Chapter 1

1

Mom came home from the flour mill carrying a sack of expired flour.

It was moldy and crawling with maggots.

When I stood staring instead of moving, she kicked me hard.

“What use are you? Standing there like an idiot!”

“Can’t you see your mother carrying something? Help!”

She flung the heavy sack at me.

Twenty jin of flour struck my chest and knocked me to the floor. Stars burst before my eyes.

That was when I realized I had come back.

To that Winter Solstice.

In my previous life, Mom had refused to spend money on fresh flour for dumplings.

When the factory discarded several moldy sacks, she treated it like finding gold and happily brought one home.

I told her moldy flour could contain aflatoxin. It could kill.

Grandma cursed me for saying something so unlucky on a holiday.

When the neighbors heard we were making dumplings with moldy flour, they laughed at us.

Humiliated, Mom shut the door and beat me.

To prove it wasn’t poisonous, she made Dad force my mouth open.

Handful after handful of moldy flour went down my throat until my belly swelled like a drum.

Because I had held her up, there was no time to make dumplings.

She took the whole family to a restaurant, cursing as she went.

I was locked inside.

I rolled on the floor in agony and died that Winter Solstice night.

***

Coming back to myself, I looked at the sack on the floor and quietly carried it into the kitchen.

Cobwebs and insect eggs clung to the outside.

Mom didn’t care. She wiped it with a rag and opened it.

A cloud of white dust rose. A heavy moldy smell filled the kitchen.

She slapped my face.

“What are you staring at? Get a basin and mix the dough!”

I opened the cupboard and took out a plastic basin.

Another thing she had “picked up” at work.

Apparently, the old security guard used to wash his feet in it.

But she believed a quick rinse made anything as good as new.

2

She tipped out a basinful of flour.

Several clumps had sprouted pale yellow mold.

She casually picked them out to throw away, then reconsidered and told me to fetch a large bowl.

She meant to wash out the starch and keep the wheat gluten, the protein, to cook.

The stainless-steel bowl was stolen from the mill, too.

It had belonged to Dahuang, the guard dog.

Maggots writhed through the flour among patches of insect eggs.

I nearly vomited.

Afraid of another beating, I quickly poured in water and began kneading.

Maggots, eggs, and pale mold disappeared into the dough.

Pleased that I wasn’t arguing this time, Mom took moldy wood-ear mushrooms, maggot-infested glass noodles, and half a bag of blackened, rotten daylily buds from the cupboard.

She blanched them.

Then she opened the refrigerator and took out pork covered in blue-green mold.

She minced it and mixed it with the other ingredients.

Leaning close to sniff, she called me over.

“Come here, brat. Does this meat smell bad?”

I thought, It spent three days in the factory canteen’s rubbish before you brought it home and kept it another two. How could it not?

Out loud, I was obedient.

“You’re right, Mom. A little dirt won’t hurt. It makes you stronger!”

“I heard people abroad deliberately let meat spoil before eating it.”

She looked satisfied.

She tossed in a large handful of thirteen-spice powder and emptied the filthy grease from the extractor hood into the filling.

After a stir, a rich smell spread through the room.

3

I helped wrap the dumplings.

Soon, they covered the table.

Grandma came home from her walk, saw them, and flew into a rage.

She struck Mom several times with her cane.

“Wasteful woman! Who makes this many for Winter Solstice?”

“Boil one pot. Just enough for a taste.”

“Put the rest in the fridge for your husband and my precious grandson.”

“You two unlucky females keep your hands off them!”

Mom limped into the kitchen to cook.

Under Grandma’s supervision, I put the rest away.

The dumplings were ready quickly.

Grandma took a large ladle and divided them.

Dad, head of the household, got the most.

Eighteen.

My brother, the treasured heir, got sixteen.

Grandma gave herself fifteen.

Only five remained for Mom and me.

I quickly clutched my stomach.

“Let Mom have them all. I ate at the canteen at lunch and got a stomachache.”

“The doctor said plain rice porridge. Nothing rich.”

“If it becomes an intestinal infection, hospital treatment could cost thousands.”

At the mention of hospital bills, Grandma immediately gave all five to Mom.

Then she looked at me in contempt.

“I told you girls bring bad luck. You haven’t even got the good fortune to eat a dumpling on Winter Solstice.”

Mom looked from her five dumplings to my empty bowl.

At last, she smiled smugly.

“There’s mung-bean porridge in the fridge. I brought it from work. Heat that.”

I opened the door.

A rancid smell hit me.

There was a basin of mung-bean porridge.

Factory canteen bean soup in which she had soaked leftover rice for three days.

The rice had molded beneath a pale green coating.

4

In my previous life, I had secretly thrown that entire basin away, afraid my parents would get sick.

When Mom found out, she grabbed the potato peeler and dragged it across my arm until flesh and blood mingled.

Only when I cried and begged forgiveness did she stop.

Then she made a new rule.

Without permission from her and Grandma, I was no longer allowed to take anything from the refrigerator.

Remembering how much Grandma loved porridge, I calmly shut the door.

I took half a leftover steamed bun and poured boiling water over it to soften it.

Mom looked angry again.

“Why aren’t you eating the porridge?”

“Ashamed to eat leftovers I brought from the factory?”

“No, Mom. Grandma says we should save gas.”

“Reheating porridge means using the stove. This saves money for the family.”

Mom pressed her lips together.

Grandma beamed and praised me for finally learning some sense.

She even picked up a dumpling from her bowl for me.

Before I could refuse, my brother began to wail.

“They’re mine! All mine!”

“Don’t give any to that jinx!”

Her saliva-wet chopsticks changed direction at once.

The dumpling dropped into his bowl.

Smugly, he shoved it into his mouth, then stood and pulled the pot of dumpling broth away from me.

“Jinx! Rubbish!”

“You don’t even get the soup!”

Under Grandma’s careful rationing, no one had quite had enough to eat.

So she divided the remaining broth.

None for me, of course.

I let out a long breath.

As though I had escaped death.