Yuanyou first year, fifteenth day of the fourth month. The first time I delivered food to the Empress Dowager.
I rose before dawn. April wind still carried chill, slipping through window to make the stove flames flicker. Eunuch Li was already busy at the stove; seeing me enter, he didn't look up. Several ingredients lay neatly before him, as if waiting for me.
"What today?"
"Osmanthus cakes. Red bean porridge. Steamed fish. Seasonal vegetables."
He nodded. "The Empress Dowager doesn't eat too sweet. Less sugar in the osmanthus cakes."
"I know. Thirty percent less than His Majesty's."
He glanced at me, said nothing. That look held "you finally remembered." Having learned at his side for nearly a year, I had learned not only fire control and judging ingredient freshness, but remembering each person's tastes—the Empress Dowager doesn't eat too sweet, Zhao Xu dislikes ginger, Eunuch Li himself loves spicy but never says.
Water on the stove boiled, bubbling and rolling, steam filling the entire Inner Kitchen. I placed osmanthus cakes in the steamer, started the porridge, marinated the fish. Doing each thing slower than usual, more carefully than usual. At Columbia, Emily would always say watching me cook: "Sue, are you cooking or doing an experiment?" Thinking now, she wasn't wrong. In the Food Studies laboratory, I learned gram-precise ratios, using thermometers to measure oil temperature, recording how each variable changed results. But at the Inner Kitchen stove, none of these applied. No thermometer, no measuring cups, no precise-to-the-second timers. Eunuch Li taught me—touching dough to know if kneaded enough, smelling porridge to know if cooked right, looking at the Empress Dowager's expression to know whether to add an extra spoon of water or reduce half a spoon of salt. This was another kind of learning. Not from the laboratory, but from the kitchen. Not Columbia-taught, but Suzhou Grandmother-taught, Eunuch Li-supplemented.
But today, I wanted to make something new.
Yesterday evening, searching the storeroom for dried osmanthus, I found a pumpkin in the corner. Not large, golden yellow, covered with dust. Probably stored last autumn, never used. I carried it out, wiped it clean, placed it on the stove, looked at it for a long time. Pumpkin pie. Every autumn, Grandmother would make. First autumn at Columbia, homesick, I tried making it once in the dormitory kitchen. Emily smelled it and ran in: "Ivy, what are you making? The whole hallway smells it." She took the first bite, said it was better than her mother's. I said that's because I added cinnamon and a little ginger. She said that's not the American recipe. I said this is the Ivy recipe. Every autumn after, I would make it. Sometimes Emily would help me crimp the edges, crimping crookedly, even uglier than Zhao Xu's egg-fried rice drawing. After Grandmother passed, I never made it again. Not that I didn't want to, but feared making it, remembering her. Now she is still there. The noodle shop on Shiquan Street still open. Every morning noodles go into the pot, soup boils, customers come and go. She doesn't know I'm here. She thinks I'm in New York, thinks I'm writing my thesis, thinks I'll return someday.
I cut the pumpkin open, removed seeds, steamed, mashed into puree. At Columbia's laboratory, this step I would use a blender, whipping into silky smoothness. But now no blender, only sieve and wooden spoon. I pressed bit by bit, sieved bit by bit, wrist aching but not stopping. Pressed until the pumpkin puree was as fine as silk, I stopped. Added honey, added cinnamon, added a little ginger. Eggs freshly delivered from the Imperial Kitchen, still carrying the hen's warmth. I added a pinch of salt. Grandmother's recipe had no salt, but Eunuch Li said, the Empress Dowager doesn't love sweet things, a little salt can bring out the sweetness. This he taught me. Dough kneaded, rolled out, placed in the mold. This mold I made myself, bending bamboo strips into a circle, binding tight with thin string. Crooked, but usable.
Pumpkin puree poured in, smoothed. Eunuch Li watched from the side, suddenly asked: "What is this?"
"Pumpkin pie. Where I used to live, every autumn we make this."
"Every household makes it?"
"Mm. Every autumn, pumpkins harvested, every household's kitchen has this scent. Whole families sit together, cut a piece, share and eat."
