The Sixty-Fifth Day, an Agonizing Day of Torrential Rain

The storm, as expected, still had not passed, though thankfully the treehouse remained intact...

My cold had scarcely improved. My throat felt as though something were lodged inside it; even swallowing hurt. It was definitely inflamed, though fortunately not badly enough to bring on a fever.

My nose was completely blocked too. That was what had just roused me from sleep—this suffocating feeling.

The moment I woke, I naturally sat up at once and looked around. At the doorway there was only a faint trace of seeped water, nothing else amiss.

Weather like this would not let up so quickly. Judging by what was happening outside, it was absolutely impossible for it to stop in just a day or two.

And I could only remain in the hut, idle and helpless.

The rain last night must never have stopped either. Those sounds heard in the half-dreaming haze were surely branches falling onto the roof. It seemed one branch had even become wedged in a crack in the roofing, swaying under the wind and rain, striking the top again and again with soft, persistent taps. If one did not pay it any mind, it was nothing at all, but once noticed, it felt as though it were clamoring right beside one’s ear.

Though I disliked this weather immensely, there was nothing else I could do to make myself happier, or even simply busier. Sleep was out of the question now. Standing up, my nose could still manage to breathe, but the moment I lay down, the discomfort became unbearable—my nose stuffed shut, my throat itchy and sore. Lying down felt like torture.

I had already taken medicine, though I had no idea whether taking it on an empty stomach was wise. I truly had no appetite.

I did not even have the energy to feed Little Black. Luckily, it was fairly sensible; when it saw that I had not done so, it would go eat some fruit on its own...

At first I had thought that if it rained and I had nothing to do in the treehouse, I could still try weaving some vine baskets, vine hampers, even vine waist pouches.

But in the end I dismissed the idea. The foul weather, the maddening noise, and my own unwell body left me unable to settle my mind at all.

The wind and rain were so fierce that I did not even have the chance to open the door. Even at the doorway, I could feel the howling gale outside.

Still, it was fortunate to be in the forest. I could even see that several large trees near the edge of the woods seemed to have fallen. If I were not here, the whole hut might have been torn away.

Boredom suddenly reminded me of the arrowroot starch I had made earlier. I wondered whether it had dried yet. My interest was piqued, and I hurried over to the basin and lifted the lid to take a look.

It had not dried. It was still very wet, though at least there was only a thin layer of water left at the bottom. I was glad I had brought the basin inside with me that day when I returned. Because it had a lid on it, no rainwater had gotten in. The table, meanwhile, had remained outside, being battered by the rain. I had been so exhausted when I got back that I simply and instinctively carried the basin in, barely even aware of it myself, as though by reflex alone.

Some of the starch had already emerged above the water and clumped together. Once it had completely dried, I would be able to crumble it and keep it safely. That would be another food I could enjoy.

If the arrowroot starch turned out well, it could be put to excellent use. It could thicken soups and broths, transforming something thin and watery into something rich and viscous. A bowl of thick soup would fill the stomach easily. Or, more simply, if the starch were added to boiling water and a little honey mixed in, it could become a delicious breakfast.

But it was far too early to say anything. I would have to wait a while longer. Only after success would I be entitled to enjoy it.

After checking on the starch, I took out a cigarette and lit it. My craving for nicotine had almost vanished by now, but in this boredom I could only use it to pass the time. Though my throat was inflamed and smoking would only make it worse, the smoke as I drew it in and exhaled it gave me a faint comfort, even a trace of the feeling of having returned to the past...

As the tobacco burned away, I thought of a comfortable home, a warm bed, fragrant coffee... and all kinds of breakfasts: flatbread, fried dough sticks, buns, steamed rolls, preserved egg congee, rice noodle rolls... even Chinese crepes with fried dough and egg...

"Right!"

In the midst of those memories, I suddenly made a discovery, and an idea sprang up just as suddenly. "That's it! I can make pancakes!"

I had never used this cornmeal even once. Every time I had been in a hurry making food for the moment, too afraid to make too much for fear of waste. But once these pancakes were made, if I dried or baked them, they could keep for a very long time.

There were several kinds of pancakes. One kind was made especially chewy and elastic; it would keep longer, and one could wrap other foods inside it to eat together. Another kind was the complete opposite, made very crisp, and after drying it would still have a pleasantly fragrant crunch.

I had once heard the seller of pancakes say that the first kind—the one with amazing chew—needed high-gluten flour as the main ingredient, which I naturally did not have. More regrettably, I had never made either kind before, and of course I did not know how. But I could try...

The continuous rain had made the air extraordinarily damp. After opening the corn flour, I found that some of it had already clumped together. I did not know whether that was because of the weather lately or because it had already been affected by moisture before. Once the weather improved, I would have to take it out to dry it in the sun. Somehow I felt that once it clumped, it would mold or spoil.

