HLM -Chapter 1285 Come Visit

The wind by the lake was strong and biting, whistling so sharply that it made people stomp their feet to stay warm.

A group of elderly experts spoke stiffly, their voices formal, but in truth, they were made of the same flesh and blood as anyone else. The cold wind froze them one by one like partridges, making them regret not wearing more layers.

“It’s quite cold today for winter,” Sandra said after a moment’s thought.

Wang Bo replied, “A bit of cold is good. It shows that the effects of the greenhouse phenomenon aren’t too severe yet. If we had another warm winter like two years ago, New Zealand’s agriculture and livestock industries would have been in serious trouble.”

Professor Sandra nodded silently. In this area, he knew far more than Wang Bo.

As the flames licked the hotpot, it started bubbling vigorously. In the clear broth pot, steam rose thickly, while in the spicy hotpot, the red chilies churned like little fish leaping in the water.

Wang Bo added some lamb into the clear broth, then put fresh green vegetables into the spicy pot. He handed everyone bowls and forks and said, “Eat quickly, while it’s hot.”

“Now?” one expert hesitated. “The meat was just put in; it isn’t cooked yet, right?”

Wang Bo said, “It’s ready. You eat steak medium-rare, right? This meat is definitely more than 80% done.”

Atulu scooped a bowl of meat with a slotted spoon. His parents had homemade fermented tofu and chive sauce, which he mixed in before taking large bites.

“Delicious! Satisfying!” he said, his chubby face lighting up with contentment.

Wang Bo frowned. “Eat slower. There’s plenty of meat and vegetables here. You eat hotpot a lot—why are you rushing?”

Atulu swallowed a piece of lamb and said, “Boss, I’ve realized something: eating hotpot has to be outside, in weather like this. The wind and snow make you shiver, but that’s when hotpot shows its true magic.”

Wang Bo dipped a piece of lamb into the chive sauce and popped it into his mouth. The lamb was top-quality, tender and fragrant. As the juice burst out, his taste buds seemed to explode in delight.

The Maori man was right—some things are perfect when matched with the right environment.

The cold wind had chilled everyone to the bone, but the steaming hotpot warmed them from the inside out. After finishing a bowl of lamb, the cold didn’t feel so bad anymore.

“This is amazing,” the professors said, beginning to devour their food.

After a midday hotpot meal, by evening, Professor Sandra and the others went to Haidilao. They were clearly moved by this cuisine but felt awkward asking Wang Bo to prepare it for them again.

They were disappointed after a while. Eating hotpot in a restaurant didn’t have the same feel as by the lake during the day, and the prices were steep. Not very satisfying.

Still, they didn’t waste anything. They packed up all the hotpot broth to cook again by the lakeside that night, this time with brandy, enjoying both food and drink.

With the cold weather, farm and garden work slowed, but the ranch got busier.

Due to heavy snow, roads were difficult, and some supplies couldn’t be delivered. Certain tasks, like providing lick bricks for the cattle and sheep, had to be done in-house.

Lick bricks are feed supplements made according to the basic physiological and nutritional needs of herbivores, providing them with essential minerals and trace elements.

Wang Bo went to the ranch, and Cousins spoke first: “We’re out of lick bricks and need another batch. But the snow in Christchurch is worse, so the supplier can’t deliver.”

“Can we make them ourselves? How?”

Cousins explained, “It’s not hard. They are made by mixing soluble nitrogen, carbohydrates, vitamins, and trace minerals in certain ratios. But we can’t make them because they require high-pressure pressing, and we don’t have the machines.”

He shrugged helplessly.

At Sunset Ranch, lick bricks aren’t needed except in winter. During other seasons, the pasture is so nutritious that cows, sheep, deer, and pigs all get what they need for growth.

In winter, pasture supply is insufficient, so growth slows. Silage is needed to feed the livestock, making lick bricks essential.

Wang Bo took this problem to Motak, calling him: “Who around here can make lick bricks?”

Motak laughed heartily: “You asked the right person, buddy. Come by my place. I have a small workshop, and if we rush, we can make a batch.”

Wang Bo didn’t need much—just enough to last until the snow melted and trucks could deliver.

He hadn’t visited Motak in a while, so he brought out the farm’s super pickup, a Ford F650, letting little Motak load up dried hay and silage for delivery.

This was his way of giving thanks. When he asked what raw materials to bring, big Motak said nothing was needed; just bring the truck to haul everything away.

It was clear they were giving him the lick bricks. They weren’t expensive, but making them, including labor, had some value.

So Wang Bo decided to give them some feed in return—high-quality silage from the farm, made from fermented green corn, nutritious and tasty.

There was snow on the road. Atulu and some police were setting speed bumps. Seeing the super pickup, Atulu waved them off immediately.

As they passed, the policemen saluted Wang Bo, making him very pleased, like a military officer.

He rolled down the window to return the salute, then shouted to Atulu, “Do I look like Patton?”

“Newton,” Atulu chuckled.

Carefully, Wang Bo drove into Motak’s farm. He got out to signal the workers to unload the feed.

Motak was delighted, laughing: “See? I told you, you can’t be stingy with rich folks—they’re even more generous.”

Wang Bo hugged him: “You’re a smart guy, just like your cousin.”

“That guy did well, right?”

“Of course. He ran the farm excellently. I really like him,” Wang Bo complimented. “You two brothers changed a lot of my views on the Maori. Your cousin’s diligence surprised me.”

Meanwhile, little Motak, helping unload the feed, grinned widely.

After leaving some people to finish unloading, Wang Bo and Motak went inside: “My wife has brewed hot tea. Come on, let’s have some together.”

“What kind of tea? I have friends who brought Chinese tea—black and green. I should have brought some for you,” Wang Bo said.

Motak replied, “You should bring me water instead. I have plenty of tea here. This time it’s Indian black tea, and I added some lemon juice—it tastes even better.”

Inside, the Maori hearth blazed fiercely, warming the large living room. Opening the door, a wave of heat swept over them.