Chapter 34: Selling fans

After the bustle, life inevitably returns to quiet simplicity, with mundane days being the majority.

At the end of the first lunar month, Father Fan had already taken his hoe to the fields to loosen the soil, leaving early and returning late each day.

Once the weather warmed, it would be time to sow seeds for spring planting.

The family had slaughtered the New Year’s pig, leaving the pen empty.

Chen Shi went to a neighbor’s house and bought two piglets to raise, hoping they’d grow into something promising by year’s end.

The two female rabbits in the hutch were getting noticeably pregnant, their bellies growing day by day.

The chickens and ducks at home were numerous, consuming a fair amount of grain daily.

Chen Shi was already considering selling a couple in town, but they were laying eggs—four chicken eggs and three duck eggs a day, totaling seven.

The family could now afford to eat eggs freely, and even so, they still had plenty saved up.

Eating eggs and duck eggs was delightful, and the two girls were thrilled.

But there was one annoyance: with so many poultry, they littered the yard with droppings, making everything filthy.

The two girls were responsible for sweeping.

They’d clean the yard before heading out in the morning, only to return with a basket of grass to find it covered in droppings again.

It was a never-ending task.

Frustrated, Qiao’er drove all the chickens and ducks out of the yard, letting them roam outside.

Seeing this, Kang He gathered some wood and expanded the poultry shed in front of the house.

With Fan Jing’s help, he tidied up the backyard, fencing off an area for the poultry to eat and rest.

This way, the chickens and ducks wouldn’t run into the front yard or the house, leaving droppings everywhere for the girls to clean.

Cleaning a designated area periodically was far better than constantly shoveling manure behind them.

Chen Shi thought it was a good solution and became even less inclined to sell the poultry.

One day, while Chen Shi was at the edge of the yard, she used a small stick to poke through the soil in a broken pottery jar.

She noticed that the taro roots she had planted earlier were starting to sprout.

Pleased, she sought out Kang He and asked, “You mentioned before about clearing a plot to grow taro. Does that still hold?”

“Of course it does,” Kang He replied, seeing that Chen Shi was still thinking about it.

He hadn’t just been joking when he brought it up earlier; he’d given it serious thought, though he hadn’t yet worked out the details.

The several baskets of taro they’d brought back from the mountains had been sold at a good price by the end of the year.

Chen Sanfang, now more honest, reported to Fan Jing and Kang He that she’d earned nearly five hundred coins selling taro tofu.

Kang He did a quick calculation and confirmed it was about right, appreciating her sincerity.

He and Fan Jing didn’t take the money back, letting her continue managing the household expenses.

Having tasted the profits from selling taro tofu, Chen Shi was eager to continue the business.

But after Kang He mentioned it once, he hadn’t brought it up again.

Seeing the taro sprouting in the pots and frames, she grew anxious.

However, she didn’t dare make a decision rashly.

The Fan family only had a few acres of land, tightly allocated for vegetables and grains, so opening up a plot for taro wasn’t a light decision.

That night, the family discussed the matter.

Father Fan sat cross-legged on a bamboo couch, sipping the last of the rice wine left on the table, and said, “If we don’t plant grain on one acre and switch to something else, we’d pay taxes in money instead of grain. One acre requires five hundred coins a year. I heard from the village head that the rate is the same as last year.”

Paying taxes in money had its benefits: if the harvest was good, you’d only pay the fixed tax amount for that acre.

But the downside was that if there was a natural disaster and the crops failed, there’d be no tax relief—you’d still owe the same amount.

Paying taxes in grain, on the other hand, meant giving up thirty percent of the harvest, with the pros and cons reversed.

Some people tried to game the system, waiting until the autumn harvest to decide whether to pay in money or grain based on the yield.

Father Fan might have done this in his youth, but the court later changed the law, requiring the decision to be made at spring planting.

Before sowing, the village head would come to record who’d pay in money or grain, and taxes would be collected accordingly in autumn.

Some still bribed the village head to bend the rules, but for a family like theirs, such leniency was unlikely.

Kang He understood Father Fan’s concerns.

They’d never grown taro before, and if it didn’t grow well, they might not only fail to cover the taxes but also lose an acre’s worth of grain, leaving the family short on food.

Even if they succeeded, the market was unpredictable—who knew if the taro would sell well?

The Fan family’s resources were thin, and they couldn’t afford to take risks lightly.

Still, Kang He believed that without taking risks, they’d be stuck farming a few meager acres in poverty forever.

“Father, you’re an elder in the village and know how other households live. The successful ones plan carefully and work hard. They have people willing to take chances.”

“There’s no such thing as a guaranteed profit. If there were, it wouldn’t fall to families like ours. Only by taking risks can we break free from hardship. We could keep foraging for taro in the mountains, which wouldn’t take up our land, but wild goods are unreliable—one day you find them, the next you don’t. To make steady money, growing them at home is the safest bet.”

Chen Shi took his words to heart.

Even in her home village, there was a Li family who’d been dirt-poor, with two brothers sharing a single pair of good pants.

