The process of making milk curds was familiar, and there were two distinct types. The soft ones, with their creamy, spreadable texture, were essentially a form of cheese. The dry ones, however, were the true, durable milk curds, chewy and dense. The preparation for both started along a similar path, demanding patience and a watchful eye, requiring the milk to be cooked slowly over a persistently low heat to transform it.
Today, for what felt like the first time in weeks, Jing Shu's hands weren't raw from endless washing or aching from relentless chopping. Instead, she had the quiet, focused task of making milk curds at the kitchen counter. She moved with a calm, deliberate precision, her posture straight and her motions efficient, looking for all the world like some refined young scholar engaged in a meticulous craft rather than a prepper in a farmhouse kitchen.
Dry milk curds, she knew, would be a lifeline. During the apocalypse, you could carry them in your pocket and hold one in your hand anytime. Beyond just licking them like lollipops for a bit of fleeting sweetness, you could slowly gnaw on them, making them last. They were extremely durable, and they were currently the most nutrient-dense dry food she could produce.
Before even beginning the milk curds themselves, Grandma Jing had first prepared ten 2-liter sealed jars of milk skin. This was its own labor of love. The milk was cooked over that same low, gentle heat, stirred constantly to prevent scorching as the water slowly evaporated. What condensed at the very bottom of the pot was a rich, round, yellow cake of pure milk solids—the milk skin.
Once cooled, it was carefully jarred and refrigerated, a treasure unto itself. When later poured into a cup of cooked milk or a bowl of milk tea, just a bit of this milk skin would melt into it, giving the whole drink a profoundly rich, creamy flavor, soft and aromatic on the tongue.
The yogurt curds required an extra step, pre-fermented to cultivate a specific tang before the slow cooking began. The ordinary curds were simpler, made by adding just a bit of white vinegar to the heated milk to make it separate, then filtering the solids through cheesecloth. The soft curds, once set, were ready to eat almost immediately, a fresh and simple treat. The dry ones, however, had to be hand-pressed into rough pieces and left out in the dry air to cure. Properly dried, they could last one or two years without losing their flavor, though they would eventually become as hard as stone, requiring real effort to bite into.
Dozens of pregnant women from her online following had pre-ordered batches of the yogurt curds. Once this batch was fully dried, Jing An would mail them out. Jing Shu hoped, with a quiet fervor, that those mothers would be able to take good care of their babies during the coming apocalypse, and that this small bit of nourishment might help.
By December 17, Jing Shu felt a deep, bodily fatigue, but also a profound sense of accomplishment. She had finally finished pickling all the vegetables, marinating all the eggs, processing all the meats, and turning the vast quantity of milk into long-lasting milk curds. She had been busy for over a month without a single real break, every day a cycle of labor, and now she could finally, finally, breathe.
That evening, gathered in the warm living room, the family of five held a proper family meeting.
First, they praised and encouraged her for the astonishing achievement of sales reaching 500,000 yuan over the past month. Then, the conversation turned solemn, to the practicalities of the upcoming Dark Days and how everyone should prepare.
"The Dark Days will have a huge impact on agriculture," Jing An began, his voice low and serious. "Recently, the news has been reporting non-stop about farmers scrambling to harvest the last possible batch of winter crops. The official line is that the national grain supply is sufficient, but vegetables will likely be in short supply. Prices will rise, and purchase limits will be imposed."
Most ordinary people, he explained, thought grain was enough, but were worried about vegetables, leading to hoarding. The national reserve was massive, capable of feeding the country for three years, and any outright apocalyptic rumors were immediately suppressed by the authorities. Even if a few impulsive youths tried to stir panic online, limited money and soon-to-be restricted purchases would put an end to most of it. Of course, there would always be some who frantically stockpiled food, filling their apartments to the ceiling.
What they couldn't anticipate, Jing Shu thought with a cold knot in her stomach, was that even those who bought enough grain and stayed home thinking they were safe would face the brutal, relentless high heat in the first year, which would rot countless food stores and kill some from heatstroke or thirst. And if they survived the first year, they would then face the catastrophic floods the second year. All those careful grain stockpiles could be wasted in an instant.
"Yes," Grandpa Jing agreed, uncharacteristically aligned with his son. "Although the government has started reserving vegetables and fruits, and even added greenhouses in urban and rural areas, encouraging us to grow some at home… a month without sun is disastrous. The little vegetables in a backyard plot won't be enough, so the greenhouse must grow more."
For the first time, Jing An and Grandpa Jing had no disagreements, their consensus so complete it moved Jing Shu almost to tears.
Su Lanzhi nodded approvingly from her seat. "We need to prepare more grain ourselves, then. At least six months' worth, I'd say."
The government's public suggestion was to prepare two months' worth, but Chinese people, seasoned by history, deeply believed in preparing more to be safe. In her previous life, Jing Shu's family had prepared a year's supply, and had ended up sharing a significant portion with Su Meimei and her elder uncle's family.
