"It's nothing." Arano got up from the earthen seat to greet them, slowing his speech, and said politely with a smile, "Sorry to bother you. How is your husband's condition?"
"He no longer has a fever, he's resting in the side room." Ah Ping tried hard to make out his words, bowing repeatedly, speaking very politely, "Thank you so much, please have a seat."
Arano nodded with a smile, then turned and sat down on the earthen seat again. The little girl had also taken off her straw sandals and walked in barefoot, bringing over a lacquered wooden table like a small desk from one side of the earthen seat. She took a ceramic pot and a tea bowl from a wooden tray and poured him a cup of hot tea, whispering, "Please enjoy the tea, my lord."
"Thank you." Arano nodded to her, giving a gentle smile. The little girl was startled for a moment, giving back a shy smile, her expression visibly relaxing a notch.
In the dirt-floored room, Ah Ping had already lit a fire in the hearth and stove, and the little girl quickly descended to the floor to help blow the fire with a long bamboo tube. Once the fire was blazing, Ah Ping got some rice to cook, and skewered the prepared fish on bamboo sticks to be grilled on both sides of the hearth.
The brief time she was gone earlier was probably to prepare the dinner ingredients. While she was busy making dinner, Jiubingwei's bald head seemed to flicker at the door, as if he found everything normal and immediately disappeared again, not daring to come in and chat idly.
Arano had nothing to do while guarding his friend and looked down at the flat, coarse pottery tea bowl, smelling the aroma. He judged it to be genmaicha—genmai is rice that's a bit rougher than modern brown rice, whitish with a tinge of yellow or green. So genmaicha is made by dry-roasting this blue-white or pale yellow rough rice and steeping it in hot water as a substitute for tea leaves, which is still used in Japan to this day.
But Arano didn't touch it, even though he was a bit thirsty, he didn't move the tea. Most of his attention was still on Jiulang's wife, Ah Ping, watching her cook. Ah Ping was very efficient, quickly preparing the meal, which the little girl placed before him on a wooden tray.
A bowl of genmai rice, it wasn't like the tiny bowls used for cats that modern Japan loves; it was a normal-sized bowl, cooked similarly to Chinese dry rice, boiled and then steamed, smelling quite nice with a strong rice fragrance;
A large bowl of rice soup, the first boil from cooking rice, with some rice grains, though slightly pale yellow in color;
A plate of grilled fish, not large, possibly grass carp or pike-perch, grilled to the point it wasn't very recognizable, but getting fresh fish in winter is already good enough, the lack of skill not being a big issue;
The last dish included a vegetable and a sauce: konbu-cooked radish, and the sauce seemed to be a combination of soybean paste and plum paste, with a boiled egg placed beside it.
In addition, there was a mushy rice porridge prepared for the patient, Meng Ziqi, probably also a by-product of the initial rice boil.
Seeing that the meal was prepared in front of Arano, Ah Ping sat on her knees, bowing her head respectfully, saying, "My lord, our humble abode is poor, we could only prepare some simple fare, please forgive us."
Three dishes and a soup were actually a lavish meal for this era, everything she could manage. The fish, konbu, and plum paste were all borrowed, as Arano seemed so noble, regardless of stature, complexion, tooth alignment, and demeanor, nobler than any country Samurai she had ever seen. She wasn't sure of the standard of hospitality, fearing he might get angry, feeling very anxious inside.
She only slightly relaxed after Arano nodded with a smile and said "thank you," leaving the room, leaving only her daughter to attend him, not looking like an ordinary farmer's wife from beginning to end.
Maybe it's because the "Village Chief's Wife" has more insight. It's just that she didn't know what position "servant" meant, or if it was equivalent to a village chief.
Arano pondered inwardly, supporting Meng Ziqi to sit up, intending to feed him some rice soup first. The little girl, kneeling at the edge of the earthen seat with her head down, was alert to the sound, immediately getting up to quickly step forward and help.
Arano thought the rice porridge shouldn't be a problem, directly feeding his friend a bit. Seeing that he could slowly swallow and seemed to improve slightly in complexion, he felt a little relieved. After settling his friend down again, he finally turned his gaze to the little girl preparing to step aside and asked softly, "Are there any more bowls and chopsticks?"
The little girl looked up in surprise, not quite understanding what he said. After he repeated it, she reacted, hastily fetching a ceramic bowl and a pair of bamboo chopsticks and handing them to him.
