Chishang is not only famous for its good rice, but also for its moving love stories

In Chishang's Wan'an community there is a place that serves as a village activity center, a visitor center, and a place for set meals for diners, called the "Rice Hometown Hall." The head chef and the second chef in the kitchen are a middle-aged couple. The woman is the head chef; she is small in stature, often wears a pair of little sandals, and keeps her hair clean, simple, and cut neatly short. Although some strands have turned white, she never intends to hide them. The man is the assistant who is ordered around and nagged by the head chef. His skin is dark, his build slightly plump, and whenever he sees someone he smiles in greeting, showing one of his slightly uneven canine teeth.

I met them on my second day in the village. The head chef invited me to the community kitchen to help them wash and prepare vegetables, plate dishes, wash bowls, and do other small tasks, and I immediately discovered this amusing pair. In the kitchen, before the food was served, it was always the woman who rushed about, fussed over everything, and took care of matters big and small, while the man, aside from occasionally carrying some heavier cookware, setting up the round tables for the open-air banquets, or occasionally driving the farm flatbed cart to deliver this or that, would also take the chance while his wife was away to sneak a smoke. The rest of the time, there was almost nothing for him to do.

Faced with such a carefree second chef, although the woman always complained that the man was in the way, she shouldered everything herself; and the man never got angry when nagged. Even while being scolded, he could still laugh heartily and say to me: "Hey, you're not cutting that the right way!" Yet the head chef had never once let him hold a kitchen knife.

One time I drove the flatbed cart with him to deliver something, and as usual he sneaked off to smoke. On the way back, I noticed his slightly limping steps. I did not ask, but he laughed heartily and said to me: "Look at my hands!" They were hands tormented by gout. His fingers were spread open, yet the joints were swollen as if he were clenching a fist. "So I can't eat meat anymore! Not even a tiny bit." His expression as he spoke was somewhat exaggeratedly mysterious, as if he were telling you some enormous secret.

Only later did I hear others say that his slightly limping foot and somewhat abrupt simple honesty were because he had once been in a car accident.

In the church, a love story quietly peeks out

Beside the community's Rice Hometown Hall is an old house arranged as a church. It is an old-style tile-roofed house with a pointed roof sloping to both sides. Because there is no attic, when you look up you can see the tall wooden beams crossing and interlocking. The church space is arranged very warmly, with a set of jazz drums, some low student wooden chairs, a small podium, and behind it a large soft-colored cloth curtain hanging down and a simple cross.

This was my first time in a church, and the head chef and second chef were there too. With the attitude of taking things as they come, I quietly sat in the last row, behind that slightly plump man, listening to and watching this small service that included only seven people, including the pastor. The host of the gathering shared some methods about how to come before God to pursue the realization of one's own intentions and to gain faith. They used a projector to list several key points or excerpts from some Bible passages. Throughout, the host spoke with sparkling eyes and full of joy, while I merely stayed silent. At the end, the host asked everyone to share, and people were generous in candidly telling their own testimonies. Just after the head chef finished speaking very humbly before God, it was the second chef's turn.

I could only see the second chef's back. He kept his head down, hemming and hawing as if he did not know what to say. He scratched his head, and after vaguely and reluctantly reading through the words shown on the projector once, he suddenly said briefly: "Thank you, Lord. Thank you, wife, for accepting this bad man." The people present laughed. Unexpectedly, he said with a serious face and in a loud voice: "It's true! This really is something only I and the Lord know. I have a wife who loves me." I could only see his back, yet in my mind appeared that innocent expression of his from that day, as if he were about to tell me some enormous secret. I saw the head chef smiling embarrassedly, covering her mouth, and lightly patting her old companion beside her, saying sheepishly: "No, it's not like that, you're very good." In that moment of light, comforting pats, my emotions suddenly stirred. A sour sweetness and moving feeling spilled from my eyes, and I forced myself to hold it back, unable to compose myself for a long time.

That night, I saw them again, just as every night: the second chef carrying the head chef back from somewhere in Chishang along County Road 197, and the woman's hand still resting, as always, on that slightly plump yet especially dependable shoulder. I looked up at the night sky. The night in Chishang was beautifully unobstructed in every way. I remembered that tonight was Qixi, the day the magpie bridge is formed, but I knew that even the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl were tonight looking down and envying a pair of immortal companions.