Grandma Jing, ever practical, countered, "No matter how much you stockpile, there will be a day it runs out. Flowing water lasts longer. We must grow enough vegetables to be that flowing water. Jing Shu mentioned that some kind of special light can replace sunlight?"
"That's a pulsed xenon lamp," Jing Shu clarified, leaning forward. "It simulates full sunlight. I actually installed a row by the fish pond before winter, worried about low sunlight affecting the water plants. Tomorrow we can buy many more to install over the main vegetable garden and the entire greenhouse. During the Dark Days, you should be able to eat fresh vegetables every day." She shared the rest of her plan, the words flowing out: "In the coming days, I've also ordered various fruits from a friend—peaches, pears, lychees—to make canned fruits and dried fruits. I also got my hands on some already mature saplings to transplant into the greenhouse, including an apple tree and that apricot tree we just planted by the entrance. And many types of mushrooms don't need sunlight at all; we can grow them in trays in the living room."
"Our Jing Shu has really grown up." Jing An's voice was thick with a complex emotion, pride mixed with a tinge of bewildered loss. "She thinks of everything, always coming up with these summaries and plans." He felt that in the past two months, his once carefree daughter had suddenly matured too quickly, becoming meticulous and foresighted, as if she had lived an extra decade in a very short time.
It was hard for her not to think ahead. Reborn into this second life, Jing Shu carried the soul and memories of a 32-year-old woman who had suffered through the end. If she hadn't prepared rice, flour, oil, and grain in a frantic advance, taking advantage of the time before limits—with purchase limits soon tightening to 500 yuan daily—it would have taken ages to buy enough supplies for the next few years. Even within this single month, all goods had begun to be rationed.
…
"From December 18, free vegetable seedlings will be distributed in urban and rural areas. Collection method as follows." The news anchor's voice was soothingly professional.
"Expert Wang teaches which plants can be grown successfully indoors during the Dark Days."
"A final reminder: the coming days will still see unusually high temperatures. Regions such as Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Guangdong have already reported multiple heatstroke cases. People are urged to take care."
Jing Shu ate her breakfast slowly, watching the morning news play out on the screen. Her plate held three folded slices of golden-brown toast, sandwiched with a plump young sausage and a perfectly fried egg, layered with melted cheese and a crisp leaf of lettuce. Beside it sat a bowl of steaming golden millet porridge, two boiled eggs, a small dish of vibrant sweet-and-sour radish, and two pieces of fragrant fried steak.
Burp~ She patted her stomach softly, feeling her appetite had grown considerably, yet the scale stubbornly showed her weight remained at 104 jin (roughly 52 kilograms).
Across from her, Grandpa Jing was on his fourth bowl of millet porridge. His recent toothache had made eating difficult, but a strange thing was happening. Surprisingly, Grandpa Jing's teeth had actually started regrowing. At the dentist last week, the doctor had simply stared at the X-ray, cleared his throat, and said, "Hmm, your case is… special. We'll just monitor it."
On Sunday, December 18, Su Lanzhi had a rare day off. The whole family went to the bustling Ai Jia Supermarket right after breakfast. The shelves were still piled high with goods, bright and abundant, seeming like they were always this full, an illusion of endless plenty.
Fewer young people came this early. In all the WeChat groups, scammers were claiming you had to arrive at dawn to grab the last boxes of Kang Shifu instant noodles. Mostly, it was elderly grandparents with their young grandchildren in tow, coming to collect the government-aid rice before leaving immediately. People were thinking strategically; even when stockpiling, perishable foods had to wait, while longer shelf-life items were being bought first.
Jing Shu's family had come for four consecutive days to claim their aid rice. It was Su Lanzhi's first time, and she curiously went through the process, collecting the small bag of rice with a thoughtful expression. Then, they browsed the entire store, ready for a final, purposeful splurge. It was a known fact in the family: once Su Lanzhi entered a store, no one could hold her back.
Jing An and Grandpa Jing each commandeered two shopping carts. Grandma Jing was more restrained, carefully selecting only specific items on her list, while Su Lanzhi and Jing Shu started another enthusiastic round of shopping, debating the merits of different canned goods. Jing Shu felt a nagging urgency, a sense they could never buy enough, and she only finally agreed to stop when all four carts were overflowing and they physically could carry no more.
At that very moment, as they were maneuvering the heavy carts toward the checkout, Jing An's phone rang. He answered it, and as he listened, his expression turned strange, a flicker of confusion and concern crossing his face. He looked directly at Jing Shu. "That was Lao Zhu. He's invited you to dinner. You must go." He paused, then added, almost awkwardly, "He is Zhu Zhengqi's father. And my former colleague."
Jing Shu raised an eyebrow. For one brief moment, her expression, which had been gentle and tired from shopping, shifted. Her gaze turned sharp and assessing. Seeing her father frown at her reaction, she smoothed her features and smiled again, a practiced, pleasant smile. "Sure," she said, her voice light. "I'll go."