Chapter Thirty-Seven: Making the Most of Everything

“Will you agree or not?” Su Lu asked He Cheng.

“I’ll agree to anything, as long as you can conjure up some money,” He Cheng replied without hesitation.

“Good,” Su Lu continued. “These past few days, my brother and I have been hanging around your family’s distillery, and I noticed there’s a lot of citrus fruit stored in the warehouse, along with two thousand bamboo tubes.”

“My family’s main business is fruit wine; those are sour mandarins we bought, meant to be turned into tangerine wine and sold during the New Year,” the young widow explained. “The bamboo tubes are for bottling the wine.”

She sighed wistfully. “But now that both my husband and brother-in-law are gone, there’s no one left who knows how to brew tangerine wine. I can only watch those mandarins rot in the storeroom.”

She then looked up at Su Lu and asked, “Don’t tell me you know how to make tangerine wine?”

“To be honest, I didn’t even know tangerines could be made into wine,” Su Lu admitted. “I always thought they were just for juicing.”

“So what’s your idea? Don’t tell me you want to sell tangerine juice?” The young widow sounded disappointed.

“That’s exactly it—I want to sell tangerine juice,” Su Lu nodded.

“Who would buy tangerine juice? Anyone with hands can squeeze juice,” Su Yucai couldn’t help but interject. “Son, is this really your plan?”

“Yes,” Su Lu answered honestly. “I don’t have much experience. Just coming up with this idea was already a stretch.”

“A scholar’s mind is never practical,” Su Yucai said with a wry smile. “Tangerines are easy to juice, but do you know why no one sells the juice?”

“Because eating the fruit directly is more cost-effective?” Su Lu ventured.

“Not many people eat them, either, because they’re so sour,” Su Yucai explained. “A few segments are enough to make your teeth ache, and the juice is even worse.”

“Sour mandarins are even more so—the word ‘sour’ is in the name. You all should know better than anyone…” The young widow shot a plaintive glance at the three men—none of whom seemed deterred from eating the sour fruit every day, especially the big fellow, who devoured them so aggressively it made her teeth ache just to watch.

“It’s true, they’re too sour. If they weren’t, the creditors would have carted them off by now,” Su Yucai agreed. “There are sweet varieties, but those are either tribute fruits or so expensive only the rich can afford them.”

“I’ve heard that wealthy people in Luzhou and Chengdu add honey or sugar to their tangerine juice to make it palatable, but that drives up the cost—ordinary folks couldn’t afford to drink it,” He Cheng added with a sigh. She realized she was grasping at straws, wondering why she’d ever believed the boasts of a half-grown boy.

“My second brother has a way to make tangerine juice sweet at the lowest cost,” Su Lu suddenly declared, as if breaking the silence with a thunderclap. “And your family already has all the materials—we don’t need to invest a single coin. We can make sweet, delicious tangerine juice. During the New Year’s temple fair in Taiping Town, as long as the price is right, I’m sure we’ll have no trouble selling it.”

“You can really make tangerine juice sweet?” The young widow looked at the normally simple-minded Xia.

Su Tai nodded and assured her, “Yes, I can.”

“It doesn’t need to be very sweet—just not unbearably sour,” Su Yucai added. “People go to temple fairs to eat and drink. If your juice is so sour it makes their teeth ache, they won’t be able to eat anything else, and you’ll be cursed on the spot. You won’t sell another bowl.”

“As long as it’s sweet enough, it won’t taste sour,” Su Lu said with certainty. He couldn’t explain the science behind it, but his experience with flavors was unmatched in this era. He knew from experience that a glass of pure lemon juice is painfully sour, but add two spoonfuls of sugar, and it becomes ‘refreshingly sweet and sour’—the acidity turns from an assault on the senses into a delightful pairing with sweetness.

“That’s true, but the real trick is sweetening it cheaply,” He Cheng seemed to have experience in this matter. She turned to Su Tai. “You really have a way, Xia?”

