Chapter 14: Kontou Tofu

The morning light seeped into the room through the window, and when Fan Jing woke, he realized it was already late.

He rubbed his temples, aware he had overslept.

The house was quiet, making the chirping of birds and insects outside sound even clearer.

Fan Jing glanced at Kang He’s small bed; the bedding was neatly folded in a corner, but Kang He was nowhere to be seen.

He got up, opened the wooden door, and the scent of orchids drifted into his nose.

Outside, there was still no sign of Kang He.

Fan Jing’s brow twitched, a fleeting thought crossing his mind that Kang He might have run off.

But he quickly dismissed the idea when he saw that Kang He had left breakfast for him in the pot on the stove.

Three yams brought from home, each the size of a fist, were cooked until soft and mushy.

He picked one up; it was only slightly warm.

Sitting by the stove, Fan Jing peeled and ate the yams, noticing some leftover bamboo segments still smoldering in the fire.

His brows furrowed.

In the mountains, he slept lightly, waking at the slightest rustle.

Yet last night, he slept as deeply as he would in the village, unaware of when Kang He had gotten up to light the fire and cook the yams.

Of course, he didn’t know that Kang He had put the yams in the pot the previous night.

Kang He had gone to bed late, and with the fire still burning in the stove, the yams hadn’t cooled by morning.

But Fan Jing had woken much later than usual, so the yams were no longer hot.

When Kang He had risen early, the yams were still steaming.

After eating, Fan Jing prepared to head out.

He had just locked the door when he spotted a figure with a bamboo basket on their back coming from the woods toward the house.

Seeing the figure, Fan Jing, who rarely initiated conversation, spoke up.

“Where did you go?”

“I figured out the path to and from here, following the route you took me on yesterday. I wandered around a bit nearby,” Kang He said.

His shoes and pant legs were soaked through with morning dew, but he seemed cheerful.

“I dug up some wild vegetables and gathered some mountain goods.”

He swung the basket off his back to show Fan Jing.

“Take a look.”

Fan Jing reopened the door, and the two went into the courtyard together.

Kang He’s basket was stuffed with a chaotic assortment of items, brimming to the top.

At the top were fresh wild vegetables: water celery, shepherd’s purse, dandelions, bidens, and purslane.

They filled half a winnowing basket.

Below were some fibrous strips of palm bark.

This bark could be used to make brooms, mats, raincoats, or ropes—items that sold well in the city.

But a single palm tree didn’t yield much bark, and they grew scattered across the mountains.

Fan Jing, focused on hunting, never went out of his way to collect it.

When he came across it while roaming the mountains, he’d peel some if he had time.

Fan Jing saw that Kang He had brought back seven or eight pieces of palm bark.

Beneath the bark, at the bottom of the basket, were two large konjac roots, weighing at least ten pounds each.

After going out with Fan Jing the previous day, Kang He had seen how hard it was to catch game in the mountains and quickly abandoned the idea of making money through hunting like Fan Jing.

Setting traps was easy to learn, but it relied on luck.

True skill lay in archery.

Fan Jing, with his injured hand, couldn’t use a bow and had come back empty-handed yesterday.

Kang He didn’t know archery, and relying solely on traps to catch game would take forever to save up money.

It wasn’t that he was in a rush to leave or desperate to save quickly.

But a person needed to eat every day, and daily expenses required money.

If one path didn’t work, you just took another.

“Is this worth anything?”

Kang He held up the knobby konjac root and asked Fan Jing.

“A dozen or so coins,” Fan Jing said.

“For two.”

“So heavy, and it’s only worth that little?”

Kang He knew ordinary vegetables and fruits weren’t worth much, but he hadn’t expected the price to be so low.

“Yams from the fields can be boiled and eaten, and they only fetch a few coins a basket in the market. Konjac is poisonous throughout and needs special processing, so it’s naturally cheaper,” Fan Jing explained, glancing at Kang He.

He thought Kang He’s mind was a bit off—sometimes sharp, sometimes not.

The day they went up the mountain, Kang He’s accent was odd, but after a trip to the county, it had normalized somewhat.

Hearing Fan Jing call konjac “konjac root,” Kang He took note and asked, “How much is processed konjac worth?”

“Konjac tofu is three coins per square.”

When Kang He went to the city to sell mountain goods, he occasionally saw people selling konjac tofu, shouting this price.

He’d also heard Chen mention that konjac tofu, when cooked with oil, tasted as good as meat, urging him to buy a square in the city.

But he figured any dish cooked with oil would taste good.

It wasn’t a big request, so he usually agreed.

But when he went to buy it, he often couldn’t find anyone selling it, so he’d never tried it himself.

Kang He quickly calculated in his head: one pound of konjac could yield three to five pounds of konjac tofu.

His two konjac roots could produce at least twenty pounds of tofu.

A square was about a pound, worth three coins, so he could make sixty or seventy coins.

“Making konjac tofu is much more profitable,” Kang He thought.

Unless it was something rare and valuable, raw materials didn’t fetch much.

To make real money, you needed some skill.

Fan Jing looked skeptical.

“You know how to make it?”

Kang He smiled, not boasting, and said, “You’ll see later.”

He took some dry grass to burn into ash, setting it aside to cool.

That afternoon, Kang He went with Fan Jing to check traps in the mountains.

In the evening, he turned the konjac into tofu.

Making konjac tofu wasn’t hard.

