Chapter 5: Rainy Day Ai Wo Wo
Around midnight, the heavens finally answered prayers that had gone unanswered for weeks. A drizzling rain began to fall, gentle as whispered blessings.
Shen Shaoguang was awakened by distant thunder rumbling across the capital like the drums of celestial celebration. She lay in the darkness, listening. Judging by the sound's depth and persistence, this wasn't merely a passing shower—perhaps this would finally break the drought that had plagued Chang'an?
She recalled the Emperor's rain prayer ceremony from half a month prior and couldn't suppress a smirk in the darkness. At least Heaven had given face to its mortal son. Otherwise, the embarrassment would have been spectacular—an Emperor kneeling before empty skies, his prayers echoing back unanswered. The political implications alone would have been delicious fodder for court gossip.
Shen Shaoguang wrapped her cotton blanket tighter around herself, contentment settling over her like the rain outside. Rain was wonderful. Rain meant she wouldn't need to set up her breakfast stall. Rain meant she could sleep in without guilt gnawing at her entrepreneurial conscience.
She closed her eyes with a satisfied smile and drifted back into dreams.
While street vendors could afford such luxury, those attending court enjoyed no such privilege.
Sitting in his carriage as it swayed through the pre-dawn darkness, Lin Yan spotted Clerk Liu Feng not far ahead. The poor man held an umbrella in one hand, wore straw shoes that were already soaked through, and looked utterly dejected as rain streamed down his face. The ground had transformed into treacherous mud—slippery and unpredictable. Liu Feng clearly didn't dare ride a horse in such conditions and had resigned himself to walking the entire distance to the ministry offices.
Lin Yan made a subtle gesture to the servants outside. One dismounted immediately, approaching Liu Feng with the practiced efficiency of someone accustomed to reading his master's intentions.
Liu Feng turned at the approach, first bowing deeply toward Lin Yan's carriage—maintaining proper respect for the distance between their ranks—then exchanged a few words with the servant before walking back together toward the official's transport.
Having been invited into his superior's carriage, Liu Feng was quite nervous. The enclosed space suddenly felt impossibly small, the air thick with awareness of hierarchy. His stomach, displaying catastrophically poor timing, chose this precise moment to announce its emptiness with a loud, prolonged growl.
Liu Feng's face instantly heated up, mortification flooding through him. He desperately hoped the pattering rain outside would mask the embarrassing sound. Perhaps if he sat very still, his superior would pretend nothing had happened?
Lin Yan glanced at him, his expression unreadable.
Liu Feng responded with deeply embarrassed clasped hands, his voice barely above a whisper. "This humble official has been discourteous."
"It's fine," Lin Yan said, a faint smile touching his lips. After a pause, his gaze drifted to the window where rain blurred the awakening city. "Are those pancakes really that good?"
Through the rain-streaked glass, someone was already selling flatbread despite the weather—a dedicated vendor wearing a rain cape and bamboo hat, steam rising from their griddle like offerings to the morning.
Liu Feng's face reddened further, if such a thing were possible. He stammered, "This official, this official—"
Lin Yan slightly raised his hand in a gesture that managed to be both dismissive and kind.
Liu Feng immediately closed his mouth and sat with rigid propriety, hands folded, eyes forward. The carriage continued through the rain in silence.
Lin Yan closed his eyes to rest, though the faintest curve remained at the corner of his mouth.
True to her unspoken promise to herself, Shen Shaoguang didn't rise until Chen hour—that glorious stretch between seven and nine in the morning when the world had already begun its daily business and she remained gloriously uninvolved in it.
She lazily washed up, taking her time with each movement, then went out with an umbrella to treat herself to a bowl of chicken wontons at a nearby restaurant. The establishment was modest but clean, steam rising from multiple pots as other rain-soaked customers sought comfort in hot food.
The wonton skins weren't quite thin enough—she could tell immediately upon biting through them. The filling was disappointingly small, more suggestion than substance. But the soup base possessed decent flavor, rich with chicken stock and fragrant with scallions. She'd eaten worse. She'd also eaten considerably better, but on a rainy morning when she hadn't needed to work, she felt charitable in her assessment.
After finishing her meal and paying, she strolled through the rain-washed streets, umbrella tilting against occasional gusts of wind. She bought some rice and vegetables at the market—taking her time selecting the freshest greens, haggling with the vendor more for the entertainment than any significant savings—then slowly walked back toward the temple.
