Using those things… to cook an extra meal for ourselves?"
Chef Zhang set down the sack of old rice he had been inspecting and lifted his head. Beneath the dim yellow lamplight, his gaze was sharp as a blade, landing squarely on Qing Tian's pale, tense face.
She stood outside his small resting room, the steady drip of rain from the eaves clearly audible behind her. She knew exactly how bold—how dangerous—her proposal was. It could even be called overstepping her place.
But the discarded ingredients rotting away in the darkest corner of the storeroom, and the steadily fading light in her companions' eyes, had pushed her to this point.
"Yes," she answered, steadying her voice. "I've checked carefully. The pumpkins and potatoes—if the spoiled parts are cut away, the inside is still good. The broken tofu can be crumbled and used. The meat scraps don't look pretty, but if handled properly and simmered long enough, they'll release flavor. As for the dried goods—even if they're hard, once rehydrated they'll bring umami."
She paused, then added, "There's also half a jar of fermented chili bean paste in the storeroom. It's damp and clumped, but I tasted it… the flavor is still there."
She deliberately left out the part about tasting emotions. Everything she said was grounded in practical logic.
Chef Zhang remained silent, his fingers tapping lightly against the tabletop. The small room grew so quiet that only the rain and their breathing remained. Qing Tian's heart pounded like a war drum.
After a long while, he finally spoke.
"Do you understand the risk?" His voice was calm, but heavy. "Using 'discarded' supplies may not violate palace rules outright, but if someone decides to pursue the matter, the charge of 'unauthorized use of palace property' won't be avoided. And feeding nearly two hundred people is no small matter. If the food tastes bad, best case it wastes firewood and manpower. Worst case—it breeds resentment."
"I understand," Qing Tian said, lifting her head. There was a resolve in her eyes far beyond her years. "But you once taught me that the foundation of cooking is respecting ingredients and caring for people. Right now, the ingredients are being thrown away, and the people are starving. If we can turn waste into something warm—something that fills both stomach and heart—then maybe… it's worth trying."
She hesitated only a heartbeat before continuing, "As for the outcome—if it succeeds, it's the Imperial Kitchen standing together through hardship. If it fails, I'll take full responsibility. I won't implicate you or any of the others."
"Full responsibility?" Chef Zhang's lips twitched—so faintly it was almost imperceptible, like the ghost of a smile. "With that little frame of yours?"
He rose and walked to the window, gazing out at the endless curtain of rain.
"I'll speak to ," he said at last. "But words alone won't be enough. He'll need to see that this is possible. Since you brought this up, I assume you already have a plan?"
Qing Tian's spirits lifted instantly. She knew there was hope.
"Yes," she said quickly. "I was thinking of making a large mixed stew. The pumpkin and potatoes cut into chunks, cooked together with the rehydrated mushrooms, kelp, and meat scraps. Seasoned with the bean paste and whatever spices we can spare. The tofu can be crumbled and added at the end to thicken it. It'll be a large quantity—using the biggest soup pot—and simmered slowly so the flavors meld…"
Chef Zhang listened, nodding slightly from time to time. When she finished, he considered for a moment.
"The concept is sound," he said. "But do you know how to layer the ingredients? How to control the heat? How to balance the seasoning?"
Qing Tian shook her head honestly. "Not in detail. Only… by feeling."
"Feeling?" He gave her a long look, as if trying to see through her. In the end, he didn't press further. "Very well. Tonight, at the Hour of the Boar. The small stove room behind the storeroom. Bring people you trust."
He added quietly, "Tight lips. Steady hands. Honest hearts."
"Yes!" Qing Tian replied, excitement flooding her chest.
"I'll only watch from the shadows," Chef Zhang said, his tone returning to its usual calm. "Whether this succeeds… depends on you."
That night, at the Hour of the Boar.
The rain still fell in fine threads. Most of the Imperial Kitchen lay shrouded in darkness and silence, but the small stove room behind the storeroom glowed faintly with lamplight.
Zhao Sanniang.Xiao Man.Fu Gui.And two usually quiet eunuch assistants known for their reliability.
Qing Tian had summoned them quietly. As promised, Chef Zhang sat in the shadows, a cup of long-cold tea before him, looking more like an observer than a participant.
His gaze grew deep as he watched Qing Tian direct the others in handling the so-called "scraps."
He saw her take a half-rotten pumpkin and, without hesitation, carve away the spoiled flesh, keeping only the firm orange core. Her movements were clean and decisive.
He saw her place the dried mushrooms into warm water, gently stirring them with her fingers—as if sensing the moment they slowly relaxed and softened.
He watched her trim the meat scraps, carefully removing excessive fat and tangled sinew, keeping only what could cook evenly.
What truly caught his attention, however, was how she treated the seasoning.
She found the forgotten jar of fermented chili bean paste, scraped away the mold on the surface, and scooped out the deep red, richly aromatic paste from the center. She mixed it with a splash of rice wine. When she dipped her fingertip in and tasted it, her expression turned focused—almost reverent.
It was as though she wasn't tasting flavor.
She was listening.
"Begin," Qing Tian said after a deep breath, nodding to Xiao Man at the stove.
The largest soup pot was set over the fire. A small amount of lard coated the bottom. Qing Tian added the meat scraps and ginger slices, stir-frying them gently until the edges browned and the fat rendered, releasing a warm, savory aroma.
Then came the bean paste.
The moment it hit the pot, an explosive fragrance bloomed—spicy, rich, deeply comforting—cutting through the cold dampness of the rain-soaked night.
"Pumpkin, potatoes, mushrooms, kelp—now!"
The ingredients poured in, sizzling as they were tossed evenly with the sauce. Water followed. The lid came down. The fire was brought to a boil, then reduced to a gentle simmer.
The stove room grew quiet.
Only the crackle of firewood and the steady gurgle of the stew remained—a sound that soothed the soul.
The aroma thickened, growing richer by the minute. Meatiness. Fermented depth. Earthy mushrooms. And beneath it all, the promise of pumpkin and potatoes slowly melting into sweetness.
Xiao Man swallowed hard.
Fu Gui's stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.
Even Chef Zhang, seated in the shadows, felt his nostrils twitch slightly.
Nearly an hour later, Qing Tian lifted the lid again.
The broth had thickened into a glossy, sauce-red stew. The pumpkin and potatoes were nearly dissolved, binding everything together. She sprinkled in the crumbled tofu, stirring gently as it melted into the liquid, making it even silkier.
At the very end, she added only a pinch of salt.
The bean paste had already done its job.
"It's ready."