Chapter 26: Hotpot Noodles
Following the base’s second major freeze, outdoor temperatures hovered between a daily high of -35°C and a bone-chilling low of -60°C. Even bundled in his padded winter coat and Cloud-Cocoon suit, Zhao Man dared not linger in the courtyard for more than a few moments. Tang Heng had only managed to drop off supplies once midway through; other than that, he simply checked in each evening to report that he was safe.
Every day, the base pushed notifications asking: Would you like to register as a Base Relief Station? Zhao Man had looked into the details. A relief station meant a resident with adequate housing took in citizens who were homeless or whose shelters lacked sufficient insulation to survive the winter. It paid a generous ten points per person. Every single time, however, he clicked “Decline.”
Waking up early, he wheeled the heater into the kitchen, unlatched the rear blackout window, and sprinted to the latrine to relieve himself. On his way back, he peered through the glass to survey the outside.
A dozen or so mutated beasts lay scattered across the sulfur rocks. No new carcasses had been added today. The one furthest from the house had arrived two nights ago; it had frozen to death before it could even trigger the perimeter defense system.
Zhao Man darted back to the kitchen, ladling water from a bamboo cylinder into the kettle to boil. Whenever he emptied one cylinder, he immediately refilled it from the tap before moving to the next. Tang Heng had even brought over an extra collapsible water tub, which was also filled to the brim. The faucet had been flowing smoothly all along, leading Zhao Man to wonder if he was just being paranoid. Today, however, the pipes began to cough and sputter with a harsh clack-clack, coughing up only a pathetic trickle after several long seconds.
To pass the time, Zhao Man decided to make something elaborate. Given his limited ingredients, that simply meant kneading dough; today, he was having noodles in meat broth.
He retrieved the palm-sized cut of pork Tang Heng had brought from the bamboo trough and placed it in water to thaw.
In his previous life, Zhao Man had been a southerner. Everything he knew about hand-pulled noodles came from short video tutorials: take a bowl of flour, add warm water, stir with chopsticks until it forms shaggy flakes, knead into a dough, let it rest until doubled in size, repeat the kneading and resting, roll it flat, slice it, and finally boil it. That was roughly how the memory went.
A bowl of flour, add warm water until shaggy flakes form. But how much warm water did one bowl of flour actually need? Puzzled, Zhao Man began trickling water in bit by bit. After two or three pours, he realized he’d added too much liquid, so he tossed in another bowl of flour. Then it was too dry, so he poured in more water. Fortunately, his bowl was small. After four or five rounds of adjustments, the mixture finally came together into shaggy flakes, filling half a basin.
He gathered it into a cohesive ball, covered it with a pot lid, and carried it over to rest beside the heater. Crouching by the warmth, Zhao Man used his terminal to snap a photo of the dough resting under the transparent lid. Then, he headed to the firewood pile to chop a straight length of thick bamboo, washing it clean to serve as a rolling pin.
With the rolling pin prepped, Zhao Man crouched beside the basin, holding his hands over the dough to measure it before checking against the photo on his screen. It still looked a bit shy of doubling in size. He slipped into the bedroom, grabbed a small handful of dried water bamboo from a storage bag, set it to soak, and returned to crouch by the basin. Now, it looked roughly doubled.
Dusting a handful of flour across the countertop, he tipped the dough out. In the videos, people always poked the dough twice to test it, so Zhao Man did the same. His finger left a neat indentation that sprang back smoothly before leveling out.
Zhao Man nodded in satisfaction: Looks like it proofed pretty well.
Next came kneading. Having no idea what texture he was aiming for, Zhao Man set a timer for ten minutes and worked the dough like a load of laundry. When the alarm went off, he tossed it back into the basin, covered it, and let it rest again.
Relying entirely on gut feeling, he completed three cycles of resting and kneading. Setting the dough on the counter to roll out, he realized the mass was far too large to handle at once, forcing him to divide it into three portions.
He pressed the first ball outward from the center, then rolled it top to bottom, left to right. After ten minutes of continuous rolling, the dough stretched into a thin sheet. Zhao Man dusted a layer of flour across the surface, flipped it over to flour the other side, folded it into neat tiers, and sliced it with his knife into broad noodles.
Lifting a strand, Zhao Man admired it closely and couldn’t resist praising himself: “Looks the part. Not bad at all, if I do say so myself.”
By the time he finished rolling all three batches, noodles covered the basin and the cutting board. He set aside the portion he intended to eat today and carried the rest to the bamboo troughs in the courtyard.
The troughs sat furthest from the kitchen, right against the exterior wall where temperatures remained freezing cold. Ever since the pork had flash-frozen outside, it had stayed rock-hard out here.
Just as he turned back toward the kitchen, his gaze caught on the firewood pile, and he paused. In this weather, hotpot noodle soup over an open flame would be wonderfully warm.
