Work Text:
Chu Wanning didn't even like spicy food. He preferred the sweeter tastes of Lin'an, he liked sticky rice in lotus root, not hot and sour soups that smelled so strong he would wrinkle his nose whenever Mengpo Hall served it. Sichuan cuisine was more of a warning bell than anything that could spark interest.
But Mo Ran liked spicy, didn't he? Mo Ran would like Sichuan food. And so the Beidou Immortal, scourge of all kitchens, went to his library and pulled out a book.
Years ago —
When he came across this plain book of recipes in the depths of Rufeng Sect's library, strangely out of place among other meticulously kept historical records, Chu Wanning only meant to move it aside. Maybe pull it out so the disciples in charge of keeping the library in order would take note of the irregularity and put it in a bin where it belonged.
Except, at the first touch, he could feel faint spiritual energy. Nothing malicious, nothing very noticeable, but certainly out of place. Frowning slightly, he read the barriers, and the caster's intention. Layer after layer of protection barriers applied around its pages, clearly set by a strong cultivator who meant to shield it from splashes and ended up preserving it through millenia.
Who...what kind of person would take such care of a recipe book?
Interest piqued, Chu Wanning flipped it open, landing on a random page. At first glance, there seemed nothing out of the ordinary, an ordinary book just as he expected. As he leafed through, he found instructions for all sorts of common dishes: chili oil wontons, fried shrimp, ingredients for spicy hot pot soup…
Those sharp phoenix eyes missed nothing. Very quickly, he noticed that the margins were marked up with careful print, peppering the instructions with handwritten notes.
peel shrimp by hand, they’re innocent, go easy on them (´･ᴗ･ ` )
half to half is good enough, you don't need to measure out exact proportions
throwing a fireball at it is not the same as frying in oil!! do not attempt!! (＃`Д´)
This one was accompanied by suitably threatening flame doodles.
Chu Wanning wasn't convinced, since application of spiritual fire theoretically would give similar results to the high heat of frying, but he kept reading.
swap out tapioca starch for cassava starch, it'll get crispier
brush it with some oil and roast again, it tastes better that way
(っ˘ω˘ς ) it’s okay if it looks a little bit burned, don’t throw it out!!
Now, he was fully invested. He knew, these playful little suggestions were written by someone who knew about as much about cooking as they did about the habits of its reader.
you'll like this better with fish instead of lamb
roll up your sleeves first, this gets messy
|･ω･) corn? can i trust you to be nice to the corn?
Truly absurd. This one didn't even make sense.
Certain pages had many more notes than others. Some, like the recipe for a green onion pancake, were completely untouched. The little drawings showed up often, keeping the margins populated with smiling faces or haphazard doodles of a black dog.
At the very end, a fully handwritten page was sewn in, detailing a recipe for crispy roast goose. Here, the author did not hold back on extra suggestions:
get a nice and fat one! we can give the bones to fandou
any fruit wood works but you know lychee wood will always be the best (¬‿¬ )
A little face, sticking its tongue out: buy plums from old wang, his are nice and sour
This book hinted at a life together; cold mornings made warmer by chicken soup, spiced meat shared over potato rice. A home built from two bowls and two pairs of chopsticks, placed close on the same table.
this soup is very light, you’ll like it. if you forget to eat and fall sick again, i’ll make it for you, so you have to drink it, okay?
There were no notes of likes or dislikes, as if writing out 'don't buy scallions' would be a waste of ink when the cook remembered your preferences better than yourself. All of them were sweetly teasing, like a kiss pressed into paper, like stray thoughts materialized.
A hundred little love letters holding warmth that had nothing to do with the stove.
How much did their reader treasure this book? Enough that even after millennia, the ink hadn’t faded. Repeated use had softened its edges, but time had done nothing to the paper. There was pure adoration in each brushstroke, matched and returned by layer upon layer of protective barriers. What recipes, what goose, this was a love token, bearing witness to a life shared.
It felt like he was intruding on someone else’s happiness.
At this thought, Chu Wanning inwardly mocked himself. Did he miss dinner? Was hunger making him stupid? Did his brain have some problems, to read this far into some old recipe book that had nothing to do with him?
But, when he left the library that day, this old recipe book came with him. Maybe it was because it really did stand out from its sleek historical neighbours, or maybe it was a selfish, secret whim to take this warmth for himself. He tucked it into the recesses of a bookshelf, that remembered sweetness feeling like a milk candy kept in his pocket. Even after he left Rufeng Sect, this book remained in his possession. On cold and silent nights, no one would know if the Yuheng Elder was poring over his mechanisms or ancient pages marked with smiles for someone long gone.
It’s not like he would ever cook for someone like that, nor would anyone ever treat him with that same soft indulgence. No one needed to know.
But now---
Chu Wanning brought the book to the kitchens, finding the pages on chili oil wontons. He knew he was unlikeable and stiff, but perhaps the people that had made this book could help him express his regret and care without needing him to say it out loud. He could borrow some of their warmth and give it to Mo Ran, even if he had none himself.
Carefully, very carefully, he gathered the ingredients, preparing the filling and rolling out wrappers, bolstered by the encouragement in the book. The mysterious writer had even included diagrams on how to fold the wontons, now for a second reader that needed to be walked through the steps.
By the time he had wrapped them into plump and uniform shapes, the intense concentration imprinted in Chu Wanning’s brow had softened. There was a soothing ritual to it; each dab of filling and twist of the wrapper blessed by repetition and growing familiarity. They were good enough, weren't they? Mo Ran didn't need to know who made them as long as it softened the blow of his punishment. If he didn't know, then it didn't matter.
In the wontons, all that he needed to taste was the tiniest, half-muffled "sorry".
Chu Wanning gently placed each plump parcel into the bubbling pot, and all his unspoken wishes with them.
"Shi Mei? Once they're done, bring a bowl to Mo Ran."