Chapter 13

It was eleven in the morning.

The sun slowly climbed toward the middle of the sky.

The last rays of sunlight filtering through the window finally faded away.

Lin Xiaobao squatted on the ground, alternating his little legs as he waddled through the cabbage patch—a tiled floor laid out with cabbages.

He looked just like a little duckling.

“Heave-ho! Heave-ho!”

Lin Xiaobao stopped in front of each cabbage, spread his small arms wide, and pounced forward.

He scooped up the big cabbage, twirled it around in his arms, and gently set it back down.

As he left, he even patted the cabbage’s leaves, as if soothing a child.

“Be good now. Wait till Dad and Big Daddy come eat you.”

With that, Lin Xiaobao shuffled onward, seeking out the next lucky cabbage.

Dad had said that even though the spot by the window no longer got direct sun, there was no need to pack the cabbages away.

Piling them up could make them overheat and spoil, but leaving them out to catch the breeze and breathe was actually better.

They’d need more sun tomorrow anyway, so no point in moving them back and forth.

And so, Dad—Life Skills lv99—had given the newbie player Lin Xiaobao (lv1) an important mission:

Before lunch, help flip over every single cabbage.

Lin Xiaobao had accepted the task without hesitation and was carrying it out with utmost seriousness.

—Loading! (Game loading in progress!)

The newbie player Lin Xiaobao toiled away in the cabbage patch.

Meanwhile, the veteran player Lin Zao prepared lunch for the three of them in the kitchen.

Lin Zao was still under the weather, low on energy, and in no mood for labor-intensive dishes like braised pork. Instead, he opted for two simple steamed ones.

Steamed egg custard and steamed spareribs.

The eggs had come straight from Fu Cheng at the chicken farm, triple-wrapped in paper trays, coop straw, and clear tape—sealed up tight.

When Lin Zao unpacked them, not a single one was cracked.

He cracked five into a bowl, added a pinch of salt, and whisked them smooth.

Restaurant steamed eggs were always silky and bouncy, like pudding.

But their family had unique tastes—they loved the fluffy, airy kind, full of tiny holes like a honeycomb.

It was easier to make too: no straining, no skimming foam, no plastic wrap. Just mix the eggs one-to-one with water, steam over cold water, and done.

Steaming time didn’t matter much; overdone was even better.

With the egg custard steaming away, Lin Zao turned to the spareribs.

Fu Cheng had brought those back too, already chopped into bite-sized pieces.

Knowing Lin Zao lacked the strength and might hurt his hands otherwise, Fu Cheng had taken special care.

Around ten o’clock, Lin Zao had soaked the ribs in water.

Nearly an hour later, once the blood had leeched out and the gamey smell was gone, he drained them, patted them dry, and marinated them with minced garlic, salt, and a splash of soy sauce for flavor. Into the steamer they went.

Halfway through, Lin Zao realized there were too many ribs, so he set some aside, chopped up a corn cob, and planned a sparerib and corn soup.

In the big steamer pot, half a pot of cold water at the bottom, soup on the first rack, ribs on the second, and egg custard on top.

A quirky one-pot meal, but oh so convenient.

Forty minutes later—

Lin Xiaobao returned triumphant, mission complete.

Lin Zao drizzled the finished egg custard with a half-spoon each of sesame oil and soy sauce. Lunch was ready.

The father and son first delivered a portion downstairs to Fu Cheng, then sat at the table and dug in.

Lin Zao scooped up a spoonful of egg custard and dropped it into Lin Xiaobao’s little rice bowl. “Enough?”

Lin Xiaobao sat strapped into his baby chair, tiny fists clenched, shaking his head vigorously. “Not enough!”

“One more spoon.”

“Still not enough! I worked so hard today. I want—” Lin Xiaobao flung his arms wide, “—a big bowlful!”

“Alright, one more spoon.”

“No…”

This time, Lin Zao cut in first. “That’s plenty. It’ll overflow if we add more. You’ve got ribs too—finish those, then we’ll add.”