“Add sweet mash to it,” Su Tai scratched his head. “When we’re making wine at the distillery, we sometimes sneak some sweet mash to drink. It’s so sweet you have to dilute it with water, and it doesn’t taste alcoholic. But it ferments and changes flavor very quickly, so not many people get to try it.”

“That could work—the flavor might really cover up the sourness,” Su Yucai’s eyes lit up. Su Tai had brought home sweet mash plenty of times for the family to drink.

“It should work. Besides, sourness isn’t a monster—we just have to keep it in check,” Su Lu said. “Second Brother says he can make sweet mash in a day or two, so we have plenty of time.”

“Then let’s try it!” He Cheng was decisive. “Those mandarins will rot by spring anyway—we may as well put them to use, and at least recover a little of our investment.”

~

No sooner said than done. Never mind what day it was, everyone immediately threw themselves into the task. While other families were busy preparing New Year’s Eve dinner, they were making sweet mash.

Su Tai naturally became the ‘master brewer.’ Under his direction, some scrubbed pots, others chopped firewood, and even He Cheng’s nine-year-old daughter, Tian Tian, helped carry firewood sensibly.

None of them had worked in a distillery before, so they could only do odd jobs. The real work was left to Su Tai. He soaked broken sorghum from the storeroom in a large pot for two hours, then began steaming it at noon.

All afternoon the fire was kept raging, steaming the sorghum until it was soft and mushy. Only then did they lift the steamer off the stove.

Once it cooled, Su Tai poured the steamed sorghum into a jar and mixed in a small amount of fermenting agent.

“All done,” he clapped his hands. “Let it sit for a day. By this time tomorrow, we’ll have sweet mash.”

“So soon?” The others crowded around the jar, surprised. “Didn’t you say it would take two days?”

“Heh, I didn’t wait for the sorghum to cool all the way—put in the fermenting agent while it was still warm. That way, one day is enough,” Su Tai patted his chest. “Don’t worry, I’ll be a certified brewer next year—I’ve learned all about steaming, mixing, and fermenting!”

“All right, we trust you.” Su Yucai patted his eldest son’s shoulder, making Su Tai beam with joy.

“What are you all up to?” came their uncle’s voice from the distillery door. He couldn’t really ignore them, so he’d been dropping by daily to see what the three troublemakers were up to.

“Brother, we’re doing something productive,” Su Yucai said happily. No matter what, at least they had hope again.

“Whatever you’re doing, you still need to come home for the New Year,” the uncle said helplessly. “If you three don’t come back, Father will tear the house down.”

“We’re coming, we’re coming,” Su Yucai admitted. “We wouldn’t dare miss New Year’s Eve dinner—that’d be unfilial.”

He Cheng shot him a look, unclear whether she was blaming him for lying about celebrating the New Year there, or for not keeping his word.

“We’ll be going, then,” Su Yucai said, taking his leave of He Cheng.

“Safe travels,” He Cheng replied with a slight bow, suddenly much more formal.

“See you next year,” Su Yucai waved and walked away, but halfway there he stopped. He sighed deeply—on New Year’s Eve, how could he let them go hungry?

He reached into his jacket for a pouch with a tael of broken silver, but couldn’t bear to part with his hard-won savings. So, with practiced ease, he extended his hand to his elder brother.

The uncle rolled his eyes but slapped five copper coins into his palm.

Su Yucai added his own five coins, making ten, and slipped them into Tian Tian’s hand. “Go to Gao Tuozi’s shop and buy something nice for you and your mother for the New Year.”

Tian Tian glanced at her mother. He Cheng pressed her lips tight and nodded. “Aren’t you going to thank Uncle Su?”

“Thank you, Uncle Su,” Tian Tian said, clutching the coins and bowing deeply.

“Good girl. Let’s go,” Su Yucai said, and followed his brother out.

As they passed the main hall, Su Yucai told his sons, “Pack up, we’re going home.”

“All right,” the two replied, rolled up their bedding, slung it over their shoulders, and followed the adults, wobbling away from the He family home.

