Chapter 28 Childhood Shadows

In the following days, Chen Huihui diligently took on the role of a tasting tester.

The price of this was that the child had eaten so many buckwheat buns that her complexion was starting to look almost the same color as wheat buns. During the final exams it was slightly better—she would come for tasting only after school. But once the exams were over and the holiday began, things became miserable: she was still digesting lunch when she had to start tasting again.

Fortunately, the child genuinely loved eating steamed buns.

“Delicious.” Chen Huihui nodded in approval.

After several days of tastings, Qin Huai had become extremely precise in controlling the size of each bun and the number of samples. He managed to limit the daily tasting to a reasonable range—about the level where one is seven-tenths full and can still enjoy a small snack for dessert—preventing Chen Huihui from forcing herself to eat beyond her limits just to fulfill the tasting role, which could harm her stomach.

“Compared to No. 52, which one tastes better?” Qin Huai asked.

Chen Huihui thought seriously for a moment. “This one.”

“This one… is more fragrant.”

Limited by her third-grade education level, Chen Huihui’s vocabulary for describing food was quite limited. She basically used simple and straightforward words like delicious, fragrant, sweet, hard, soft, and hard to chew.

Qin Huai didn’t expect her to come up with poetic descriptions like: “Freshly baked buns crack open with warmth, and freshly pressed sesame oil pastries smell fragrant.”

After all, A Song Written in Joy upon Seeing the Prospect of a Good Harvest of Wheat and Barley after Snow was not included in textbooks and wasn’t a memorized poem.

“Alright, then let’s try the next one…”

…

Another day of buckwheat bun tasting came to an end. Chen Huihui held a sweet osmanthus jelly cake in her hand, happily took the No. 54 bun she had just certified as the best (and hadn’t finished eating) from Qin Luo, and, with a large bag of sachima hanging from her arm, skipped all the way toward the neighborhood committee.

Qin Huai found an empty table and sat down, beginning to analyze today’s tasting results in his notebook. Huang Xi and An Youyou quickly cleaned up the utensils on the tasting table.

Qin Luo nibbled on bun No. 52, alternating between bites of bun and sachima, and reported today’s progress in a muffled voice to Qin Congwen and Zhao Rong, who had just woken up and come to check on the situation.

In summary, today’s progress was: 0.

After all, the task wasn’t completed.

Although Chen Huihui kept saying this one was good and that one was tasty, her heart was honest—none of these buns were her “dream buns.”

Of course, Qin Huai couldn’t directly say that the buckwheat buns had failed because a side quest wasn’t completed. He could only vaguely explain that they were still slightly lacking.

As for what exactly they lacked?

Don’t ask. The answer was simply the pursuit of a breakfast shop chef toward steamed buns.

Regarding this, Qin Luo, Qin Congwen, and Zhao Rong all expressed their incomprehension—and each took a bite of the bun.

“There’s nothing wrong with these buns.” Zhao Rong, a middle-aged person who loved healthy eating and usually cooked white rice with buckwheat, oats, millet, purple rice, barley, and sweet potato mixed together, accepted the buckwheat buns very well. She ate two partially eaten small buns in a row and still felt unsatisfied, asking Qin Luo to go to the kitchen to get one that was darker in color.

“They’re chewy, have good texture, and are fairly fluffy. The buckwheat doesn’t taste bitter. They’re better than the buckwheat buns your dad used to make.”

Qin Luo choked a little from eating too many buns and quickly took a sip of coconut juice. “Dad made buckwheat buns before? How come I’ve never had them?”

“You weren’t even born yet,” Zhao Rong recalled. “There were a couple of years when business wasn’t good and money was tight. Buckwheat buns and cornmeal buns were cheaper than white flour buns and sold well, so your dad followed the trend and made buckwheat buns.”

“But the buckwheat buns your dad made… he couldn’t control the water ratio when kneading the dough, and he was stingy—he didn’t want to add sugar. The buns came out hard, both tough and bitter. Nobody would buy them.”

Qin Congwen lowered his head and quietly ate his bun, not daring to say a word.

Zhao Rong grew more and more irritated as she continued: “And that’s not all. When the buns wouldn’t sell, he couldn’t bear to throw them away, so he had people take them to the countryside to feed your grandparents’ chickens. With the amount we steamed, could the few chickens they raised possibly finish them in a year? In the end, we all had to eat them! Your grandparents, your aunt and uncle, and me—we were all chewing those awful buns every day until we lost weight from hunger.”

