The three of us stared at the huge jar of osmanthus wine in Grandpa's hands, completely numb.
"Grandpa, isn't this... a bit too much?"
"Master Jiang, I... I don't think I can drink anymore!"
"Master Jiang, I... I'm about done too!"
But my grandfather didn't think much of it:
"Come on! How much is this? It's nowhere near enough.
Wine is the essence of grain—the more you drink, the younger you become.
When wine passes before your eyes, not drinking it is a sin.
Come, come, each of you have another big bowl first!"
Grandpa's hospitality was hard to refuse, and the three of us ended up drunk by noon.
Dizzy and muddleheaded, we all went back to our rooms and slept.
Only my grandfather was fine as ever, even taking a stroll around the village.
After sleeping all afternoon, I woke up groggily in the evening. Only after regulating my breathing and circulating my energy for a while did I feel much better.
Grandpa had already set up the electric stove. We were having hot pot for dinner.
Tripe, sliced kidney, spicy beef—the table was piled so full there was barely room for anything else, except there were no dumplings.
Around here, eating dumplings on New Year's Eve was about as common as eating instant noodles...
Grandpa started trying to get us to drink again, cup after cup.
I really didn't know why, at his age, he was still so good at sobering up.
Meanwhile, the crackling sounds of firecrackers and fireworks kept ringing out from outside. That rich New Year atmosphere could only be found in remote mountain villages like ours.
But before we were even halfway through the meal, a hurried set of footsteps suddenly sounded outside.
Then someone shouted from outside:
"Grandpa Jiang, Jiang Ning..."
Hearing