Arano scooped some rice, fish, vegetables, and sauce into the ceramic bowl, smiled, and said, "I'm not used to eating alone, have a bit together!"
It was the first time the little girl encountered such a thing, and with Arano's heavy accent, she barely understood. Once she did, she was even more puzzled by his intentions—during autumn harvests or military drafts, Hosokawa Castle sometimes sent household Samurai down. As the only daughter, she often couldn't avoid serving as a maid, but those people were always so coarse and crude that they would curse if they were unhappy, let alone share their food.
Honestly, if Arano had smashed the bowl, cursing why there was no wine, or complaining why they didn't kill a chicken, she might have found it more acceptable. After all, in appearance and manner, those rural Samurai were far inferior to this noble.
Seeing her at a loss, Arano pushed the bowl towards her again with a smile, "It's okay, go ahead and eat!"
"Uh, yes, sorry... Thank you, my lord."
The little girl actually quite wanted to eat. Her daily diet mainly consisted of buckwheat, beans, wild vegetables, radishes, and turnips, mostly mixed with rice bran and millet. Pure rice was something she'd hardly eaten since birth, not to mention fish sauce vegetables. Her family's daily meals were never this extravagant. Seeing Arano insist, she finally swallowed hard and nodded slightly, taking the bowl and carefully eating.
Arano watched quietly for her to indeed eat some before he started using his chopsticks.
He first took a bite of the genmai rice, finding it a bit hard, with not a very good texture, almost bad. If he could choose, he'd still want white rice, although he figured they probably didn't have refined rice in this household.
The fish was not bad, with fresh and quite fatty meat, though slightly burnt and the flavor a bit too bland. Without mentioning seasonings, it seemed like they didn't even sprinkle much salt, leaving a strong fishy smell, wasting this good fish.
The dish, radish stewed with seaweed, was the fabled emerald and ink jade soup. It reminded him of high school life, the unfortunate school cafeteria that often cooked radish with seaweed—there theoretically should have been some meat in there too, but he never got any, not knowing which dog ate it.
The sauce was difficult to describe, sour, astringent, and bitter, likely last year's soybean and plum paste stored until now, with hardly any savory taste, possibly a bit spoiled.
Overall, if this were modern times, trying a few bites would have made him want to hit the chef, but now, in dire straits, he had no choice but to tough it out to preserve his strength and continue eating.
He reluctantly ate some, then peeled the boiled egg, consuming the egg white and placing the yolk in the little girl's bowl, smiling as he asked, "What's your name?"
The little girl was savoring the meal slowly; such a humble meal by modern standards, yet she showed a hint of happiness as she ate. Hearing him, she quickly put down her bowl and chopsticks, respectfully bowing her head and folding her hands under her sleeves, answering solemnly, "Sorry to trouble you, my lord, my name is Yayoi."
"That's a good name, were you born in March?" Arano casually complimented. Yayoi is an ancient name for March, commonly used in Japan's Middle Ages or modern times, nothing unusual about it, having a good chance of hitting someone with that name if you tossed a stone in rural areas.
Yayoi perked up her little ears, concentrating fully to make out his words. This time, she understood quickly, her face showing a shy smile.
Arano didn't mind, he was new to this foreign land and wanted to chat more to correct his accent and gather some information, so he immediately asked, "How old are you this year?"
"I'm ten."
"Hmm, ten?" Arano pretended to think, "In what year were you born?"
He didn't expect an answer from such a young girl, especially in an era where the illiteracy rate was certainly over 95%, it was normal for her not to know. However, to his surprise, Yayoi answered straightforwardly, "The tenth year of Tenmon, my lord."
The tenth year of Tenmon?
Does that likely mean it's the twentieth year of Tenmon now?
What does the twentieth year of Tenmon correspond to in the Gregorian calendar?
Arano's mind raced, feeling as though he had seen this era notation in a museum. Combined with his earlier judgment of the Muromachi Shogunate era... was it the fourth or fifth year of Tenmon with the great upheaval of the Dharma Flower Sect in Kyoto and the first loss of Japan's most famous tea vessel "Ninety-nine Shots of Eggplant" around 1536? Then, is it now 1550 or 1551, towards the end of the Muromachi Era?
The end of the Muromachi Era is also known as the Azuchi-Momoyama Period, that is, Japan's Warring States Era. So, have I crossed through time to a chaotic period with a fool of a son on my back?
Damn!