Desperate, one brother risked everything, borrowed money, and started a peddler’s business.

Against the odds, he succeeded, paying off debts even during years of heavy conscription, avoiding the battlefield.

Without taking that risk, they’d still be destitute.

Father Fan listened for a long time, his heart softening.

He glanced at Fan Jing, who remained silent, likely in agreement.

After a pause, he said, “Let’s give it a try. This year, we’ll open half an acre to test it. If it fails, we’ll tighten our belts next year—it won’t come to starving.”

With Father Fan’s approval, the family was overjoyed, and the matter was settled.

In the following days, Chen Shi worked diligently, joining Father Fan in the fields daily.

Kang He checked on them a few times and saw Father Fan loosening soil in a plot near some peach trees in the south.

Fan Shoulin explained he wasn’t reluctant to use good land.

Though he’d never grown taro, it was similar to yams, which he knew well.

Yams didn’t tolerate waterlogging; their roots, buried in the soil, would rot if soaked too long, and taro was likely the same.

This spot, on a slight slope, drained well.

Unlike yams, which loved sunlight, taro grew well in the mountains, preferring shade.

Planting it near peach trees in a semi-shaded environment, with trees providing fallen leaves as natural fertilizer, mimicked its mountain habitat.

As for other details, he’d learn through trial and error.

“Father, you’re truly skilled at farming,” Kang He said earnestly, impressed by his knowledge.

Father Fan took a sip from his water pouch and chuckled, “I’m no good at much else, but I know a thing or two about farming. With just a few acres, if I didn’t put my heart into it, how could we feed the family?”

Though Fan Jing supplemented the household income, the family rarely bought extra grain in recent years.

Father Fan’s careful farming on their few acres, after paying taxes, provided enough for the family to eat, raise pigs, and keep poultry.

In good years, they could sell surplus for money.

Even in famine years, their yield was better than most.

Villagers often sought Father Fan’s advice on when to sow and how to plant.

Without much to boast about, he didn’t care for drinking with others—what was there to talk about over wine?

But no matter his skill, their limited land couldn’t compare to families with twenty or thirty acres.

Knowing Father Fan’s expertise, Kang He felt more confident about the fields.

As the weather warmed and snow on the mountains began to melt, he and Fan Jing planned to head back into the mountains soon.

Before that, Kang He brought out the dried powder they’d prepared before the New Year, intending to make vermicelli.

From hundreds of pounds of roots, they’d extracted eighteen pounds of kudzu powder and twelve pounds of fern powder—meager yields, even in autumn and winter when roots were richest.

They’d given some to relatives during the New Year, leaving fifteen pounds of kudzu powder and eleven of fern powder, the latter too precious to give away lightly.

Kang He prepared a perforated gourd ladle, a cold water basin, and bamboo poles.

Making vermicelli was tedious.

He mixed kudzu powder with cold water into a paste, about one pound of powder to five pounds of water, then slowly poured it into boiling water, stirring until it turned translucent and set.

Boiling water was prepared in a large pot, and the paste was poured through the ladle’s holes into the water.

As the vermicelli formed, he stirred to prevent sticking.

Once cooked and floating, it was scooped into the cold water basin, drained, and hung on poles to dry.

It had been a while since Kang He made vermicelli, and he was rusty, struggling to shake the ladle evenly for consistent strands while stirring to prevent clumping.

Fortunately, Zhener and Qiao’er helped. Qiao’er, less patient with delicate tasks, tended the fire, while Zhener, steadier, poured the paste evenly into the ladle and learned to stir the vermicelli after watching Kang He.

Fan Jing, chopping firewood outside, came in frequently for water but said little, glancing at them before returning to his work.

When Chen Shi and Father Fan returned from the fields, they saw a pole of glistening vermicelli drying in the yard.

Chen Sanfang set down her hoe and basket, marveling at the shiny strands.

“How did you make these?”

Father Fan was equally curious, reaching to touch them, but Chen Shi slapped his hand away.

“Your hands are filthy—don’t dirty the vermicelli!”

Inside, the kitchen was steaming, with the three working harmoniously.

Chen Sanfang watched, amazed.

“This work takes patience,” she said, washing her hands and eager to learn.

With Chen Shi’s help, they spent the day making vermicelli, finishing all the kudzu powder by evening.

Kang He, though switching with Chen Shi to pour the paste, worked most of the day, and by night, his right hand ached so much he could barely lift it.

At dinner, his hand trembled while eating, but he persisted in finishing the remaining powder.

With clear weather, they needed to dry the vermicelli quickly, as late winter and early spring were unpredictable—sunny one moment, rainy and cold the next.

The next day, they tackled the ten pounds of fern powder.

Though his hand still hurt, Kang He was more adept after the previous day’s practice, finishing before evening.

The vermicelli from the day before had dried, snapping crisply with a slight toughness—well-made.

A couple of days later, Kang He bundled the vermicelli into one-pound portions with hemp rope.