Returning to the bedroom, he hauled the small wood-burning stove from the corner. Spotting the jar of salted bamboo shoots, he used chopsticks to fish out three shoots and set them to soak in a bowl. While he was at it, he grabbed another handful of dried water bamboo to soak, and as he passed the produce, he picked up a potato and a sand yam, scrubbing and peeling them both.
With the cutting board occupied by noodles, Zhao Man had to slice everything directly on the countertop. Fortunately, the surface was tiled and reasonably long.
He sliced the potato and sand yam into rounds, rinsed the salted bamboo shoots twice and shredded them into strips, rinsed the water bamboo, and finally washed and sliced the pork.
Just as Zhao Man was bustling about in the heat of preparation, Tang Heng’s voice drifted through: “What’s that delicious smell?”
Startled, Zhao Man looked up to find Tang Heng sporting stubble and carrying a heavy rucksack, lifting the kitchen curtain and peering inside.
“You’re back? Perfect timing—you’re in for a treat!”
Tang Heng’s eyes softened. Perhaps because Zhao Man was in high spirits, his voice carried a crisp, buoyant lift, radiating warmth. The kitchen was alive with the cozy steam of cooking, instantly melting away much of the exhaustion weighing on Tang Heng’s bones.
“Yeah. The rescue operations wrapped up, so the garrison gave us a day off. Definitely good timing—home just in time for good food.”
Tang Heng stepped inside, set down his rucksack, and peeled off his snowsuit, which had turned a dingy gray from grime. Beneath it, he wore his Cloud-Cocoon base layer. Digging a padded winter jacket from his bag, he pulled it on and walked over. “What do you need me to do?”
Zhao Man thought for a second. “We’re out of kindling. Why don’t you go chop some wood? Once that’s done and the fire’s going, we can eat.”
“Alright,” Tang Heng replied in a low rumble. He picked up his snowsuit from the floor, hung it on the outdoor drying line, and took up the machete, setting to work with a flurry of swift, rhythmic chops.
By the time Zhao Man finished slicing the meat, Tang Heng had already carried an armful of firewood over, stacking it by the kitchen entrance. “Wood smoke can get thick. Let’s roll up this curtain.”
“Sure.” Hearing Zhao Man’s cheerful agreement, the corners of Tang Heng’s mouth curled up.
In the end, they moved the little stove right next to the doorway. Zhao Man set the pot over the flame, tossing in the meat slices to render out their fat before pouring in half a pot of water. He added the salted bamboo shoots, brought the broth to a rolling boil, and tasted it. A little light. Adding a pinch of salt, he dropped in the potato slices, sand yam, and a handful of noodles.
Tang Heng carried the table over beside the stove, setting down bowls, the dish of prepared ingredients, and the fruit water he’d stirred up for Zhao Man before heading back out to chop more wood.
“Food’s ready!” Zhao Man called out after adding a dash of umami seasoning and tossing in the water bamboo.
“Coming.”
There were only two bowls and two stools in the house. Zhao Man tipped the cooked ingredients into a basin, setting it down next to the board covered in fresh noodles.
The two sat opposite each other around the pot, each bowl holding three thick noodle ribbons. Zhao Man took a bite: not particularly chewy, but simmered with meat, it was still utterly delicious. Lacking chewiness meant a misstep somewhere in the process, but he had zero desire to overthink it right now.
Zhao Man had been bustling non-stop since waking up, while Tang Heng had been on the move from the moment he opened his eyes. Both ate at a brisk clip, neither in the mood for small talk.
After dropping another batch of noodles and potato slices into the bubbling broth and noticing Tang Heng’s pace finally slowing down, Zhao Man asked, “Do you usually eat at the garrison mess hall?”
Tang Heng picked up a bite of water bamboo with his chopsticks. “Yeah. But you have to swipe points for it. Nobody at the garrison scavenges, so nobody stockpiles vegetables. During the blizzard season, it’s pretty much potatoes every single day. In the Perpetual Day season, they’ll boil a few greens. Compared to outside, it’s decent enough, but it doesn’t hold a candle to your cooking.”
Seeing how much he enjoyed the water bamboo, Zhao Man tossed a few more pieces into the pot. “Next time, we’ll make it together again.”
Tang Heng tossed two chunks of wood into the stove. “Deal. What made you think of whipping all this up today?”
“Nothing to do all day, and I got sick of eating plain steamed potatoes. I started craving noodles, then I wanted hot broth, and things just kind of snowballed from there.”
“Guess that makes me a lucky man,” Tang Heng chuckled softly.
Zhao Man tapped a dash of chili flavoring into his bowl. “Want some? You really are lucky. Good thing I added extra flour.”
Tang Heng reached out to take the seasoning. Mirroring Zhao Man, he ladled a splash of hot broth into his bowl to make a dipping sauce, swishing his noodles through it before eating. “Made extra on purpose, huh? Couldn’t be that you were…”
“Don’t go pointing out what’s better left unsaid, alright?”
The two ate and chatted by the stove, polishing off every last scrap of vegetables and half the board of fresh noodles.