Passing by the back gate of the former Shen residence, she paused. A begonia branch extended gracefully over the courtyard wall, rain battering its delicate blooms. Petals fell like pink snow, scattering across the wet stones below. What a poetically melancholic scene—rain beating down on begonia flowers, behind closed doors. The kind of image that would inspire scholars to compose verses while drinking wine.
Shen Shaoguang searched through the memories she'd inherited and found some recollection of this particular begonia tree. The original body's mother had loved collecting its petals—not for burial in romantic mourning rituals, but for something far more practical. She made rouge from them, claiming their "color was unmatched by any cosmetic available in Chang'an's finest shops."
When the original Shen Shaoguang's father happened to pass by during one of these petal-gathering sessions, he'd jokingly composed a verse on the spot: "Pity it has no fragrance."
Her mother had first glared at him for the implied criticism—how dare he find fault with her beloved begonias? Then she couldn't help but laugh at his teasing expression, swatting his arm with mock indignation.
The memory, borrowed though it was, carried unexpected warmth.
Thinking back to the days in the palace harem—those suffocating years following her father's disgrace—Shen Shaoguang understood with painful clarity. This lady, the original body's mother, had been like a begonia herself: a flower of worldly prosperity, cultivated in sunshine and admiration, utterly unprepared for the brutal conditions of imprisonment. How could someone so delicate endure such torment?
She'd lasted only a year before departing this world, leaving behind a daughter who was merely nine years old at the time. The original owner had struggled on alone for another year—a child navigating the treacherous waters of palace politics, grief, and abandonment—before following her mother into death.
And then Shen Shaoguang, a stranger from another world entirely, had taken over this abandoned body and its accumulated sorrows.
Looking at this "home" she had never truly lived in, Shen Shaoguang felt surprisingly emotional about the family's tragic past. These weren't her memories, not really. Yet they lived inside her now, shaping her understanding of this world and her place in it.
She'd heard that a Deputy Prefect of the Capital lived there now—a genuine high official entitled to wear the prestigious crimson robe. Though they'd been neighbors for many days, she'd never actually seen what he looked like. She wondered idly when this Vice Mayor of Chang'an would decide to inspect the street food situation in his jurisdiction.
Shen Shaoguang laughed quietly at her own humor—imagining the pompous official sampling her humble breakfast offerings—as she walked back to the temple with her umbrella, rain drumming a steady rhythm above her head.
Back at the temple, Shen Shaoguang soaked some glutinous rice in preparation for later cooking, then settled into her room. She read a few pages of a poetry collection she'd borrowed from the temple's small library, practiced some calligraphy until her wrist ached pleasantly, and thus passed the morning hours in peaceful contentment.
The rain continued its gentle assault on the roof tiles, creating a soothing backdrop to her quiet activities.
For lunch, she kept things simple. She pulled some noodle strips from fresh dough, added vibrant greens that still held their morning crispness, and topped everything with a perfectly fried egg—the yolk still runny, the whites lacy and crisp at the edges. After arranging it in a bowl, she added two generous spoonfuls of her homemade garlic chili sauce, which transformed the humble meal into something that made her close her eyes with satisfaction at the first bite.
After eating and washing her dishes, she indulged in a lazy afternoon nap—the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that comes from a full stomach and the sound of rain.
When she woke, refreshed and energized, she got up to work on creating something special.
Having purchased some particularly good glutinous rice at the market that morning, she'd already decided: today was perfect for making Ai Wo Wo cakes.
The imperial palace kitchens had constantly produced various elaborate cakes during her previous life there—Crystal Dragon Phoenix Cake, Purple Dragon Cake, Jade Beam Cake. For festivals, there were Cornus Cake, Chrysanthemum Cake, Hemp Vine Cake, and dozens of other variations. The names were impossibly fancy, dripping with imperial pretension.
But they'd never quite suited Shen Shaoguang's taste. The problem, she'd eventually realized, was that Tang dynasty people possessed remarkably heavy sweet teeth. Just consider: they poured syrup over fresh cherries. Cherries. As if the fruit's natural sweetness weren't sufficient. The excessive sugar in palace desserts had often left her feeling slightly nauseated rather than satisfied.
