One fish was smoked, shrinking to half its size.
The fish Feng Mountain had picked was the largest one in the smokehouse. After smoking, ten pounds had shrunk to just five. For Frank and Tom, who were primarily meat-eaters, five pounds of fish wasn't much at all. Coca-Cola even snatched a few pieces, leaving even less to go around. Only the poor puppy was left, dejectedly sucking on the fish head.
After putting the new fish back into the smokehouse, the others stared eagerly at the four fish hanging under the eaves of the shed.
"If you guys plan on eating the smoked fish, then I won't make dinner."
"We'll have dinner. We can eat smoked fish anytime, but we can't always get Chinese food." Frank wisely averted his gaze. Tom, on the other hand, pursed his lips and muttered under his breath, "What's so great about Chinese food? It's always either sweet or sour."
'Either sweet or sour?'
'The Chinese food you've been eating must be fake.'
Feng Mountain scorned him inwardly. He looked up at the gloomy sky; the snow seemed to be getting heavier. He picked up a box of potatoes, turned, and walked out of the bus to start preparing dinner.
Frank had brought the potatoes, along with a box of onions.
In the Far North Tundra, a pound of vegetables cost several times as much as a pound of fresh meat.
Feng Mountain hadn't eaten any vegetables in over half a month, and his shit was black.
With the new seasonings, he could make a chicken and potato stew today.
"Frank, bring in three... no, wait, bring in four dried Thunderbirds!"
"Oh!" Frank quickly took the four fattest-looking dried Thunderbirds from the meat rack and brought them into the kitchen.
The dried Thunderbirds and dried shiitake mushrooms were set to soak in hot water. Feng Mountain picked up a potato, holding it steady on the countertop with his left hand, and aimed his kitchen knife at it with his right.
His left hand rolled the potato while his right hand pushed the knife.
In the next second, a complete potato peel appeared. After a few more rolls, a clean potato was perfectly peeled.
"Buddy, with knife skills like that, you'd be welcome in any restaurant. Why couldn't you find a job back in China?"
Frank leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching Feng Mountain peel a potato with near-artistic skill. He was puzzled why, when they first met, the man had been making a living by handing out flyers.
He turned his head to look at the photos on the bookshelf—some were of Feng Mountain with a gentle-looking woman, and some were of the woman by herself. He continued to ask,
"Buddy, is that your girlfriend in the picture? Are you planning to bring her to Alaska? I can help with the immigration papers for free. It must be too lonely living alone in the Far North Tundra."
The potato in Feng Mountain's hands paused. After a moment, his voice was low.
"That was Ms. Hong. She's gone."
"I used to own a restaurant. Sometimes, when it got busy, Ms. Hong would help out as a waitress. One night, a few drunk customers started harassing her, and a fight broke out. I was working in the back kitchen. When I came out, I saw her on the ground... a dagger had pierced her heart."
"I saw red. I rushed out and fought them. One died, and four were injured. In the end, the court ruled it as excessive self-defense, and I was sentenced to seven years."
"If I hadn't opened that restaurant, if I hadn't been working in the back kitchen that day, it never would have happened."
Frank knew Feng Mountain had done time, but he hadn't known the details. Now that he finally understood the real story, he was at a loss for words.
Every country has its own laws. Alaska has a "stand-your-ground" law. In a case like this, there would have been no sentence at all. The law explicitly states that when faced with an emergency, there is no duty to retreat, and a person can use force—including firearms—on the spot to protect themselves and their family.
"Buddy, everything will be okay."
"Yeah. Flowers turn toward the sun, and people have to move forward. Everything will be okay," Feng Mountain echoed, then abruptly changed the subject. "Can you handle spicy food?"
"I can. I can handle really spicy food." Frank was immediately distracted by the new topic.
He gave the peeled potato a light tap with his kitchen knife, and with a deft twist, broke it into irregular chunks. Potatoes stewed this way would be more flavorful.
After dealing with the potatoes, the dried Thunderbirds in the hot water were also rehydrated. He chopped them into small pieces.
He prepared all the seasonings: broad bean paste, Lao Gan Ma chili sauce, thirteen-spice powder, dark soy sauce, and light soy sauce. Unfortunately, he still didn't have any fresh ginger or garlic cloves.
Frying the chicken would create a lot of oily smoke, which wasn't suitable for the small kitchen.
Feng Mountain moved the kitchen stove directly under the wooden shed outside the bus. He washed the new, tall stockpot, poured in the chicken fat and soybean oil he'd rendered a few days ago, and heated it up. He added white sugar to the hot oil, frying it until it caramelized, then tossed the chicken pieces in to sear them.
