taught them to make tofu.

For the first time, the Xie family truly felt the power of learning. From then on, whenever Chuliu taught the children, their enthusiasm was boundless.

That evening, the family’s table was laden with soybean delicacies. Bowls were filled with fresh, fragrant soy milk, smooth and gentle on the tongue. Plates were stacked with golden, tempting tofu cakes—crisp outside, tender within—so delicious the children could hardly stop eating. They even made a tofu and egg soup.

A simple meal, it warmed not just their stomachs but their hearts as well.

Now that they knew they could make tofu, selling it became the next priority. After dinner, Xie Gensheng began planning for the future—buying tools, dividing the work among family members. Once the business was on track, they would carry their wares to nearby villages to sell.

Good days for the Xie family were just around the corner.

Chuliu’s stories were endless. After the tale of “Open Sesame,” a new line became popular among the students: “Master, what is your command? I am your servant, and the servant of the lamp.” The story of Aladdin and the Magic Lamp became their motivation for learning, and soon, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves became a new topic of fascination.

One day after class, snowflakes began to fall from the sky.

In his previous life, Chuliu would have been overjoyed, certain to join his friends in building snowmen, fighting snowball battles, and rolling in the drifts. But now he could find no pleasure in it.

He was cold. He disliked winter most of all now. The family was poor, and the children had few decent winter clothes—oldest wore, then passed down to the youngest. Their hands and feet were soon covered in chilblains, swollen, itchy, and sore.

“Chuliu, the Su clan leader wants to see you.”

Su Dayan stepped into the study. As soon as he spoke, Su Biao immediately asked, “Dayan, didn’t my father call for me?”

“He didn’t say.”

Su Biao grew anxious—not out of jealousy, but from fear that his father would end their study arrangement. Their grades had improved greatly thanks to Chuliu, the class monitor. If… no, he absolutely couldn’t let Chuliu leave the school.

After Chuliu followed Su Dayan out, Su Biao quietly trailed after them.

“Nephew pays his respects to Uncle Su!” Chuliu bowed.

Su Laibao beamed. “Good child, so sensible and polite. My Biao’er owes his progress to you… Here, this is your reward.”

He handed Chuliu a book. Chuliu saw it was The Analects. He accepted respectfully.

“Next term, you’ll be studying the Four Books. Take this and preview it at home…” Su Laibao was still speaking when Su Biao burst in, crying, “Father, you can’t send Chuliu away!”

Su Laibao was taken aback. “Who said I was sending him away?”

Su Biao paused, then blurted, “You’re dismissing him now…”

Su Laibao chuckled, “It’s snowing and far too cold; the students might fall ill. After discussing with the teacher, we decided to give you all a holiday until spring. The private school would be on break soon anyway—a few days early makes no difference.”

So that was it. Realizing his mistake, Su Biao threw himself into his father’s arms. “No matter what, you can’t send Chuliu away, or I won’t go to school either.”

“Nonsense.” Su Laibao lightly pinched his son’s ear, then turned to Chuliu. “I hear you’re good at telling stories. Could you write some of them down?”

“Write them down?” Chuliu exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes!” Su Laibao nodded. “The storytellers at the city teahouses repeat the same tired tales. I think if they told your stories, they’d attract a crowd.”

Su Laibao loved listening to stories at the teahouses in town, but grew bored of the endless chivalric adventures and romantic dramas. His son had been relaying Chuliu’s tales at home, and what started as idle amusement soon revealed a business opportunity. If these new stories were written out and sold to the teahouses, it would surely be profitable.

“Uncle Su, come for the manuscript in five days. I’ll write one for you to see,” Chuliu agreed at once. The Su family had given him so much; this was the perfect way to repay their kindness.

“Father, the stories Chuliu tells are wonderful! If they’re written down, the teahouses will be fighting to perform them…” Su Biao, who had often accompanied his father to listen to storytellers, was overjoyed and couldn’t stop singing Chuliu’s praises.

Chuliu, however, understood that the stories children loved were different from those adults wanted. He would not write about Ali Baba, Aladdin’s Lamp, or Snow White.

He already knew exactly what he would write.