He asked no more. I placed it in the steamer. No oven, only steaming. Steamed pumpkin pie, different from baked, no golden crispy crust, but softer, more glutinous. Surface golden yellow, like an autumn moon. I sprinkled a little cinnamon on top, drizzled a spoon of honey. Honey slowly flowed down the golden surface, sparkling.
Food box packed. Three layers. The top layer, not osmanthus cakes. That round, golden pie, emitting butter and cinnamon fragrance. I carried the food box toward the side hall behind Funing Hall. April wind came, warm and comfortable, carrying locust flower sweetness. Locust trees on both sides of the palace path were in full bloom, strings and strings, white as snow. I walked slowly, fearing soup would spill, fearing the pumpkin pie would shake apart in the box.
At the side hall entrance, the Chief Nurse already stood there, holding that blue cloth-covered ledger. Seeing me, she nodded.
"Something new today," I said.
She frowned. "What new?"
"Made for the Empress Dowager. A pastry from very far away."
She opened the food box, saw the pumpkin pie, paused. "What is this?"
"Pumpkin pie. Made with pumpkin, flour, eggs, honey. And cinnamon—a spice from very far west. Someone brought it from the Western Regions last year, never used."
The nurse looked at the pumpkin pie, hesitated a long time. She was probably thinking, how dare a palace maid make something never before seen, to present to the Empress Dowager.
"Let her enter." The Empress Dowager's voice came from within the hall. The nurse stepped aside; I carried the food box in.
The Empress Dowager sat on the couch, a low table before her. On the table were unreviewed memorials, stacked neatly. She wore everyday clothes, hair combed without a single strand out of place, the same jade hairpin as last time, slanting in her hair bun. She watched me place the food box on the table, take out the contents one by one. Osmanthus cakes, red bean porridge, steamed fish, vegetables. Finally, the pumpkin pie.
She looked at it, said nothing. Her gaze paused on that golden pie, as if recognizing something.
"What is this?"
"Pumpkin pie. Where I used to live, there's a pastry made with pumpkin. Every autumn, every household makes it. I thought, spring has come, last year's pumpkins are still stored, so I tried making it."
"You said where you used to live, every household makes this?"
"Yes. Every autumn, pumpkins harvested, every household's kitchen has this scent. Whole families sit together, cut a piece, share and eat. When I was young, the elder in my family would teach me to make it."
"Then you came here, do you still make it?"
I paused. "Last autumn, no pumpkins. This year—I thought, wait for autumn's new pumpkins, then make again."
The Empress Dowager picked up the pumpkin pie, took a bite. Very small bite, chewed for a long time. I stood below, palms sweating. She swallowed, took another bite. This time, she chewed slower, as if savoring something. Her brow moved slightly—not a frown, but something lighter than a frown. Like recognizing a long-unseen flavor. After finishing the second bite, she set down the pumpkin pie, raised her teacup for a drink.
"What flavor is this?"
"Pumpkin's sweetness, cinnamon's fragrance, and a little ginger. I thought, spring suddenly warm then cold, adding a little ginger warms the stomach."
"You said, where you used to live, every household makes this. So your family makes it too?"
"Yes. Grandmother—the elder in my family, makes it every autumn. When I was young, I would stand beside the stove watching. Later learned, make it every year."
"Then you came here, still make it?"
I paused. "Last autumn, no pumpkins. This year—I thought, wait for autumn's new pumpkins, then make again."
The Empress Dowager took another bite of the pumpkin pie. This time, she ate very slowly. After swallowing, she suddenly said: "Sent to His Majesty's side too?"
"Not yet. I thought, first let the Empress Dowager taste. If the Empress Dowager finds it acceptable, then make for His Majesty."
She nodded. Finished the piece in her hand, picked up another.
"Make one for him too. He loved sweet things as a child. When the late emperor was alive, the Imperial Kitchen's osmanthus cakes, he could eat three." She paused, "Later the late emperor passed, he didn't eat much. I didn't let him eat, and he truly didn't eat."
Her voice was very calm, as if speaking of something long past. But I heard something else. She didn't let him eat, so he didn't eat. Nine-year-old child, lost his father, grandmother said no sweet things, so he truly didn't eat. Not that he didn't want to eat, but fear. Fear of what? Fear of her displeasure? Fear of her thinking him inconsiderate? Fear of even this grandmother not wanting him anymore?
