Song Tan’s Chronicle - Chapter 147.2

On the side, Zhang Yanping, who had eaten a little too much, was strolling around the courtyard with his belly sticking out, playfully teasing the three little puppies with his foot. It was a scene of pure harmony.

Song Tan thought for a moment and asked, “Brother Yanping, there isn’t much work recently. Do you want to go home?”

She originally wanted to get some labor out of him but didn’t expect Zhang Yanping to be well-connected, helping in many ways.

Keeping him here for farm work now would be too embarrassing!

To her surprise, Zhang Yanping reacted as if pricked by a needle and waved his hands repeatedly: “No, no, no, I’m determined to put down roots in the countryside and contribute to rural development!”

Contributing by wandering around aimlessly after eating every day?

Song Tan was skeptical.

But then, Zhang Yanping’s phone chimed. He quickly opened it, and his mother Wu Fang’s loud voice echoed through the courtyard:

“Yanping! When is the civil service exam this year? I heard you need to join a training class. Check it out, and if necessary, go back to the city and sign up!”

Without hesitation, Zhang Yanping replied via voice message:

“No need, Mom. I can study and prepare here at Aunt’s place. Taking root in the countryside and learning about national development will help me in the interview.”

After finishing, he put his phone back in his pocket and continued wandering around the courtyard.

Fortunately, Wu Lan had already walked far away with her basket, or she wouldn’t have let him get away with such a blatant lie—rooting in the countryside and studying national development? He wasn’t even as good at farming as Qiao Qiao!

But despite complaining about not doing any work, when it came to lending a hand, Yanping was always there to help.

He didn’t even want to go back to study; how did he manage to get into that 211 university before?

One wonders, is there no joy in studying?

She loaded the bamboo shoots into the car, planning to leave once Qiao Qiao finished washing the dishes. Seventh Granduncle glanced at the overcast sky and nodded: “You did well with the timing for planting the trees and vegetables yesterday.”

He murmured under his breath, quoting an old farming proverb:

“If you plant melons at the time of Jingzhe, they won’t flower in vain. If you plant them during Qingming, they will fill the carts and boats.”

Seventh Granduncle continued, dissatisfied:

“I see some space by the wall. Why not plant a few pumpkin vines? When they bloom, you can fry pumpkin flowers to eat.”

Easy enough!

Song Tan agreed immediately: “Not just around the house; we can plant them on the slopes at the edges of the fields too. I’ll tell my dad later.”

Seventh Granduncle nodded, recalling his past struggles of growing cabbages in the cracks between bricks, and looked at the large basket in his hand with renewed vigor.

“Hey, Yanping!” he called out. “Come on, let’s go find some food together.”

“Are we picking locust flowers again?” Zhang Yanping perked up.

Seventh Granduncle snorted, “Even the best things can’t be eaten every day. That was just to taste something new—I’m going to find something different.”

He had been rushing back and forth between the village and the city in recent years and rarely had the chance to stroll around like this. Now, walking with Seventh Grandaunt through the fields and forests, all the memories of a lifetime seemed to resurface.

When they passed by the bamboo forest, he sighed, “These bamboos are so full of life; no wonder the bamboo shoots tasted so good yesterday.”

But he had eaten enough bamboo shoots yesterday, so he kept walking.

When they reached the embankment where the bamboo forest met the pond, the buzzing of bees caught his attention—

“This morning’s soup was made with astragalus, so let’s use rapeseed flowers for lunch. Each person can have a bowl of rapeseed flower and poached eggs, and we can make a cold dish with them mixed with wild onions.”

Since returning to his hometown, Zhang Yanping had already tried all sorts of creative local dishes, so he wasn’t surprised by the menu.

Without hesitation, he stepped into the sparse patch of rapeseed flowers and began snapping off the blooms.

There was no poetry or romance to it, just practicality.

Luckily, as a seasoned chef, Seventh Granduncle only cared about how things tasted and didn’t comment on Zhang Yanping’s rough handling.

Looking down, he noticed a patch of mint nearby. He frowned slightly, looking a bit troubled:

“If we made chicken and mint soup for lunch, it would work…”