Once the chicken pieces were browned and slightly crispy, he added the broad bean paste, chili peppers, Sichuan peppercorns, and Lao Gan Ma chili sauce in sequence, continuing to stir-fry.
Instantly, a rich aroma of meat and spicy seasonings drifted through the camp.
Everyone, human and animal alike, gathered around, watching the stove. Even Tom, who had been disdainful of Chinese food, shuffled closer, twitching his nose as he breathed in the fragrance in the air, and exclaimed,
"My God, this is Chinese food? Why is it so different from what I've had?"
After the chicken had absorbed the flavors, he used the newly acquired Hot Water Bottle to pour in boiling water.
The colorful, garish appearance of the Hot Water Bottle caught Frank and Tom's attention. "Buddy, what kind of appliance is that? Does it boil its own water?" they asked curiously.
"It's a Hot Water Bottle. You can put hot water in it, and it stays warm for a long time, so you can have hot water whenever you want," Feng Mountain explained impatiently. 'A couple of bumpkins,' he thought, 'they've never even seen a Hot Water Bottle before.'
Amazing!!
'The Chinese are so smart.'
'They have so many gadgets just for drinking hot water.'
Frank and Tom clicked their tongues in amazement. While Feng Mountain wasn't looking, the two of them picked up the Hot Water Bottle to examine it.
BUBBLE BUBBLE!
The sauce in the pot was bubbling away. Feng Mountain tasted it with a spoon, then added more dark soy sauce, light soy sauce, and thirteen-spice powder to adjust the flavor. When it was nearly done, he added the rehydrated shiitake mushrooms, and finally the potatoes, then covered the pot to continue simmering.
The sky gradually darkened.
A kerosene lamp was hung in the wooden shed. Under its dim yellow light, large snowflakes tumbled down from the sky.
"With snow this heavy, can the plane even fly tomorrow?" Feng Mountain asked, holding an iron ladle as he gazed up at the snowy night sky.
"This little bit of snow? I could take off with my eyes closed! When's the food ready? I'm starving!" Tom waved his hand dismissively, his eyes glued to the stew pot as if afraid it would grow legs and run away if he looked away.
'Sure you can,' Feng Mountain thought. 'You're the guy who dares to fly a plane drunk. Is there anything you wouldn't do?'
Feng Mountain didn't respond. He gently lifted the pot lid, and a cloud of fragrant steam instantly billowed out, filling the air with its unique aroma.
He scooped up a piece with the ladle, put it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly under the expectant gazes of the man, cat, and dog before nodding.
"Dinner's ready!"
CLATTER!
Frank and Tom grabbed the plates they had prepared in advance. Coca-Cola trotted over with its food bowl in its mouth. The puppy spun around awkwardly a few times, unable to find anything to hold its food, and finally just ran over with a piece of wood in its mouth.
This scene.
It reminded Feng Mountain of his childhood, looking after the younger kids at the orphanage. It was just like this back then; after the food was cooked, they would all sit obediently in a row, waiting for Ms. Hong to serve them.
He shook his head, pushing aside the old memories.
He brought over the steamed rice and put a scoop into each plate and bowl, followed by a ladleful of the braised chicken with shiitake mushrooms and potatoes.
Frank and Tom picked up their spoons and started shoveling the food in, making sounds like pigs at a trough. Coca-Cola ate at a leisurely pace, head down. Only the puppy was whining eagerly in front of the "bowl" it had found, sounding almost like it was cursing someone out.
"You call that a bowl? Just wait!" Feng Mountain said irritably, picking up the piece of wood and tossing it into the stove. He turned and went into the bus, coming back out with a basin in his hands.
He added rice to the basin and ladled some sauce over it. The puppy was still too small to eat the chicken pieces; the small, sharp bones could hurt its throat.
As for whether it could handle the spice...
That would be up to fate.
"So spicy! So spicy! My throat feels like it's on fire!" Tom's face was flushed red from the heat, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He tore off his flight jacket, but his hand still gripped the plate tightly, unwilling to let go.
Frank was in a similar state. His so-called ability to handle spicy food was nothing compared to what Feng Mountain had cooked.
But it was incredibly satisfying.
Watching the men, the cat, and the dog wolfing down their food...
A satisfied expression appeared on Feng Mountain's face. He picked up his own plate and began to eat slowly, savoring each bite.
Outside the shed, the heavy snow drifted down; inside, there was only the sound of slurping and gulping.
...