"When he was young, his appetite was poor," the Empress Dowager said again, voice lighter, "When the late emperor was alive, imperial physicians changed one batch after another, all useless. I tried every method, useless."
She looked at the pumpkin pie in her hand, looked for a long time.
"Later you came. He was willing to eat."
She didn't look at me. Still looking at that pumpkin pie. Golden yellow, round, like a small moon.
"His writing notes to you, I know."
My heart skipped a beat.
"His giving you New Year's silver, I know." She put the pumpkin pie in her mouth, took a bite, "That painting he gave you—two people crouching watching ants in the Imperial Garden, I even had someone mount it."
I stood below, not knowing what to say. She knew everything. From the first day knew. She just didn't speak.
"I don't blame you." She interrupted me. Finished the pumpkin pie, raised her teacup for a drink. "He's happy, that's good. He's happy, he can eat a few more bites. Eat a few more bites, he can grow tall. Grow tall, he can..." she paused, "be like his father."
She set down the teacup, looked at me.
"From now on, make more of this pumpkin pie. Send to him too."
"Yes."
"No need to wait for autumn. Make when there are pumpkins."
"Yes."
She paused. "Sweetness just right. He should like it too."
I withdrew. At the doorway, I looked back. She had already picked up the memorials, head lowered reviewing. But the corner of her mouth moved. Not a smile, but something lighter than a smile. Like her tone when mentioning Zhao Xu loved osmanthus cakes as a child. Like that flash in her eyes when she said "he didn't eat much." She knew everything. Knew Zhao Xu wrote notes, knew Zhao Xu gave New Year's silver, knew Zhao Xu painted that picture. She said nothing. She was just waiting. Waiting for him to be happy, waiting for him to eat a few more bites, waiting for him to grow tall. Waiting for him to be like his father.
Returning to the Inner Kitchen, Eunuch Li was scrubbing the pot at the stove. Seeing me enter, he didn't look up.
"How was it?"
"The Empress Dowager ate."
"What did she say?"
"Said sweetness just right. Said make one for His Majesty too."
Eunuch Li paused his work, glanced at me. "What else did the Empress Dowager say?"
"Said His Majesty loved sweet things as a child. When the late emperor was alive, could eat three osmanthus cakes. Later the late emperor passed, didn't eat much. The Empress Dowager didn't let him eat, so he didn't eat."
Eunuch Li said nothing. He put away the pot, dried his hands, raised his teacup.
"The Empress Dowager, doesn't speak with her mouth. But her heart is clear about everything. His Majesty fears her, she knows. His Majesty dares not eat sweet things, she also knows. But she doesn't speak. She fears speaking will make His Majesty more fearful."
He drank a mouthful of tea.
"After you came, His Majesty was happy. The Empress Dowager could see. She didn't speak, fearing if you became too happy, you would do wrong. Now she has you make pumpkin pie for His Majesty, is because she feels you won't do wrong anymore."
He left with his teacup. I stood at the stove, looking at that remaining half pumpkin. Golden yellow, like a small moon. The Empress Dowager said, make one for him too. He loved sweet things as a child. Later didn't eat. Not that he didn't want to eat, but dared not eat. Fearing grandmother's displeasure. Fearing even this last relative wouldn't want him anymore. Nine-year-old child, lost his father, even sweet things dared not eat.
That afternoon, I delivered food to Zhao Xu. He sat before his desk, a book spread before him, few pages turned. Seeing me, he set down the book, stood up.
"Heard you made something today... pumpkin pie?"
"How did you know?"
"What happens in this palace can be hidden from me?" He imitated the Empress Dowager's tone, very serious. Then smiled. "Good?"
"The Empress Dowager said sweetness just right."
"Then next time make one for me too."
"You cannot eat too sweet."
"The Empress Dowager said just right, that means not sweet. Not sweet, I can eat."
I looked at him. He stood before me, April sunlight leaking through window缝隙 onto his face, bright. His eyes were still those eyes, but the distance between his brows was no longer as wide as last year. His jawline had hardened somewhat. But when he wanted to eat, he was still that child.