Weighed at home, a pound of powder yielded about a pound of vermicelli, with kudzu vermicelli slightly heavier by four ounces, and fern vermicelli nearly the same weight as its powder.

Early that morning, Kang He wrapped the vermicelli in clean hemp cloth, packed it in a sturdy crate, and headed to the county.

He went straight to the familiar dry goods shop in Cat Alley, run by the Ge family.

“It’s been a while, little brother. I thought you’d stopped coming!” the shopkeeper greeted warmly.

“I haven’t been by in a bit, but during the New Year, when my family bought supplies for a feast, I made sure they came to your shop,” Kang He replied, pulling a basket of fresh vegetables from his pack.

“I brought these from home—freshly grown flat vegetables and some celery. I know your shop doesn’t lack vegetables, but these are fresh.”

“How kind! These vegetables may not be worth much, but your thoughtfulness is priceless!”

The shopkeeper admired the fresh, clean produce, clearly just picked and washed.

Pleased the shopkeeper accepted them, Kang He said, “I didn’t come just to bring vegetables. I’ve got something good for you.”

“What is it? More powder? The last batch you brought sold so well—everyone said it was clean and fragrant!” the shopkeeper replied eagerly.

“You’re close, but this is even better.”

Kang He lifted the crate onto the counter for the shopkeeper to see.

The shopkeeper, curious, opened the crate, unwrapped the cloth, and gasped.

“What luck I have today!”

He picked up a bundle of vermicelli, examining it with delight.

“Kang, where did you get such fine vermicelli?”

“I had some powder stored and, with free time this month, made these. I brought them for you to see if you’ll take them.”

“Of course I will! I trust anything you bring!” The shopkeeper lowered his voice.

“My stock of vermicelli sold out during the New Year, and I haven’t restocked. Yesterday, the famous Luo Kitchen in town asked for vermicelli—Master Jiang from the west side wants it for a banquet with free-range chicken. The wealthy Hu family’s cook has also asked for fern vermicelli several times. Their master, tired of rich foods, craves something light like vinegared fern vermicelli, but it’s hard to find.”

Seeing the demand, Kang He felt relieved.

Dry goods were expensive, and shops wouldn’t buy unless they were sure to sell.

“I’m just a country man, no expert in business. I just bring good things to people I know,” Kang He said.

“That’s the way!” the shopkeeper replied, trusting Kang He’s reputation from past deliveries.

Still, as vermicelli was pricier than powder, he inspected it carefully, confirming its quality before fully relaxing.

“Last time, you saw my vermicelli prices. I won’t cheat you—you’re a regular. Kudzu vermicelli is one hundred ten coins per pound, fern vermicelli one hundred fifty per pound. The pricier the item, the more profit we make. Cheaper goods have thinner margins. You won’t find a better price elsewhere.”

Kang He trusted the shopkeeper, having dealt with him before.

If he meant to lowball, he wouldn’t have mentioned the demand from wealthy families, which raised expectations for the goods.

“I’m straightforward. Whatever price you say, I’ll take,” Kang He said.

Pleased with his lack of haggling, the shopkeeper fetched a scale.

The kudzu vermicelli weighed thirteen pounds, the fern vermicelli nine pounds—exactly as Kang He had measured at home, where they’d kept some for themselves.

After all their hard work, they deserved to enjoy some, and dry goods kept well for emergencies or gifting.

The thirteen pounds of kudzu vermicelli fetched one string and four hundred thirty coins, the nine pounds of fern vermicelli one string and three hundred fifty coins, totaling two strings and seven hundred eighty coins.

The shopkeeper paid two taels and five mace of silver, plus two hundred eighty loose coins, and threw in a packet of spices—star anise, fennel, cinnamon, peppercorns, and more.

“We made some money,” Fan Jing said as they left the shop, speaking for the first time.

Kang He replied, “You don’t realize how many steps it took to get that price.”

Fan Jing nodded, acknowledging the effort—from foraging roots in the mountains, grinding them into powder, to the tedious process of making vermicelli.

The complexity justified the price; raw roots sold for mere coins per pound.

Feeling flush, Kang He splurged in town.

He bought a jug of good lamb wine for Father Fan, a bolt of spring cloth for Chen Shi, and a vanity box for each of the girls, Zhener and Qiao’er.

The boxes were well-equipped with scented powder, soap beans, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and skin cream.

The shop girl claimed every young lady or gentleman in town had one or wanted one.

Kang He suspected exaggeration but thought the items practical and appealing for the growing girls, who’d surely love them.

“Why not get one for yourself?” Kang He teased Fan Jing.

“What would I do with it?”

“We both bathe, don’t we? You use willow twigs to brush your teeth—careful not to cut your mouth. A proper toothbrush is better. And that jasmine-scented cream smells nice—don’t you think it’d help you sleep better?”

Fan Jing relented.

“Fine, get a couple of toothbrushes and a box of toothpaste. You can use the cream if you like it.”

Kang He chuckled.

“If I use it, we’ll both smell good.”