“I told your dad not to make those lousy buckwheat buns, since he didn’t have the skill. But he didn’t believe it and insisted on trying. He nearly shut down our breakfast shop after selling them for over two months.”

“Dean Qin was pitiful too. Later on, the buns we couldn’t finish at home or feed to the chickens were all packed up and sent to the welfare home across the street. Back then, living conditions weren’t as good as now—ordinary families considered it decent if they could eat meat once or twice a week. For the children in the welfare home, being full was enough.”

“At first, the kids there at least had mixed grain porridge to drink. But after your dad started sending those buns, they had to eat buckwheat buns every day. Your older brother ate so many that his face turned yellow.”

As she spoke, Zhao Rong suddenly paused and looked sharply at Qin Congwen.

“Could it be… that your terrible buckwheat buns gave Huaihuai a psychological shadow?”

Qin Congwen: “???”

Unjust accusation!

He was only a bit lacking in skill, a bit stingy with ingredients back then due to financial constraints, and used lower-quality materials. He was also reluctant to add sugar, so the buns turned out hard and not tasty—but it shouldn’t have caused a child to develop… a psychological shadow.

Qin Congwen opened his mouth but didn’t dare to speak.

Oh no… could it really have left the child with a psychological shadow?

He began to seriously recall the daily meals at the welfare home from his memory.

Breakfast: mixed grain porridge with sweet potatoes.
Lunch: two seasonal vegetable dishes with white rice.
Dinner: vegetables with mixed grain porridge, occasionally some meat dishes.

This was bad. His son could have been eating white rice, but because of his buns, he ended up eating buckwheat meals every day.

Qin Congwen lowered his head again, feeling guilty.

Qin Luo, fully absorbed in the gossip, didn’t think deeply and asked, “So what happened next? Did Dad improve his skills?”

“Improve his skills? Not a chance! After he used up that batch of cheap flour and buckwheat flour, he stopped making buns altogether. Haven’t you noticed our family hasn’t really sold buns in recent years? If you ask me, he wasn’t even trying to make buns—he just bought a batch of cheap flour, realized white buns didn’t taste good, and was afraid customers would notice. So he bought buckwheat flour to mix in, trying to pass it off and get by.”

Zhao Rong summarized with three idioms in a row, clearly indicating that those two months of buckwheat buns had indeed left her with a psychological shadow.

Qin Huai hadn’t heard any of Zhao Rong’s complaints. If he had, he would have simply said: Mom, you’re overthinking it.

Although the buckwheat buns back then weren’t delicious, they were filling. With limited funding, the welfare home had many disabled children, and Dean Qin had to juggle finances constantly. For them, being full was a victory.

Back then, the buckwheat buns Qin Congwen couldn’t sell were all sent in bulk to the welfare home. The children there ate until they were full and burped happily like immortals.

There were even unlucky kids who muttered that they hoped Uncle Qin’s buns would never sell so they could have them every day—a “demonic whisper” that got them severely scolded by Dean Qin upon discovery.

Qin Huai was analyzing Chen Huihui’s taste preferences.

After several days of tasting, her preferences had become very clear:

She liked buns with sugar, and with buckwheat content between 30% and 50%. Overall, the better the quality of the bun, the higher her rating.

She didn’t simply prefer coarse grains. Once, when Qin Huai accidentally reduced the water slightly during kneading, making the bun a bit dry, Chen Huihui’s evaluation dropped sharply.

It was clear that, given a choice, she had fairly discerning tastes.

As Chen Huihong had said, Chen Huihui once returned home and held a bun, eating it from morning till night…

Perhaps because the child was filial.

Qin Huai circled 39% buckwheat flour content in his notes.

His intuition told him he had already found the ratio of buckwheat flour to regular flour that Chen Huihui preferred.

However, his buns were still missing something, which was why, despite her constant praise, the task remained incomplete.

But what was missing?

A steamed bun is still just a steamed bun—it can’t be turned into something else. No additional ingredients could be added.

“Huaihuai, you must be thirsty. Have some water.” Qin Congwen thoughtfully brought over a cup of warm water and cautiously asked, “Are you running into problems making the buns? Do you need Dad to help you think it through?”

Since Qin Congwen had said so, Qin Huai didn’t hold back. He put down his pen and asked:

“Dad, my buns now have the buckwheat flour ratio controlled between 39% and 43%. I use hot water for the dough, and the sugar is fixed. But the buns still aren’t satisfactory. What do you think could be improved?”

Qin Congwen: “?”

What the heck? Does making buns require thinking about this much?

He scratched his head. “…Hmm…”

“Why not not make buns—try something else?”

Qin Huai: “?”