So every spring-summer transition, Shen Shaoguang particularly missed the Ai Wo Wo from her previous life—her actual previous life, before this transmigration business had turned her existence sideways.
Fortunately, Ai Wo Wo wasn't complicated to make. The technique was straightforward, relying on quality ingredients and careful attention rather than elaborate skills.
She took the soft, cooked glutinous rice and kneaded it into smooth dough, working it with her hands until the texture became perfectly pliable. She divided this into small portions, then pressed each into thin wrappers that could be filled with various ingredients. Traditionally, one might use hawthorn, sesame, jujube paste, or red bean paste.
After wrapping the filling and sealing the edges, each cake was rolled in cooked glutinous rice flour until they became white as frost and snow—pristine little rounds that looked almost too perfect to eat.
Some people reportedly used cooked wheat flour for this final coating, but her family—her original family, in her original world—had always used glutinous rice flour. As far as Shen Shaoguang was concerned, that made it the only authentic method. Tradition mattered, even when you'd crossed dimensions to honor it.
Today's version wasn't quite like what she'd eaten before, though. The difference wasn't in the flour coating but in the filling. She was using the peony preserve she'd made several days earlier.
The temple grounds boasted a magnificent peony tree that produced hundreds of blooms at its peak—deep red flowers so rich in color they seemed to pulse with life. At full bloom, the sight was genuinely spectacular, drawing admiring comments from visitors and residents alike.
Shen Shaoguang had collected many fallen peony petals during the recent flowering, initially planning to make some sachets to follow refined tradition. You know, the sort of thing elegant ladies did in literature—preserving beauty and fragrance in silk pouches, tucking them into sleeves and storage chests.
Then she'd remembered the famous rose preserve from Dream of the Red Chamber—that classic novel from her previous world—and changed her mind entirely. She'd ground the peony petals in a mortar until they released their essence, then preserved them with sugar and honey in carefully sealed jars.
After a few days of patient waiting, when the raw flower smell had dissipated and the flavors had married properly, the result tasted remarkably good. Floral without being perfume-like, sweet without being cloying, with a subtle complexity that evolved on the tongue.
Now, feeling too lazy to prepare any of the traditional fillings, this peony preserve was perfect to use.
If nothing else, these peony-filled Ai Wo Wo were visually stunning—snow-white skin concealing crimson filling that revealed itself at the first bite. The contrast brought to mind romantic phrases like "powder-white face and sandalwood lips," the kind of imagery that appeared in poetry comparing beautiful women to flowers.
Shen Shaoguang arranged the finished Ai Wo Wo on a white porcelain plate—the presentation mattered almost as much as the taste—and took them to share with the food-loving Abbess, who she knew would appreciate both the artistry and flavor.
"What an exquisite thing!" the Abbess exclaimed, smiling even before tasting them. Her eyes traveled over the plate with genuine delight, taking in the perfect symmetry and pristine appearance of each cake.
After taking a careful bite, her face showed even more pronounced surprise. Her eyebrows rose, and she made a small sound of pleasure.
"Is this a peony flower?"
Shen Shaoguang smiled, pleased by the recognition. "Isn't it from that very peony in the courtyard? I've offered Buddha his flowers back to him."
The Abbess laughed and playfully pointed at Shen Shaoguang with mock accusation—you clever girl. Over the weeks, they'd fallen into easy conversation, developing something of an intergenerational friendship that transcended the usual boundaries between resident and guest.
"We've eaten peony petals before too, but fried. It's not as fragrant and sweet as yours, and the color isn't nearly as nice either." The Abbess took another bite, savoring it slowly. "This preserve technique—you must teach it to our kitchen staff."
Shen Shaoguang freely shared her method for making peony preserve, and they spent the next while discussing possible improvements and variations. What if one added a hint of osmanthus? Would rose petals work equally well? Could you mix different flowers to create layered flavors?
Over tea and enthusiastic food discussion, they finished the entire plate of Ai Wo Wo—Shen Shaoguang ate two with disciplined moderation, young Jing Qing ate two while trying not to appear too greedy, and the remaining four went to the Abbess, who showed no such restraint.
Even so, when the plate was empty, the Abbess still seemed unsatisfied. She looked at it with something approaching mourning.
Shen Shaoguang smiled reassuringly. "This sugar-preserved peony filling is only possible during this particular season. Usually, bean paste or jujube paste works perfectly fine for Ai Wo Wo."