“Fine then.” Lin Xiaobao nodded reluctantly.

Lin Zao set the bowl on the tray in front of him.

Lin Xiaobao steadied the bowl with one hand, spoon in the other, mixing the egg custard into his rice until it was all mushy and scattered.

He scooped up a bite and popped it in his mouth.

“Mmm—”

Lin Xiaobao chewed, mimicking the TV chefs: eyes closed, head swaying side to side, savoring every bit.

“Dad the chef, your cooking’s pretty good.”

Lin Zao eyed him suspiciously, teasing, “Pretty good? That’s all?”

Lin Xiaobao grinned dopily, raising his little hand. “Very good! Super tasty!”

After lunch, they tidied the kitchen in short order.

Then Lin Zao took Lin Xiaobao back to their room for a nap.

Life at home was like that: eat, sleep, repeat.

They didn’t sleep long—just a quick recharge—before getting up to sort supplies again.

Lin Xiaobao clutched his Lettuce Growth Diary, hunkered down in front of a big crate of lettuce, scribbling away.

Lin Zao opened the freezer to check over the pork Fu Cheng had brought back.

Fu Cheng loved to stockpile. Winter holidays? Bulk buys. Summer treats? Ice pops by the crateful.

Other families bought a pound of hot pot meatballs to boil as needed; he hit the wholesale market for sacks.

Others grabbed a dozen ice pops for the freezer, one at a time on hot days; he hauled home boxes.

His motto: If Wife or son loves it, buy big. Always on hand, no delays.

If they couldn’t finish it, he’d polish off the rest.

Their fridge was perpetually stuffed to bursting.

So Fu Cheng had added a chest freezer for his hoards.

This time was no different. He’d gone straight to the slaughterhouse for half a pig.

Worried Lin Zao wouldn’t know how to handle it, he’d portioned it all out.

Everything from the usual pork belly and ribs.

To pig head, jowls, ears.

Trotters, knuckles, heart, liver.

The works.

Lin Zao peeked into each bag, mentally sorting them by recipe.

Pig head and heart for braising, trotters stewed with soybeans, half the liver stir-fried, half in soup.

But a few cuts weren’t the best—pale and greasy. Lin Zao sighed, a bit stumped.

He hated fatty meat; it turned his stomach.

Little Bao took after him, no fan either.

Unless…

Lin Zao’s eyes lit up. He pulled out the fatty bits and set them aside.

Render lard!

They’d need oil for frying meats and fish over the holidays. Fu Cheng had bought two drums of peanut oil—not much.

Rationed, it’d last seven or eight months.

But extra homemade lard? Even better.

Mornings: boil noodles, add a spoonful of lard, toss in seaweed, dried shrimp, scallion oil. Quick and delicious.

Crispy pork cracklings sprinkled with cumin and chili powder made perfect snacks.

No time like the present.

Lin Zao tied on his apron.

He washed the meat, patted it dry, and diced it on the cutting board.

There was a lot; just chopping took an hour.

By the end, Lin Zao’s back ached, his head swam.

Finally done, he hauled out their biggest iron wok, set it on the stove, and started heating water.

They rarely rendered lard at home. Lin Zao’s know-how came from childhood stays at his aunt and uncle’s, watching his auntie do it and lending a hand.

He worked from memory.

Blanch the pork with ginger and scallion to kill the funk, skim foam, rinse clean. Add a half-bowl of water, simmer slow.

Once the water cooked off, pure oil emerged.

Lin Zao wielded the spatula at the stove, stirring gently to avoid scorching.

Easy for anyone who cooked.

Just meant standing guard, legs tiring, arms aching.

Lin Zao rubbed his sore shoulder and lower back.

Right then, Lin Xiaobao dashed up behind him, rose on tiptoe, and thumped his waist with a tiny fist.

“Dad!”

“Hm?” Lin Zao glanced back. “You finished drawing today’s lettuce?”