At last, peace returned to the He family courtyard, and He Cheng finally got the quiet evening she’d longed for.

But as she listened to the firecrackers crackling outside and gazed at her empty hall, she felt a pang of loneliness.

~

At the Su family’s stilt house, the aunt was pacing anxiously in the courtyard.

When she saw the three men finally return, she clapped her knees in relief. “Thank goodness—you three, if you hadn’t come back, your father would have thrown me out of the house!”

“Brother’s back!” Little Jinbao leaped into Su Lu’s arms, hugging his neck tightly. As Su Lu carried her inside, Jinbao stuck out her tongue at her aunt behind his back.

“Bad mother!”

“All right, all right—I’m the villain, and everyone in the Su family are saints,” the aunt said, oddly subdued, as if all her temper had vanished.

Inside, the old lady grabbed her grandson’s hand and wept. “You’re not allowed to run off again. The house is so empty, it makes me too sad to eat.”

“Grandma, we didn’t run away—we were out collecting debts,” Su Lu hurried to explain.

“What? Stealing vegetables?” The old lady was shocked. “Child, no matter how poor we are, we can’t stoop to that!”

The old man sighed to Su Yucai, “Second son, don’t worry yourself. I’ve spoken to your uncles—we’ll pool our resources when the time comes.”

“Yes, Father,” Su Yucai replied quickly. He wouldn’t dare close off any avenue, since Su Lu’s ideas were still uncertain.

“All right, go wash up and change into your New Year’s clothes,” the old man ordered. “We’re going to the ancestral hall for the genealogy ceremony.”

“Yes, sir.” The three hurried out to fetch water and clean up. The aunt busied herself boiling water and finding clothes, her attentiveness almost unsettling.

Once the three were scrubbed and neatly dressed, the whole family set off for the Su clan ancestral hall.

They were late. The hall and its grounds were already packed with over two hundred members of the Su clan, young and old.

Once everyone arrived, the eighteen family branches automatically lined up by seniority and gender, left and right, to listen as the clan elder gave instructions: “Today, as we welcome the genealogy, let us be reverent. No loud voices, no breaches of decorum.”

Everyone agreed, and the elder, holding the clan banner, led the procession to welcome the genealogy. Children carrying lanterns walked ahead, symbolizing a thriving lineage.

The genealogical record is the most important document of a clan—it establishes lineage, orders of seniority, and kinship, letting everyone know their roots and their place in the clan.

It records every family member’s name, and the distinguished are honored with biographies—providing a final verdict on their lives for future generations to judge.

Thus, the genealogy is precious. To prevent damage or tampering, there are always two copies—one kept by the clan leader in the ancestral hall, the other rotated among the family branches for safekeeping.

This year, the genealogy was being kept by the fourth branch, and the clan would first escort it back to the ancestral hall.

It was Su Lu’s first time attending such a ceremony. Watching his clansmen follow the blue-and-gold “Fengyang Su Clan” banner, forming a procession through the mountains of the southwest, he began to understand the meaning of clan identity.

Su Da Qiang, the old genealogist, had arrived early at the fourth branch’s house to verify that every page was present, then tied a red ribbon around the genealogy chest and placed it on the altar in the main hall.

Oil lamps surrounded the altar, symbolizing “illuminating the ancestors’ path.”

The clan leader bowed deeply to thank the guardian for a year of careful safekeeping. Then the ceremonial scholar called out, “The auspicious hour is here—open the genealogy!”

The bearers stepped forward and lifted the chest. The genealogist scattered five grains around it, chanting, “May we have a bountiful harvest, may the ancestors protect us, may our descendants thrive.”

Then, in solemn order—clan banner in front, drummers following, the genealogy at the center, and the clansmen behind—they set off, setting off firecrackers along the way to drive away evil spirits, the drummers playing the “Welcoming the Gods” tune, and with utmost reverence, escorted the genealogy back to the ancestral hall.