Zheng Qing came to the kitchen and saw his mother meticulously preparing the evening feast.
Killing chickens, gutting fish, slicing beef, frying shrimp, washing all kinds of greens, fruits, and vegetables clean, then sorting them into different bowls, plates, and basins for later use.
The stove fire had barely had a chance to go out since morning. Whether stewing ribs or braising chicken, both demanded careful control of the heat and plenty of patience.
When he was little, every New Year, aside from running wild outside with his friends, Zheng Qing's favorite place had been the kitchen. From morning to night, it was practically full of freshly cooked delicacies.
Bright red slices of freshly cut beef, chicken feet stewed until tender, meatballs draining oil in bamboo baskets, golden-fried hairtail, white lotus root slices, tender tofu skin... all kinds of food filled his vision and made his mouth water. But before they reached the dinner table, children rarely got the chance to feast. They could only sneak a little from the plates while the adults were not looking, like cats stealing a taste of meat.
Of course, Zheng Qing had long escaped the embarrassing days of sneaking bites as a child. He could now stroll into the kitchen openly and pick out a little food to taste amid his mother's scolding—just as he did now, lifting a tender slice of beef from a plate.
"Did you wash your hands?!" his mother snapped, glaring at Zheng Qing.
"It didn't either." Zheng Qing sucked his fingertips, eyeing the steaming stewed chicken in the basin with some longing as he tilted his head toward the other uninvited guest nearby.
"Are you a cat?" Mother Zheng exploded.
"In a sense, yes," Zheng Qing silently answered in his heart.
Naturally, he could not say such a