“Yep!” Lin Xiaobao nodded. “I changed the water in the soda bottles too. Super careful—not a bump to the roots.”

“Wow, that good, huh?”

“Of course!”

Lin Xiaobao’s catchphrase, always delivered with chest puffed and brimming confidence.

“But there were too many in the crate. Couldn’t move it.”

“No worries.” Lin Zao smiled softly. “We’ll do it together later.”

“Dad, didn’t you say lettuce drinks water? I can’t tell.”

“Compare yesterday’s drawing to today’s lettuce.”

“I did, but still can’t see.”

“Hmm…” Lin Zao pondered. “Mark the water line.”

“Huh? Mark who?”

“The water level line.” Lin Zao explained patiently. “Draw where the water sits in the bottle. If it’s lower tomorrow, the lettuce sneaked a drink while you weren’t looking.”

“Oh yeah!” Lin Xiaobao’s face lit up. “Dad, you’re so smart!”

Lin Zao chuckled.

“But…” Lin Xiaobao paused. “Even if it’s lower, might not be the lettuce.”

“You don’t drink it, Dad doesn’t. Who else?”

“Big Daddy!” Lin Xiaobao planted hands on hips, dead certain.

“So you mean—”

Lin Zao stirred the lard, skimming cracklings with a strainer as he spoke.

“—your dead-ghost husband, my no-good Big Daddy, sneaks out at night, creeps upstairs, grabs our health greens’ bottles, and glug-glug-glugs?”

“Yep!” Lin Xiaobao beamed. “But Big Daddy drinks ‘gulp-gulp-gulp’ style.”

Lin Zao burst out laughing.

Lin Xiaobao stood by, keeping Dad company.

Tiring after a bit, he lunged forward to hug Dad’s leg and cling like a koala.

Lin Zao steadied him quick. “Careful! Dad’s rendering lard—no wiggling.”

“Okay.” Lin Xiaobao stood straight, inhaled deep. “Smells so good. Yum!”

“Yeah?” Lin Zao tweaked his mask. “Dad smells it greasy. Worried I messed it up.”

“Nah, perfect.”

“Guess it’s me then.”

Probably from hovering too long, plus the cold—he felt queasy.

With the last batch simmering, Lin Zao fished out a cooled crackling with chopsticks, dusted it with cumin, and held it to Lin Xiaobao.

“Try it.”

Lin Xiaobao didn’t hesitate, mouth agape—”nom!”—and chomped.

The pork oil slag was fried dry and crisp, no grease left.

Crunch-crunch in his mouth, bits flying.

Lin Xiaobao’s eyes sparkled. He chewed more, savoring the growing flavor.

“So good! Salty, fragrant—like chips, but thicker. Dad, more!”

“Too many’ll give you a heat rash. Two more, then done.”

“Okay.”

Lin Xiaobao gaped wide, awaiting the feed like a hungry baby bird. “Ahh—”

He savored the promised two pieces slowly, treasured them, then behaved—no begging for extras. Just stuck by Dad.

From those big chunks of fat: two basins of lard, one of cracklings.

Lin Zao wrapped the lard in plastic, lidded it, and stowed it in the fridge.

Beforehand, he showed Lin Xiaobao. “Check tomorrow—it’ll be white and jiggly, like jelly.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Lin Zao pinched his chubby cheek. “If your face cracks, we can slather it on.”

“Ew—” Lin Xiaobao clapped hands over his face, shaking his head. “No way! Only roast meats, chickens, pigs need oil. I’m no little piggy—no oil for me!”

“Fine, no lard. Dad’ll rub you with something nice and sweet instead.”

Lin Zao put everything away, then snuck a crackling himself.

Irresistible.

One wouldn’t hurt.

A mere cold wouldn’t flare from that.

But missing fresh cracklings? That’d hurt worse.

Unnoticed, the sun dipped, night fell.

Dinner for the trio was simple too.

Plenty of noon spareribs and corn soup left.

