The morning sunlight painted soft amber streaks across the windowpanes, casting dappled light upon the polished floors of the Jia residence. Outside, a cool breeze rustled the dewy leaves, and the faint chirping of sparrows floated in from the trees. The scent of early summer — fresh, green, and full of promise — whispered into the open windows, carrying with it the hush of a peaceful household not yet fully awake.
Jia Lan awoke to this tranquility, the weight of her silk blanket slipping gently off her shoulder. Her long lashes fluttered open as she stretched like a cat in her warm bed. The soft cream-colored curtains danced slightly in the breeze. She blinked at the ceiling, then rolled over with a smile. Today felt like a good day.
Slipping on a lavender house robe with delicate floral embroidery, she padded softly to the window and breathed in the crisp air. The light filtered through the lace of the curtains, brushing her cheeks with gold.
Her daily sign-in system chimed softly in her mind as she stood there.
Day 62 Reward: 30 Yuan + Rose Petal Face Cream (Vintage Edition)
She blinked once, amused. "Another practical gift. At this rate, I'll have enough to open a skincare stall."
With a small chuckle, she picked up her skincare pouch and gently opened the beautifully crafted glass jar of cream. The faint scent of roses wafted up — elegant, refined, and vintage, just like everything else in this home.
She massaged the cream into her skin with graceful motions, her fingers smooth and steady. Her skin was already as flawless as porcelain thanks to her Day 1 reward, but the cream added a dewy radiance that made her look like a heroine from an old film reel.
Once dressed in a soft blue cotton qipao with white embroidered cranes along the collar, she tied her hair up in a gentle chignon with a silk ribbon and made her way to the kitchen, where the real magic was about to begin.
The kitchen smelled faintly of ginger and fresh spring onions — scents from the pantry that lingered like old memories. She rolled up the sleeves of her qipao and tied on a cream-colored apron with pink lotus flowers stitched at the hem. Her movements were fluid, practiced, like a conductor preparing for a symphony.
Today, she had decided on a hearty traditional breakfast. Her hands moved with natural grace as she set up her ingredients: farm-fresh eggs with yolks the color of marigolds, scallions with crisp green tops, sesame oil, glutinous rice, and radish pickles. On the side, she placed out flour to knead for pancakes and a handful of red beans to simmer for sweet porridge.
First, she kneaded dough for scallion pancakes. The flour sifted through her fingers like fine snow, and the water she added was just warm enough to create a pliable, elastic dough. Her fingers pressed and turned, the soft slapping of dough against the marble counter creating a quiet rhythm.
She rolled the dough into thin rounds, brushed it with sesame oil, scattered chopped scallions over it, then rolled it up like a scroll and coiled it into a spiral. Pressing it flat again, she set it aside to fry until crispy and golden.
The scent of sesame and scallion soon filled the kitchen, coaxed further by the faint crackle of oil in the pan.
Next, she turned to the congee — a warm, comforting rice porridge that was simmering slowly on the back burner. She stirred it gently, watching as the rice softened into a creamy consistency. She added finely diced pickled radish and a dash of white pepper, then let it simmer under a low flame.
As the red beans bubbled in another pot with a touch of rock sugar, she cracked eggs into a small bowl and whisked them lightly with chopsticks. Into the pan they went, quick and golden, scrambled with finely chopped scallions, a hint of soy, and sesame oil.
The aroma that rose from the kitchen was enough to tempt even the laziest sleeper.
She paused, wiping her brow with a lace-edged handkerchief, and looked around with pride. Everything was perfect — a harmonious blend of color, aroma, and texture.
The serving dishes, porcelain with blue lotus motifs, were already laid out neatly. Small saucers for the radish pickles, bowls for the congee and red bean porridge, and a larger dish for the golden scallion pancakes. She even placed a small vase with a blooming gardenia at the center of the table.
The soft rustling of slippers on wooden floors told her someone was approaching — but she smiled and kept cooking. She wasn't quite ready to serve just yet.
Let them be surprised.
She carefully arranged slices of salted duck egg on a small tray and sliced preserved tofu into delicate cubes to accompany the rice porridge. She brewed fresh jasmine tea, its pale yellow hue glowing in the glass teapot.
The table, once empty, now gleamed with effort and elegance.
She straightened the collar of her apron, checked her reflection briefly in the door, and nodded. Everything was ready.
And her reward — the ability to cook like a master — had been worth every quiet second.
Jia Lan wiped down the final bowl, the soft cloth gliding over porcelain like a whispered promise. A breeze slipped through the kitchen window, carrying the fresh scent of morning and the faint laughter of neighbors. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her heart content. The kitchen, still warm from her work, glowed with the soft light of early day. Tomorrow's recipe ideas already danced in her mind. Though her hands moved with the ease of habit, there was purpose in every gesture. This home, this family—every moment here was hers to savor, slowly and sweetly.