Day Fifty-five: Exquisite Cuisine (Part Two) — An Extra Chapter for Bewitchment

I had caught enough mudskippers to eat, and it was time for me to head back. I decided not to check the fishing net today either; I would pull it up early tomorrow morning. If I harvested a lot of fish and shrimp, I could sun-dry them in the afternoon without worrying about spoilage. Last time, I had such an abundant catch that I was forced to smoke most of the fish. As for how it tasted, I still had no idea—I haven’t yet dared to try it. With better options available, I simply can’t bring myself to taste such dubious food. Perhaps I’ll try it when supplies run low again; for now, I’m sure the fish won’t go bad anytime soon. After two days of intense sun, they should be completely dried out and hard.

I needed to get back early, since my limited stores of grain were still spread out to dry. If any wild animals came and stole them, it would break my heart. I lined the bottom of the plastic basket with a thick layer of leaves and similar things, so that when I placed the mudskippers, bird eggs, shellfish, and snails inside, none of them would escape.

There’s a certain pleasure in walking through these dense woods: the air is fresh, the shade is cool, and the day’s fruitful harvest combined with the sensory delight lifted my mood even higher.

But as I passed by a large tree, I spotted several massive crab legs sticking out from the entrance of a burrow beneath it. Instantly, my thoughts wavered—should I leave? I wasn’t willing to go just yet! But catching the crab would take time, and I was anxious to get back to my drying food. Torn between these two choices, I hesitated once again.

“Catch it!” In the end, my inner gourmand won out. What finally convinced me wasn’t anything practical, but the image in my mind: under the moonlight, gnawing on crab legs, savoring the delicate meat and rich roe, gazing leisurely at the stars and sipping a cold drink…

Just that thought alone made up my mind. Even if someone tried to stop me now, I’d still attempt to catch this crab—I was utterly determined.

The wooden spear I’d once used against the shark was gone—discarded long ago. All I had was the branch I used for catching mudskippers. It would have to do.

I crept toward the burrow, but the faint sound of my footsteps alerted the wary crab. Its huge legs quickly withdrew into the hole. With a loud thud, it vanished into the water within, leaving no trace.

Still, this wasn’t a big problem. Crabs are common here, and there are many kinds. From what I remember, they all share one trait: a fierce territoriality. The burrow is their domain, and anything that enters is an enemy. At such times, they’ll use force to expel or destroy the intruder.

That’s why I wasn’t worried. I was confident that if I stirred the burrow with the branch, the crab would eventually grab it with its claw. Whether I could draw it out remained to be seen.

I slowly inserted the branch into the crab’s burrow. It showed remarkable patience—no reaction at all, even as I twisted and poked, trying to provoke its anger.

Five minutes passed, and still nothing. I began to doubt my plan, even as I admired the crab’s composure. But just then, I felt movement through the branch—it had made its move!

It must have seized the branch, but as soon as I tried to pull, it released its grip.

“Damn!” I couldn’t help but shout. This creature was unbelievably cunning—it seemed to sense danger and gave me no chance.

But I’m not one to give up easily. If the first attempt failed, I’d try a second, a third, a fourth—however many it took.

Fortunately, on the eighth attempt, it finally clamped down hard on the branch. Its fury must have reached its peak, for even as I dragged it forcefully from its burrow, it refused to let go. I managed to pull it right out, and still it clung fast. The intensity of its rage was clear.

The crab was huge, at least two kilos—possibly more. Covered in mud, with formidable claws, it was an intimidating sight. I quickly thought of ways to carry it back, and settled on the simplest, if clumsiest: I stepped on it and broke off both claws. It was crude, but effective—without its pincers, it was no longer a threat. I tied it up with a length of vine and tossed it into the plastic basket, then set off for the treehouse.

…

“Get out! Shoo! Shoo!” I was nearly knocked out by what I saw. I rushed forward, furious.

“Those damned thieves! Robbers!” My blood boiled, and I almost stopped breathing from the anger. My chest felt as if a heavy stone were pressing down on it.

A flock of birds had pecked several holes in my rice sack and stolen a good amount of rice. I was livid.

“Well, let this be a lesson,” I sighed. At least now I know the birds here will steal food. I even discovered that several smoked fish had been pecked as well.

No use dwelling on it. I decided to cook something nice for myself and Little Black—he’d been exceptionally well-behaved today, resting quietly under the trees, which was a rare sight.

After bringing the food back to the treehouse, I fetched water from the river and cleaned all the ingredients. The water was crystal clear now—you could see the bottom at a glance, though it was never deep, barely covering my instep at most, and reaching my calves in the deepest part.

To my surprise, even these tiny mudskippers were full of roe. After washing them, I stuffed the roe back into their bellies for extra flavor in the soup.

But with so many ingredients, I was at a loss—what should I make?

I had originally planned to make soup with the shellfish and snails, but since I now had the mudskippers, I decided to stir-fry the shellfish and snails instead.

Stir-frying the snails was simple: heat oil in the pan, toss in the shellfish and snails, stir-fry for a few minutes, add some salt, and it’s done. Little Black showed no interest at all; he glanced at the dish and turned away, wagging his tail.

Next up were the bird eggs—the highlight of today’s meal. This time, instead of boiling them, I cracked half of the bird eggs into a bowl, added six turtle eggs, and made a scrambled egg dish. The turtle eggs helped keep the eggs moist and tender, since they don’t solidify easily—a perfect complement to the bird eggs.

The crab was simply boiled, while the crab legs were roasted by the fire, the juices sizzling and bubbling out.

But the true star tonight was the mudskipper—a delicacy sometimes called “jumping fish.” In coastal regions, they might fetch a high price.

When the oil in the pan was just beginning to smoke, I laid the mudskippers in one by one. I’d dried their bodies beforehand, so the oil popped and crackled, but the temperature wasn’t too high, so it was manageable. I fried all thirty-odd fish until both sides were golden, then immediately added water to the pan.

I covered the pot and let it simmer.

After about ten minutes, I lifted the lid—a potful of milky white, aromatic fish soup greeted me.

These fish have almost no bones, just a single backbone, so I didn’t have to worry about Little Black hurting his mouth. Under the moonlight, I carried the table and stools outside, setting out stir-fried shellfish, scrambled bird eggs, boiled crab, roasted crab legs, mudskipper soup, and a can of soda.

Little Black devoured three-quarters of the mudskipper soup; I stripped the meat from the roasted crab legs for him, and the scrambled eggs were his as well.

…

All I can say is this: the freshness of the mudskipper soup is incomparable to any food seasoned with MSG or bouillon. The instant the soup touches your tongue, the savoriness bursts in your mouth before you’ve even closed it, rushing straight to your mind and clearing your senses.

At first, the flavor seems a touch salty, but it’s not true saltiness—it’s umami, so intense it’s almost briny. As soon as you close your mouth and your taste buds kick in, the waves of freshness come one after another, unstoppable.

And now, I’m utterly lost in this sensation…