HLM – Chapter 33 The Taste of Home

But Bowen still shook his head. He swallowed a piece of chicken and said, “Sorry, buddy. As a Texas cowboy—I could run at 1, mow grass at 3, herded sheep at 5, rode horses at 7, mastered poker and Texas Hold’em at 12, smoked weed at 14, hunted wolves at 16, bears at 17, and street raced all over North America at 18. By 20, I vowed to travel the world. Now I’m 25, and you want me to settle down in this tiny place?”

Saying that, he shook his head again. “No way. That’s impossible.”

While eating blueberries, the Commander suddenly looked up and shouted, “Ah! Ah! Your mom exploded!”

That made Old Wang feel oddly comforted. The Commander might be a bit of a dimwit, but at least he was on his side—made raising him worth it.

During the meal, Wang Bo tried to persuade Bowen again, even offering to take him on as a town official—maybe as a sheriff or tax officer.

But Bowen shook his head even more decisively this time. He curled his lip and said, “I once swore to Father God that I’d never become part of the damned ruling class bound for hell! Mm, this tomato is great—sweet and sour, cold and crisp. I love it.”

Seeing that this guy was totally impervious to persuasion, Wang Bo could only shrug and give up. He felt a bit regretful—this whole lunch was cooked for nothing, and it had taken quite a bit of effort too.

Bowen, however, was quite diligent. After lunch, he took care of the dishes and cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled.

Once the kitchen was clean, Bowen came out and asked, “Wang, my good friend, may I stay here tonight? Honestly, I’ve never slept in a castle before.”

“You’re not afraid of running into ghosts at night?” Wang Bo asked back.

Bowen gulped and forced a dry laugh. “Cowboys aren’t afraid of anything.”

Wang Bo said, “Then do you have bedding? I have plenty of rooms here.”

Upon hearing that, Bowen nodded excitedly. “Of course, my bedding’s in the car. I could even sleep in a tent outside—I brought one.”

Wang Bo nodded. “Alright, I’ll find you a room in a bit. Go grab your bedding now—I’ll help.”

Bowen waved his hand. “No need. My car’s parked right at the castle gate.”

That piqued Wang Bo’s interest. What kind of vehicle was tough enough to make it up this mountain?

The answer: a beat-up off-road motorcycle!

Bowen had a scrappy-looking off-road bike, which he proudly claimed was a great deal he’d scored for $400 in Auckland. But no matter how Wang Bo looked at it, it was just junk!

With nothing else to do in the castle, Wang Bo decided to prep some good food.

He opened the sandbox—the homestead area often had wild birds and animals passing through. When he went to the kitchen to check, he actually found some bird eggs hidden in the grass.

This time it wasn’t just one nest, but four, clustered together. They looked smaller than rail eggs, and the shells were a greenish color. Wang Bo took two nests and left the other two for the mother birds to incubate.

With no other gains, he turned his attention to making food.

Wang Bo had long wanted to make some hometown-style spicy sauces—spicy chili paste and spicy minced meat sauce. The meat had already been marinated in fresh chilies, soy sauce, and water for a day and a half, so it was ready to go. He got started in the afternoon.

Meanwhile, Bowen was sitting in the castle hall playing on his tablet. The mountain breeze wafted in, cool and fragrant with the scent of grass and wood. Cooling off in the hall felt better than air conditioning. The Commander clung to Bowen’s shoulder, watching the tablet intently, head bobbing curiously.

Wang Bo whistled, and the Commander immediately took flight, circled above Bowen’s head once, and then landed back on Wang Bo’s shoulder.

Wang Bo was not pleased. What was that behavior? Treason! Treachery! That was a betrayal by his parrot! He decided not to give that cheeky little brat any blueberries tonight—let him eat grapes instead!

Then the Commander promptly pooped on his shoulder and flew off again, crashing into a door on the way because he flew too fast. He quickly picked himself up, flapped his wings, corrected course, and finally flew out properly.

Wang Bo wasn’t fazed—he’d already put on a gas mask he’d swiped from a meth lab. Truly, a master strategist.

Carrying the Commander on his shoulder, Wang Bo started making the meat sauce. He first chopped the lean pork into fine mince, his knife flashing up and down as the meat turned into tiny diced bits. The meat had been marinated with chili, soy sauce, sugar, star anise, and cooking wine—it was ready to go.

The dried chili peppers were also chopped into little pieces. He poured oil into the wok and stir-fried sesame and crushed peanuts to release the fragrance.

Once the aroma rose, he added chopped scallions, ginger, and garlic for even more fragrance. Then came the minced meat, fried over high heat in oil until it became crispy little meat crumbles.

While that wok was going, he started a second one to make chili oil. Red crushed chilies can easily burn, so he turned off the heat as soon as the oil was hot and added the dried chili flakes.

As soon as the chilies hit the oil, a thick cloud of smoke billowed up, along with a nose-stinging chili aroma.

The Commander couldn’t handle it. With a shriek, he bolted—only to slam into the door again from flying too fast. He scrambled up, flapped wildly, and finally fled out.

Wang Bo was fine, thanks to his trusty gas mask—a true Machiavellian move.

While both the chili oil and meat bits were still hot, he mixed them together, added salt, sugar, and other seasonings, then stirred in some sweet soybean paste and gave it all a good stir-fry. The result was a fragrant and spicy minced meat sauce.

Wang Bo loved this kind of sauce. Whether stirred into noodles or spread on flatbread, it was delicious. So he made a whole jar—enough to last ten days or half a month.

The spicy chili paste was simpler, similar to Lao Gan Ma chili sauce, though the flavor was a bit different. This version required lots of ground Sichuan peppercorns and black pepper. The final taste was numbing and spicy—perfect with rice or as a condiment.

With the spicy meat sauce ready, he decided to keep dinner simple. He made some scallion egg pancakes: eggs, flour, pepper, and sesame oil mixed into a batter. Then he poured it into a hot, oiled pan to cook.

The secret to good egg pancakes is flipping frequently. And each time the pancake is turned, while the top is still hot and oily, sprinkle on chopped scallions and sesame seeds. That way, the finished pancake has vibrant green scallions and black sesame seeds embedded in the golden surface—beautiful, fragrant, and tasty.

He spent the whole afternoon doing nothing else—just preparing dinner. Looking out at the dark night outside, Old Wang couldn’t help but sigh:

“Time flows like a river, never ceasing day or night. Oh Wang Bo, Wang Bo, you’re just wasting away. When will you finally realize your socialist core values?”

With his self-reflection done, it was time to eat.

No need to call Bowen—he wasn’t staying to help build the town anyway. Just a passing stranger. Old Wang understood that clearly. So he focused on enjoying his meal. Of course, he didn’t forget the Commander. He couldn’t let his bird go hungry—at least, the feathered one.

He was at peace now. Maybe today the town official scoffed at him, but tomorrow? He’d be the mayor of a world-famous town! He firmly believed that Bowen turning down his offer wasn’t his loss—it was Bowen’s.