(Though I had a hunch…)
Around the time when the evening meal in the inner palace was coming to an end, Kirin headed to the kitchen to start the preliminary preparations for the banquet. She had been tasked by the Empress to oversee the event. The actual cooking was supposed to be done by the female officials of the Shangshu (Imperial Kitchen Bureau)—or so it was intended. Yet, every single one of them had already left.
Instead, a towering pile of dishes from the evening meal awaited her—enough for about 500 people.
(This is too childish for harassment…)
She couldn’t start cooking until all the dishes were cleaned.
(Well, I suppose I should be grateful to have access to the kitchen at all. After all, I’m someone they despise.)
She tied her apron strings tightly, secured her sleeves with cloth strips to keep them from getting wet, and finally gathered her hair up, re-adjusting her peacock hairpin.
It was now just past Ren-ding (around 9 p.m.).
(I should be able to finish by Zi-ke [11 p.m.]. Let’s do our best.)
As she washed the dishes, Kirin nibbled at the leftovers from the consorts’ meals.
(Hmm… So this is the flavor that’s preferred in the inner palace.)
Though tasting scraps wasn’t praiseworthy, Kirin, who lived in a secluded part of the palace, didn’t receive meals prepared by the Shangshu. She’d had little opportunity to experience the cuisine of the inner palace until now.
By examining the leftovers and the types of dishes, it was clear which meals belonged to consorts and which to female attendants. The quality of the meals differed starkly between the consorts and the lower-ranking attendants, with an even greater disparity for eunuchs.
Food reflected social status and wealth.
(The consorts are served porridge mixed with flower beans, while the attendants get buckwheat buns or millet cakes.)
Food was not equal. However, the ability to enjoy something delicious should be universal.
In the end, the dishwashing took longer than expected, finishing around half an hour past Zi-ke. As the midnight bell tolled, she placed the last dish in the cupboard and exhaled deeply. In about two more Ke (roughly two hours), the morning meal preparations would begin, making the kitchen unavailable.
(It took longer than I imagined.)
The real work began now.
Slapping her cheeks lightly for motivation, she recalled times with her mother, when they’d worked three days and nights without sleep or food, attending to patients.
She began by preparing the quail. Into the cleaned quail’s belly, she stuffed a mix of ginseng, dried longan fruit, garlic, pepper, red dates, and black plums—over ten kinds of medicinal herbs.
The garlic and pepper, rare spices brought over deserts, were prized ingredients rarely seen on the inner palace table except on special occasions.
She brought a large pot of water to a boil, immersed the prepared quail, and set it to simmer for an hour to extract its essence. While waiting, she cleaned prawns—removing their shells and veins—then marinated them in Shaoxing wine.
Next, she took out a yagen (a grinding mortar for medicinal herbs). Tossing seeds and roots into the mortar, she ground them finely, sifting them repeatedly until they became a fine powder. Though the herbs were rare and bitter, she planned to use them as aromatic seasonings.
(First, I need medicine to slow the poison’s effects. Leeks, garlic, and yuzu, which repair cells damaged by mercury bee venom, must be included in the dishes.)
She was dealing with lethal poison. Caution was paramount.
However, she had to balance the herbs carefully; if they neutralized the poison entirely, the medicine for Princess Xue Mei would become ineffective.
At the same time, she couldn’t neglect the Empress’s command: “Prepare medicinal cuisine to protect the consorts from the poison.” She carefully considered the medicinal benefits of each dish and planned the order in which they’d be served.
(I’m in trouble. Some ingredients are missing. Well, I can probably procure them from the inner palace if I head to the stables first thing in the morning.)
Above all else, taste was crucial.
(Bad food, no matter its benefits, is essentially poison.)
What did her patients crave? What did they reject? What pleased them and what was intolerable? She didn’t know the constitutions or habits of the consorts but understood what might supplement the palace’s typical meals.
(The porridge, buckwheat, side dishes of beans, eggplants, cabbage, and eggs… Even though it’s spring, the diet is heavily biased toward “earth” foods.)
Grains, legumes, eggs, and buckwheat all belonged to the “earth” element. While the poisoning of Consort Fuxiang was due to toxins accumulating in discarded silk garments, her regular “earth” diet had likely exacerbated the problem by trapping water within her system.
As she worked, lost in thought, her hands never stopped moving.
She cracked apricot seeds, extracted the kernels, and ground them into powder. As the pot of water began to bubble, she added mushrooms to it. While waiting for them to cook, she continued grinding medicinal herbs, stoking the stove to adjust the heat, and straining the cooked mushrooms.
Someone who had once observed her preparing medicine remarked, “It looked like a sword dance.”
The fluidity and tension in her movements were likened to handling a naked blade. But Kirin saw it differently.
(This is a battle.)
The poisons she handled were as deadly as a sword.
Even the act of sprinkling a pinch of salt demanded her utmost attention; too much could turn an ingredient into poison.
(Failure is not an option. What’s at stake isn’t just my life.)