Lin Zao cooked rice, stir-fried greens.

That did it.

Post-dinner, Lin Zao lounged in his chair a spell, then took Lin Xiaobao for baths.

At three, Lin Xiaobao couldn’t wash himself properly—just swiped a towel like dusting a table.

Winter chill meant cold risk alone, so Lin Zao handled it.

Father and son bathed one after the other, slipped into pajamas, climbed into bed, and burrowed under covers.

Lin Zao reached for the light. “Little Bao, Dad’s got a cold—no face-to-face tonight. You stay back too, don’t get too close.”

“Okay.”

The ceiling light winked out; darkness fell.

Lin Zao turned his back to Lin Xiaobao, tugged the quilt, shut his eyes, and drifted off.

Lin Xiaobao lay behind Dad, peering at his silhouette in the dark. He sneaked out a finger, poked his back.

“Dad…”

“Mm?” Lin Zao mumbled sleepily.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight…”

Lin Zao was out like a light.

To the rhythm of Dad’s steady, slightly stuffy breaths, Lin Xiaobao spread his arms, scooted close, and hugged from behind.

Dad worked so hard—cooking, gardening, parenting.

He didn’t care about the cold. He was a human sticker, and he was sticking to Dad’s back!

Moonlight glowed bright, a soft breeze whispered.

The wall clock ticked onward.

Their breathing gradually fell into sync with that of the father and son.

Lin Zao lay wrapped in the quilt, a light sheen of sweat beading on his forehead as he drifted into a deep, hazy sleep.

He dreamed—a series of bizarre, disjointed dreams.

In the first, Fu Cheng had turned into a zombie and was chasing him down, teeth bared.

Of course, he couldn’t outrun Fu Cheng. He was caught in moments, pinned to the ground.

Fu Cheng lunged at his neck with a vicious chomp.

Blood sprayed everywhere, the pain so sharp that tears streamed from his eyes.

Then the dream shifted: Lin Xiaobao had become a zombie too, pursuing him with snapping jaws.

Lin Zao’s legs were longer than Lin Xiaobao’s stubby ones—he was sure he could escape.

But Lin Xiaobao never caught up. Midway through the chase, the boy collapsed to the ground and wailed that he was starving to death.

Lin Zao hesitated for a long moment before turning back. With a resigned sigh, he extended his arm and let Lin Xiaobao take a bite.

In the next dream, he himself had transformed into a zombie, hunting Fu Cheng and Lin Xiaobao.

Neither of them ran. For some inexplicable reason, they turned on each other instead.

It was like watching Big Dog and the little dog scrap—tumbling over one another, nipping at ears and tails, barking up a storm.

“Little Zao, bite me! I’ve got tough hide and thick flesh—I can take it! Go ahead, chow down like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet. Stuff yourself full. Don’t hold back on my account!”

“Dad, bite me instead. Big Daddy’s skin is too thick—it’ll get stuck in your teeth. My meat’s nice and tender, way tastier. But go easy, okay? I’m a little scared of the pain.”

“Little Zao, don’t hesitate. Eat your fill—open wide and dig in!”

“Dad, no worries. I’ve got plenty of meat on me. I scarfed down a ton of ribs yesterday.”

“Little rascal, you dare fight me for it?”

“Big Daddy, let Dad pick for himself.”

—”Ah! No eating! I won’t eat a single bite!”

Daylight flooded the room.

Lin Zao jolted awake with a struggle, flailing his arms and legs as he bounced upright in bed.

“You two are so noisy! Get away! I’m not a cannibal—I won’t eat…”

He came to his senses and looked around, blinking at the brilliant sunlight pouring through the window.

The next instant, the glare dazzled his eyes. A wave of dizziness crashed over him.

His whole body swayed back and forth, side to side, until he toppled backward and crashed onto the bed.

He was done for…

That single thought echoed through Lin Zao’s foggy mind.

He was really sick now.

It was all that Pork Oil Slag’s fault!