Ning brought the bowl to the courtyard table before Yan went to the shrine. Steam rose from the bean soup, carrying the smell of salt and wood smoke. She had followed their mother’s old recipe, the one designed to stretch a handful of beans across a day’s meals.
Yan took a spoonful and considered it. “The salt is low.”
“The recipe was meant to stretch the beans, not impress a guest.”
“I’m your brother. I’m not a guest.”
“Then eat without grading it.”
Yan lifted his hands in surrender and took another spoonful. “What did Mother put in when there were fewer beans?”
“More water, a little dried onion, and whatever greens she had kept from the garden.”
“She always said it was enough.”
