MC Bookstore Chapter 121 Persimmon Cake
Chapter 121 Persimmon Cake
He stood up, dusted off his trousers, and was about to boast when the passenger and back doors opened. Guo Yulun got out of the car and said to Zhang Qiming, "Xiao Zhang, lead the way," and the two walked towards the Lin family's courtyard one after the other.
Zhang Dehou went up to greet him, "Sir, why did you come in person—"
Guo Yulun shook hands with him, nodded, and then walked directly past him to Lin Ran and Su Peixue. "This must be Su Peixue, right? I'm Guo Yulun. I'm so sorry for the intrusion. We have beautiful scenery and great local products, but we're just lacking good promotion. I've watched all your videos, every single one." He spoke with great sincerity, not like a leader giving a report, but more like a long-time viewer who had watched his videos for a long time.
Zhang Dehou stood to the side, his smile still lingering, but frozen on his face. Zhang Qiming also recognized Su Peixue, standing behind Guo Yulun with an indescribable complex expression. Old Master Lin crushed a peanut shell in his hand with a snap, his eyes narrowing with laughter.
Guo Yulun and Xiao Zhang entered the Lin family's main room and sat on the wooden sofa. Lin Ran poured them tea, and Su Peixue sat down next to Lin Ran. Guo Yulun gave a brief introduction to the town—it's called Shilin Town, nestled against a whole mountain of persimmon trees. The mountain has hundreds of old persimmon trees that produce persimmons that are very sweet and low in fiber, making them excellent for making dried persimmons. However, in recent years, the market has become increasingly limited; young people have all left, and the persimmons hang on the trees unpicked, and even when they fall to the ground and rot, no one picks them up.
"We've tried many methods, including website promotion and printing brochures, but the results haven't been good." Guo Yulun held his teacup. "Later, my daughter watched your videos at home, and that's when I realized that social media can produce such high-quality content. Su, I've watched every single one of your videos—honey osmanthus cake, lotus root starch mochi—my daughter said she wants to marry you after watching them."
Su Peixue's eyes crinkled slightly. Lin Ran said from the side, "We were just planning to shoot a new video. The local specialty is persimmons, so let's shoot dried persimmons. We've been staying in the village for the past few days, so filming is convenient."
Guo Yulun slapped his thigh and repeatedly said, "Great!" Xiao Zhang was taking notes beside him, the pen scratching softly on the paper.
After seeing Guo Yulun off, Lin Ran and Su Peixue began preparing for filming. Lin Ran spread out the storyboard pages on the table, each page marked with framing angles and lighting. Su Peixue sat beside him, shelling peanuts and feeding the kernels to Lin Ran.
Before dawn the next day, Lin Ran carried a tripod and Su Peixue carried a bamboo basket. The two of them went up the mountain along the dirt road behind the village.
On the hillside in early winter, the persimmon leaves have all fallen. Trees laden with red persimmons look like countless tiny lanterns hung on bare branches. The distant mountains are shrouded in morning mist, the mist tinged with pale purple by the morning light. The ridgelines push further and further into the distance, their dark outlines fading until they finally blend into the horizon.
A breeze blew down from the mountain ridge, carrying the scent of dry grass and a hint of chilly frost. A few birds took flight from the persimmon trees, fluttering through the mist, their calls echoing twice in the valley before fading away.
Lin Ran set up his tripod and framed the shot of Su Peixue carrying a bamboo basket as she walked along the mountain path. She wore a light gray cotton-linen short jacket with the cuffs pulled tight, revealing a small section of her wrists, paired with dark blue cloth trousers and canvas shoes.
The bamboo strips of the basket still bore the yellowish-green of bamboo. She stepped on the fallen leaves, each step making a rustling, cracking sound. Reaching a persimmon tree, she stopped and looked up. Sunlight filtered through the branches, casting dappled shadows on her face. The persimmons hanging on the branches glistened in the sunlight, their skins covered with a thin layer of frost, like they had been sprinkled with fine powdered sugar.
She reached out, supporting the bottom of the persimmon with one hand, her fingers slightly spread to stabilize the fruit. With her other hand, she pinched the stem and gently twisted it—the stem snapped with a crisp sound, and the persimmon fell intact into her palm.
Plump, orange-red persimmons, still glistening with the morning frost. She bent down and gently placed the persimmons into the bamboo basket. The persimmons hit the bottom of the basket with a dull, resonant sound. She straightened up, stood on tiptoe, and picked a few more from the lower part. Each time, the same action was performed—support the bottom, twist, and gently place. She repeated this three times, each time the crisp sound of the fruit branch breaking and the dull thud of the persimmons falling into the basket alternating in the quiet persimmon grove.
She finished picking the lower-lying parts. She brought over a wooden ladder, which was very old, its surface grayed from wind and sun.
She propped the ladder against the tree trunk, and it creaked as she stepped on it, the sound particularly clear in the quiet forest. From the top of the ladder, she picked up a long pole with a net made of coarse cotton thread attached to the end.
She held up the net, aiming it at a persimmon hanging high on the branch. That persimmon, redder than the others, shone like a translucent gem in the sunlight. She caught the persimmon in the net, gave it a gentle pull, the branch snapped, and the persimmon fell into the net with a dull thud. She took the persimmon out of the net, wiped away the thin layer of white bloom on its surface with her hand, her fingertips rubbing against the smooth skin, making a soft, sizzling sound.
The persimmons in the bamboo basket were piled high, glistening red, each one plump and round. Su Peixue carried the full basket of persimmons down the mountain, her figure growing smaller and smaller along the path, her footsteps fading into the distance. The forest returned to silence, broken only by the sound of the wind rustling through the bare branches and the occasional chirping of birds in the distance.
The second set of shots was filmed in the courtyard. The courtyard was Grandpa Lin's old courtyard, paved with blue bricks, with several bundles of firewood stacked in the corner and strings of last year's dried chilies hanging on the drying rack. Sunlight slanted in from above the courtyard wall, bathing the entire wooden table in warm light. A basket of persimmons sat on the wooden table, next to which were a wooden basin, a dry cloth, a small knife, and a bamboo sieve.
Su Peixue picked up a persimmon from the basket and placed it in the wooden basin. The water in the basin was freshly drawn from the well, clear and cool. She held the persimmon in both hands, immersing it in the water, gently rubbing the surface of the peel with her fingertips to wash away any remaining frost and dust. The water made a clear, ringing sound, splashing up and landing on the back of her hands before sliding down her fingers. After washing the persimmon, she placed it on a dry cloth, wrapped it in the cloth, and gently pressed it down. The cloth absorbed the surface water droplets, making a muffled suffocating sound.
She picked up the knife. The blade was thin, and it glittered in the sunlight. She aimed the tip at the persimmon stem and gently cut in; the blade made a soft, crisp sound as it pierced the skin.
Then the blade began to move down along the curve of the peel—her right hand rotated the handle at a steady pace, while her left hand rotated the persimmon at a steady pace, maintaining an extremely thin angle between the blade and the flesh. The persimmon peel fell down in circles, the swishing sound of peeling continuous, like fine sandpaper rubbing against wood.