First, clean and peel the konjac, grind the flesh into a paste, mix it with the right amount of alkaline water, and let it sit overnight.

Lacking proper alkaline water, Kang He used ash water instead.

He cut off the konjac’s sprouts, which could be planted to grow new konjac the next year, like yams or potatoes—though there were no potatoes yet, only yams.

Fan Jing, with nothing else to do, helped Kang He grind the konjac into paste.

The two large roots, over ten pounds, took effort to grind.

It didn’t tire him out, but it made his left hand itch so badly he couldn’t sleep for half the night.

The next day, Fan Jing stood by the basin, quietly inspecting the konjac paste from the previous night.

Overnight, the basin of paste had set into shape.

Grayish and soft, yet springy.

With ash water, it had turned into tofu.

Kang He leaned over, pressed it with his hand, and felt it was about right.

He poured in some water, soaked it briefly, and cut it into squares.

He picked one up and shook it—it wasn’t too soft to fall apart or too firm to be porous.

He was satisfied.

The trick to konjac tofu was the water ratio.

He used one pound of konjac to three pounds of water.

Since it was his first time using ash water, he couldn’t control the amount perfectly, and the alkaline taste was slightly strong.

Konjac tofu didn’t keep long.

It was fine for personal use, but for selling, it had to be fresh.

Kang He kept one square at home.

Seeing Fan Jing return with some banana leaves, he rinsed them quickly, packed them into the basket, and asked, “You sure you don’t want to come to the city with me?”

Fan Jing sat by the stove, tossing a piece of firewood into it, and grunted.

Kang He didn’t press further.

Fan Jing hadn’t caught anything in days, so there was no point in going to the city.

“I’ll buy some food when I come back. With your arm injured, don’t go roaming the mountains alone.”

Fan Jing glanced at Kang He.

“I know my limits.”

Seeing this, Kang He said no more and headed down the mountain.

By the time he reached the county, the city was already bustling.

Farmers with stalls had taken the good spots, and the better goods were half sold out.

Kang He wanted to find someone selling konjac tofu to check the market, but he didn’t see anyone selling it and couldn’t ask around.

He spent three coins to rent a scale from a general store.

Then, he quickly found an empty spot and set up his stall.

He’d sell the konjac tofu at the price Fan Jing mentioned.

Spreading a hemp cloth on the ground, he took out the konjac tofu from his basket and started shouting to sell, not the least bit shy.

“Young man, how much for your konjac tofu?”

“Three coins a square, ma’am, weighed on the scale.”

Kang He saw an old woman approach after hearing his calls.

Her gray hair was adorned with a peach blossom hairpin, showing she still cared about her appearance despite her age.

He avoided calling her “granny,” choosing a more flattering term.

The old woman stood taller at being called “ma’am,” clearly pleased.

“My daughter and son-in-law are coming over for dinner today. Pick me a good square—I’ll stew it with duck.”

“You sure know how to eat, ma’am. Konjac tofu with duck is as delicious as it gets. Your son-in-law might not want to leave after tasting it.”

Kang He swiftly weighed the konjac tofu.

Since the hand-cut piece was slightly short, he added some scraps to make up the weight and wrapped it in banana leaves.

The old woman, not wealthy, was delighted to get a little extra.

As she paid and left, she said loudly, “This konjac tofu is so tender!”

With the first sale made and no other konjac tofu vendors around, city folk with some money, tired of the usual market vegetables, were drawn to something fresh.

Konjac tofu wasn’t sold every day, so people who hadn’t planned to buy came to look.

Kang He was a good talker, and soon half his stock was sold.

Then an old man with yellowed teeth came, speaking in a thick local dialect.

Kang He couldn’t understand him and tried speaking in standard Mandarin, but the old man seemed not to understand either.

Annoyed, the old man scolded Kang He for several minutes and spat on the ground by the stall.

A young vendor nearby, unable to stand it, intervened.

The old man cursed in dialect, “Such a shady character—probably someone’s lover, out here selling rotten vegetable scraps to seduce men.”

The young vendor’s face flushed with anger.

“If you keep slandering me like that in the street, we’ll let the patrol officers settle this!”

Hearing about the patrol, the old man grumbled and left.

“Thanks,” Kang He said.

Though he didn’t understand their words, he could tell the young vendor had helped him.

Seeing the old man leave, he quickly expressed his gratitude.

“You’re an outsider?” the young vendor asked.

Kang He nodded.

“I haven’t been here long and don’t know the local dialect.”

“No wonder you couldn’t understand that old man,” the young vendor said.

“He thought you were refusing to speak the dialect on purpose, acting superior. Don’t take these unreasonable folks to heart. Maybe he got cheated somewhere else and took it out on us stall vendors.”

Kang He thanked the young vendor again, realizing his oversight.

Living in the mountains with Fan Jing, who spoke standard Mandarin to accommodate him, he’d forgotten that many in the county spoke the local dialect.

If he hadn’t been lazy and had learned from Fan Jing, he might have picked up some of it.

He moved his stall slightly and covered the old man’s spit with some sand.

That old man was truly crude.

By noon, Kang He had sold most of his konjac tofu, with only two small scraps left.

He wrapped them and gave them to the young vendor who had helped him.

After packing up, he returned the scale, reclaiming his deposit.

Counting his earnings, he’d made sixty-three coins from the konjac tofu.

It was indeed much more than selling raw konjac—his efforts hadn’t been wasted.