The Abbess's expression suddenly brightened with an idea. "The Beginning of Summer is in just a few days. Compared to these flower cakes, our temple's usual steamed bean cakes seem terribly crude—almost embarrassing, really. Why don't we switch to these this year?"
There was an old custom of eating steamed cakes at the Beginning of Summer festival, supposedly to prevent heat rash during the coming hot months. Like many traditional practices, the reasoning was dubious but the excuse to eat special foods was always welcome.
Jing Qing quickly agreed with enthusiasm, nodding vigorously. Shen Shaoguang watched the exchange and thought how pleasant it must be to be an elderly abbess like this—making decisions based purely on what would taste good, with no one to argue otherwise.
However, later that day, Jing Qing came to request Shen Shaoguang's assistance with some embarrassment in her expression.
"If these cakes were just for our temple residents, we wouldn't dare trouble Benefactor Shen. But during festivals, we always send food offerings to neighboring believers both inside and outside the ward. If they're not made well, we'll be laughed at—our reputation would suffer." Jing Qing bowed with genuine emotion. "Please guide us through the process."
Since Shen Shaoguang was staying at the temple as a guest, of course she should help with such requests. It was merely proper. She readily agreed.
Due to limited hands available to help and the large quantity needed to serve all the temple's patrons, Shen Shaoguang suggested they make red bean paste filling instead of peony preserve. Whether steaming, grinding, or straining, the labor involved was essentially the same regardless of quantity. Might as well make something that would store well and satisfy traditional expectations.
Red bean paste remained a precious commodity at this time—not because the ingredients themselves were expensive, but because the preparation process was sufficiently troublesome to discourage casual production. The beans required hours of cooking, then laborious grinding, then careful straining to remove every bit of skin and fiber, then cooking again with precise amounts of sugar until the texture became perfectly smooth.
It was said that during the legendary Tianbao era, the household of the Guo State Princess had made the finest red bean paste in all Chang'an, called "Spirit Sand Paste" for its ethereal texture. They used it in glutinous rice cakes that were beaten until semi-transparent, showing the filling's color through the translucent wrapper like stained glass. These were called "Transparent Flower Cakes," and apparently nobles had competed to serve them at banquets.
While watching Shen Shaoguang direct the kitchen nuns in the proper technique for cooking red bean paste—explaining the importance of maintaining consistent low heat, demonstrating how to test for doneness—the Abbess shared a related anecdote.
"Years ago, there was a cake shop in Chang'an's East Market that made extraordinarily refined Transparent Flower Cakes. Their craftsmanship was so superior that people traveled across the city specifically to purchase them. Because their cakes and pastries were so renowned and profitable, the owner was eventually able to buy an honorary official title." The Abbess smiled at the memory. "He became known throughout Chang'an as 'the Cake Honorary Official.' Can you imagine? Rising through pastry rather than examination or military service!"
Shen Shaoguang laughed with genuine delight—every trade really could produce its champion, couldn't it? Social mobility through superior baking. What a wonderfully practical path to recognition.
Then she felt a pang of regret. Too bad I'm a woman in this society, otherwise I could seriously consider taking this culinary path to officialdom. Wouldn't that be something? Earning my rank through red bean paste rather than Confucian classics.
Jing Ci stood to the side, listening to Shen Shaoguang and the Abbess chat with such easy familiarity, and couldn't help but feel amazed. When had the Abbess ever been so talkative and happy with a guest? The woman was usually reserved, maintaining appropriate distance even from long-time temple residents.
Could this Miss Shen have somehow bewitched the Abbess? The thought was disloyal, but Jing Ci couldn't entirely dismiss it.
Looking at the pots of red bean paste simmering under Shen Shaoguang's supervision, Jing Ci's thoughts turned more practical. She began mentally calculating expenses—how much this project would cost in ingredients and labor, how much basket money could be collected from each household when delivering the festival offerings, whether they'd break even or perhaps even profit slightly.
The rain continued outside, steady and nourishing. Inside the temple kitchen, steam rose from multiple pots, carrying the sweet fragrance of red beans and sugar. The Beginning of Summer would arrive soon, and with it, the proper heat that made such festivals meaningful.
Everything in its season, Shen Shaoguang thought contentedly. Even here, displaced in time and space, some rhythms remained constant.
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