Chapter Fifty-Five: Really? I Don’t Believe It

I once heard that yellow millet is unsuitable for making flour, as it remains gritty and coarse, no matter how much it is ground.

Now, facing a bowl of golden millet set aside specifically for this, Chen Yu felt a restless urge. Is it truly unsuitable? He had never tried it, so he did not believe it.

He took a sniff. Such fragrant grain—it would be a pity not to grind it into flour and ferment it for pastries. Compared to ordinary spring millet, the grains nurtured by spirit liquid were not significantly different, though they were richer in aroma, purer in color, and more satiating. That was all there was to it; they lacked the many miraculous properties of true spirit plants, yet he had still poured a good deal of effort into them.

Mostly, he just wanted a pastry.

In his past life, yellow millet was excellent for making steamed cakes. Looking at the bowl before him, he saw no reason why it shouldn't work. After weighing his options, he decided to give it a try.

Before that, however, he boiled himself a bowl of thin porridge. He mixed white millet with the yellow, the colors swirling together in the bowl, emanating a warm fragrance.

He drank it down, a faint sweetness coating his throat, followed by a warmth spreading through his stomach. As he continued to eat, this warmth grew, transforming into a heat that flowed into his limbs.

Thump! Thump!

Near his heart, the seed of Qi stirred. Chen Yu focused his mind and spiritual sense, confirming that this warmth was seeping into his blood, circulating through his body, and finally gathering at his heart.

Faintly, his primordial blood felt a fraction stronger.

Finally, he understood the function of the spirit-nurtured grain. Satiety was merely for the gluttonous deer, which lacked primordial blood—in other words, its absorption capacity was far inferior to his own. That was why it had to lie down for an entire night after eating just twenty grains or so to recover.

Chen Yu, however, could absorb the energy via his primordial blood, allowing him to eat as much as he liked without fear of indigestion.

"The aroma can slightly refresh the mind, and the grains are somewhat similar to 'hunger-avoidance' beans, though far less potent."

Thinking of this, he suddenly felt he should grow more beans in his herb garden. Perhaps those beans could also strengthen his primordial blood?

He bowed his head in thought. This was something he hadn't considered before; when he had grown the beans previously, he hadn't yet channeled Qi into his apertures, and the primordial blood did not exist. By the time it did, the beans had already been eaten or discarded, leaving no way to verify it.

Fortunately, when he planted the fourth batch a few days ago, he hadn't completely excluded the beans, planting at least two patches.

Shaking his head, he brought his attention back to the pastries.

It was a bit late today, so he would wait until tomorrow to head up the mountain and gather some herbs. He could even add some medicinal ingredients to make medicated cakes.

The thought of the flavor was intriguing.

The main ingredient? Peach blossoms, of course.

It was decided: tomorrow, he would make a batch of peach blossom cakes.

The kind so bitter it would make your teeth ache.

...

He would indeed make the peach blossom cakes, but the "bitter enough to ache" part was just a joke. Chen Yu would not intentionally make himself suffer. Since he was the only one on the mountain who could eat them, making something truly terrible would be a waste of grain and a torment to himself.

As for giving them to "Brother Chicken"? That would be too wasteful; that fellow never gave the great Daoist master a pleasant look, so there was no need to offer a warm face to a cold backside.

As for the gluttonous deer... it would probably jump for joy. It feared no bitterness and would eat peach blossoms as a snack.

After considering it all, he decided to use ordinary peach blossoms instead.

With the delicate fragrance of peach blossoms and the rich, intoxicating scent of millet, it would surely be a fine pastry.

He washed and ground the grain. Early the next morning, after his morning meditation, Chen Yu hunched over the stone mill, turning it six hundred and ninety times. He didn't stop until the millet was reduced to a fine powder.

He refused to believe that after all this, it would still be "gritty."

He mixed the fine powder into a soft dough, covered it with a layer of dry flour, and sealed it in a jar to wait.

Fermentation required time. Taking advantage of the lull, Chen Yu went up the mountain and gathered some herbs. He washed, crushed, and soaked them to extract their juices.

Two more days passed. The fragrance of the dough was now faintly detectable, while the original scent of the millet had faded considerably.

In truth, he would have preferred to use rice wine for fermentation, but the temple had none—only a jar of fruit wine he had bought down the mountain for seasoning. The method he used was a variation of making fermented medicinal elixirs. He hadn't done it in his past life, but the memory existed; his predecessor had done it twice as a child with the old Daoist, and he had managed to dig it up.

Once the aroma became rich, Chen Yu took out the dough, kneaded in the herbal juice he had prepared, and then proceeded to roll and cut it.

Because it was his first time, he was a bit clumsy at first, but after a few more strokes of the knife, he grew proficient. Before long, he had rolled the dough thin and shaped it into small, delicate dumplings.

He pushed open the door, and the sound of falling rain filled his ears.

He donned his bamboo hat and went under the peach tree in front of the courtyard. He avoided the ones he had treated with spirit essence and chose an ordinary tree instead.

The two were easy to distinguish. The trees treated with spirit essence still had pink, tender petals, as if they would bloom indefinitely, unaffected by the changing seasons. The ordinary peach trees, by contrast, were already nearly withered.

Logically, peach blossom cakes should be made when the flowers first bloom. It was almost summer now, and even if the peach trees in this world differed from those in his past life, they couldn't hold on much longer, visibly wilting.

In their place were small, fuzzy green fruits. They would take about three months to ripen.

Chen Yu paid them no mind. After picking the blossoms, he glanced at the shed. It was empty; the foolish deer had disappeared, and he hadn't seen it since it wandered by a few days ago.

He shook his head and turned back. The rain was heavy, pattering loudly against his hat.

The rain had started last night, a torrential downpour that hadn't ceased all day. Fortunately, he had been diligent about clearing the irrigation channels along the fields, so there was no risk of flooding.

The pool behind the courtyard had also accumulated quite a bit of water. Once the rain cleared, he could plant the final medicinal herb.

Back in the kitchen, the light dimmed. Although it was morning, the sky was so dark he had to light a candle on the windowsill. Chen Yu set down the peach blossoms. They looked a bit withered, but they would have to do.

He fiddled with the dough for a while and then, on a sudden whim, decided to try something novel. He shaped the dough into geometric patterns, added a touch of salt and sweet-root juice, garnished them with the peach blossoms, and placed them into the steamer over the stove.

The fire roared beneath the pot.

After about two quarters of an hour, he lifted the lid and removed the steamer. A fresh, clean scent wafted out.

The steam cleared, revealing the final product.

"..."

How to put it? It was his first time, so mistakes were inevitable. As long as the taste wasn't bad, it would be fine.

With a twitch of his brow, he used his chopsticks to spear an oval-shaped dumpling, a limp, blurry peach blossom draped over the top.

He took a bite and tasted it carefully.

A long time passed before Chen Yu sighed. Forget it. He would give them to the gluttonous deer; it was good food, after all, and meant to be shared.

With that thought, as if unwilling to give up, he took another bite, then let out a long, weary sigh. He flattened the remaining dough into thin pancakes and tossed them onto the steamer.

As for these steamed... peach blossom cakes, he would deal with them when the little deer showed up. If that didn't work, he could always give them to Brother Chicken; surely, as a companion in misfortune, it wouldn't refuse.