"The Empress Dowager said, you loved sweet things as a child. When the late emperor was alive, could eat three osmanthus cakes."
He paused. Smile slowly fading.
"What else did the Empress Dowager say?"
"Said later you didn't eat much. The Empress Dowager didn't let you eat, so you didn't eat."
He said nothing. Lowered his head, looking at the desktop. After a while, voice very soft: "She didn't let me eat, so I didn't eat. She doesn't like me eating sweet things."
"How do you know she doesn't like it?"
"She said. Said sweet things harm the body. Said the late emperor ate too many sweet things as a child, harmed his stomach."
"Then are you afraid of her, or afraid of harming your body?"
He raised his head, looked at me. In those eyes were hesitation, uncertainty, and a little—very small, hidden deepest—grievance.
"Both."
I crouched down, meeting his eyes levelly. "The Empress Dowager said today, make a pumpkin pie for you too. Said sweetness just right, you should also like it."
He froze. "Really?"
"Really."
"She said?"
"She said."
He stood there, silent for a long time. Then lowered his head, voice very soft: "She didn't let me eat sweet things before. I thought she didn't like me eating. I thought she didn't like..."
He didn't finish. But I understood. He thought the Empress Dowager didn't like him. Not that she didn't like him eating sweet things, but didn't like him. Nine-year-old child, lost his father, whatever grandmother said he obeyed. Dared not ask, dared not speak, dared not eat one extra osmanthus cake. Fearing asking, the answer wouldn't be what he wanted. Fearing speaking, even this last bit of care would be gone.
"What else did the Empress Dowager say?"
"Said as long as you're happy, that's good. Said when you're happy, you can eat a few more bites. Said eat a few more bites, you can grow tall. Said grow tall, you can be like your father."
He raised his head, looked at me. Eyes red, but not crying.
"She really said this?"
"Really."
He lowered his head, buried his face in his sleeve. After a while, muffled: "Then make me pumpkin pie. Less sugar. The Empress Dowager said just right, that's just right."
"Good. Less sugar."
He raised his head, smiled. Smiled until his eyes curved, like April wind. But beneath that smile, something was different. Like ice cracking a seam, water surging up from below, slowly, gently.
That evening, I made two pumpkin pies. One for the Empress Dowager, one for Zhao Xu. For the Empress Dowager: one spoon honey, little cinnamon, little ginger. For Zhao Xu: half spoon honey, more cinnamon, no ginger. The Empress Dowager said just right, that's just right. He liked eating sweet things, but he wanted even more for the Empress Dowager to find it just right. Then just right.
I packed Zhao Xu's into the food box, had Eunuch Li deliver. He left with the box, returned after a while holding an empty food box and an empty plate. The plate was clean, not even crumbs remaining.
"What did His Majesty say?"
"His Majesty said, sweetness just right." He paused, "Also said one thing."
"What?"
"Said—'Tell A Heng, want to eat again tomorrow.'"
I smiled. "Then make again tomorrow."
Eunuch Li nodded, left with his teacup. At the doorway, he stopped.
"The Empress Dowager's side, also finished. Said sweetness just right. Also said one thing."
"What?"
"Said—'Make a few more for His Majesty. He loved sweet things as a child.'"
He left. I stood at the stove, looking at those two empty plates. One for the Empress Dowager, one for Zhao Xu. One said sweetness just right, one also said sweetness just right. One said, make a few more for him. One said, want to eat again tomorrow. They weren't speaking of pumpkin pie. They were saying—I still care about you.
Moon outside the window. Round, bright. I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, make two more pumpkin pies. For the Empress Dowager: one spoon honey, little cinnamon, little ginger. For Zhao Xu: half spoon honey, more cinnamon, no ginger. Sweetness just right. They will both like it.
The pumpkin pie recipe, I remembered in my heart. Not Columbia-taught, but Grandmother-taught, Eunuch Li-supplemented. Is the Empress Dowager's "sweetness just right," is Zhao Xu's "want to eat again tomorrow." Are those unspoken words—I still care about you. I know you care about me too.
[End of Chapter 18]