After feeling through the corn flour in the basin, it did not seem especially fine. It somehow felt coarser than wheat flour, so I added a handful of flour as well. Yes, to increase its stickiness.

After going down to the lower level, I poured some water into a rice bowl and added a spoonful of salt. After stirring for a few minutes, the salt had completely dissolved.

The corn flour in the basin and a small portion of the wheat flour had been mixed together. What remained was to add water and knead it into batter. It was somewhat like dough for dumplings, yet not quite the same. With dumpling dough, it was not much of a problem whether there was more water or less. But with pancakes, I felt it was different: too much water and the batter would not set into a proper cake; too little, and it would be too sticky to spread.

So I decided to add the water slowly, stirring with chopsticks as I went. As the water went in, the cornmeal mixture grew thicker and thicker, clinging to the chopsticks while I stirred. To reduce the stickiness, I even added a little oil, though not very much.

After several rounds, the entire basin of flour had become a paste. I tried scooping some up with a spoon, but it still seemed a bit sticky.

That was not a problem. A little more water would do.

After adding the water, the batter was clearly much better. A spoonful lifted out came up full and smooth, unlike before when it had dragged out in a heavy lump.

I put the pan over the fire and rubbed a little oil onto the bottom so it would not stick.

Before the pan had fully heated, I spooned a ladle of batter into it. Very soon, under a faint sizzling, the pale yellow batter began to set. I certainly did not want it to harden like that, so I immediately used the spoon to spread it out. Though it looked neither very pretty nor very regular, the pancake at least had been spread open. After frying for a while, a faint smell of burning began to rise, and I quickly flipped it over.

Sure enough, the side that had been touching the pan already showed a few black specks. Perhaps the pan was too hot; it had barely been in contact with it for long. To prevent the other side from turning out the same, I kept flipping it back and forth until my hands grew sore from the effort.

Only when both sides had been fried to a slightly dark color did I finally lift it out.

This first pancake had to be tasted. No matter whether it was delicious or not, whether it was too salty, too bland, too hard, or too thick, it was still the first pancake I had ever made, and I would eat it.

It was too hot. After setting the pan aside, I had just reached for the pancake when I nearly burned myself. I had been careless.

I waited a long while, probably more than ten minutes, before I finally held the pancake in my hands. I did not bite into it immediately. I was afraid it was still hot inside, so I simply tore it open. Even so, the inside was still quite hot, and it was nothing like the image I had imagined.

What I had pictured was a thin pancake, but the one I had spread out was nearly half a centimeter thick, only about palm-sized, and very uneven in thickness—thin at the edges, thick in the middle. The appearance alone was already a failure, and as for the taste, even I felt somewhat doubtful.

Still, a mother never thinks her own child is ugly. However poor it looked, it was mine, and I could accept it. Gathering my courage, I opened my mouth and took a bite.

"Hard."

Yes, very hard. It might also have been fried too long, which had made it rather dry. The crust especially: when freshly fried, it had felt hard and crisp to the touch, but now that it had cooled somewhat, the crust had actually softened and lost all sense of crunch.

Perhaps I had added too much cornmeal, because although the pancake was especially fragrant in the aftertaste, there was also a hint of sweetness and saltiness. The sweetness might have come from the flour, and the saltiness from the salt I had added.

Though it was not especially delicious, it was indeed the kind of food I wanted. Yes, exactly this kind of dry, storable food. I noticed that after tearing it open, there was still some moisture inside, but if it were baked for a while, or left under the sun long enough, it would dry completely and keep for a long time. When I went out, it might even serve as my travel rations. A waterskin and a few pancakes would be enough to banish hunger quickly.

Thinking of that, I immediately spread out the rest of the pancakes. There were twenty-two in all, each one small, only about the size of my palm. Though they differed greatly from the image I had of pancakes in my mind, at least the time had not been wasted.

After piercing them all through with chopsticks, I found a slender vine and strung the pancakes onto it. Then I suspended the vine above the fire, naturally at a safe height. As for how I hung it there: I had buried two tree trunks at either end of the fire pit, specifically for hanging vines. In the past, smoked fish and smoked meat had both been hung from those trunks.

Once they had dried thoroughly, I could taste them again. If the flavor and everything else were acceptable, then these pancakes would become my travel food.

...

While I was busily making pancakes, the storm outside still had not stopped...

I did worry somewhat about the seedlings in the vegetable patch...

And I also worried that once the low-lying ground nearby filled with water, the floodwater would flow back in. With rain this heavy... if it did come rushing back... I might not be able to bear the consequences...