Chapter 740: The Flavor of an Ordinary Home

For a woman like Rosalind Green, a bit of delicateness was endearing. But if a man was so delicate it inspired pity, that was a problem. Thankfully, Dalton Green was still young, so there was still time to steer him right.

"Thank you, cousin."

Dalton Green thanked him in a soft, sweet voice and began to eat with relish. Seeing this, Mr. Green frowned slightly but held back from scolding the boy. He himself never ate from street stalls—he found the food dirty and crude—and forbade his grandson from doing so. But this was his other grandson’s first visit, and he had to give the boy some face. ’I’ll talk to Dalton after he leaves,’ he decided.

That night, Adrian Hawthorne shared a bed with his grandfather. The bedding was clean and carried the faint scent of soap, though the sheets and duvet cover were full of patches, a clear sign of their age.

Mr. Green wasn’t a man of many words, and Adrian Hawthorne didn’t have much to say to him either. They got into bed and fell asleep quickly. Adrian woke up promptly at 5:30 in the morning, just as Mr. Green was also getting up.

Adrian Hawthorne started to fold his quilt, but Mr. Green stopped him. "Your grandmother will come fold it. Don’t worry about it."

’Men shouldn’t do housework. It isn’t proper.’

"It’s no trouble at all."

Adrian Hawthorne just smiled and kept folding. Mrs. Green hurried in. "Let me, let me!"

Mrs. Green was swift and deft. She folded the quilt neatly, but then she folded up the used sheet and put it away, taking out a new one to make the bed with. She then draped a large towel over the quilt to cover up the patches. After all this fuss, the worn-out bedding suddenly looked brand new.

The corner of Adrian Hawthorne’s mouth twitched. ’So this is the art of saving face, old-Tristone style,’ he thought. ’Meticulous down to the last detail, but a complete waste of time. I could’ve gotten so much real work done in the time it took to change one sheet.’

With nothing to do, Adrian Hawthorne was about to get another profound lesson in the daily life of the common Tristone folk. It was fussy and complicated, but it also had a certain down-to-earth vibrancy.

Rhonda was out in the corridor, lighting a coal briquette and fanning it constantly with a worn-out cattail fan, sending thick smoke billowing. Other families were lighting their fires too, and the sounds of coughing and chatting could be heard from time to time. Once the fire was going, it was time for the most classic of Tristone breakfasts—

Water-boiled rice.

Yesterday’s leftover rice, boiled with a bit of hot water in an aluminum pot—that was the simple "pao fan," the most common breakfast for the people of Tristone. It was served with a bit of fermented bean curd or some small pickles. For a more luxurious meal, one might add a fried dough stick or a soup dumpling. The taste was considered exquisite. Even as their fortunes improved, many of Tristone’s elderly still clung to their morning bowl of water-boiled rice.

After the pao fan was cooked, it was time to boil water for the day. A single coal briquette could be used to heat at least six thermoses of water. Since cooking the rice used up one, that still left five—enough for the whole family to wash up and have water to drink.

On the table sat a small, exquisite saucer holding a single, beautifully rose-colored cube of fermented bean curd. There was also a small dish of dried radish. A plate held three fried dough sticks, but they had been divided into twelve pieces—each stick was split open and then cut in half, turning three into twelve.

"It’s been so long since I’ve had Mom’s pao fan."

Rosalind Green took a deep breath, her appetite suddenly roaring to life. Adrian Hawthorne, however, felt no such hunger. He just couldn’t stomach such a plain breakfast. The boiled rice was bland and watery. As for the fermented bean curd, taking a single bite with his chopsticks would finish off half the cube, so he decided to leave it.

The plate of fried dough sticks, which seemed so plentiful, wouldn’t even be enough for him alone. ’If Jim Thorne were here,’ he mused, ’this whole table probably wouldn’t be enough to feed that simpleton.’

’Truth be told, I’d much rather have one of Phoebe Huxley’s beastly breakfasts—braised pork with preserved vegetables over steamed rice. Even stir-fried rice cakes with greens would be nice. I really can’t get this boiled rice down.’

"Kenneth, why aren’t you eating? Is it not to your liking?" Mrs. Green asked with concern.

Adrian Hawthorne smiled. "It’s delicious. I just had too many of those fried rice cakes last night, so I’m not very hungry right now."

’I’ll go out and buy a couple of steamers of soup dumplings in a bit,’ he planned. ’Otherwise, I’ll be starving.’