Page 31

“It’s beautiful,” I say, and I mean it.
Uncle Hong looks at me for a moment, the expression on his face unreadable, and then he nods. “Yes, it is. Here we have our geese. We just got them three years ago, not too long. Where are they from again, Jing?”
Uncle Jing puffs up his chest with obvious pride. “We bought them from Chaoshan, which is in the Guangdong province in China. They are known for breeding the best geese. Chaoshan geese rival the French foie gras. They are not bred to sell, we breed them for ourselves, to have during our Lunar New Year meal. They are the most delicious geese you will ever eat. Shang will cook the yummiest dish out of them.”
I look at the gaggle of honking geese. I have mixed feelings about this, though I know I’m being a hypocrite; I’m an omnivore, so the thought of animals being butchered for the table shouldn’t make me squeamish, and yet it does. The thought of Shang cooking, too, somehow doesn’t really compute with what little I know of him. I look over my shoulder at Shang and try to envision him cooking. I think of how he would look utterly focused, how his square jaw might clench a little as he works, and the thought of it makes my face turn red. Of course, he happens to glance over at me at that very moment, catching me staring at him. I snap my head back and hurry to keep up with Uncle Hong, my cheeks burning.
“And here we have our pigs. Now these are from Zhejiang province,” Uncle Hong says. “These are Jinhua pigs.”
Uncle Jing pipes up: “Jinhua pigs have the most tender meat. Auntie Jiayi makes the best roast pork, you will see for yourself later.”
“Does Auntie Jiayi do most of the cooking around here?” I’m somewhat surprised at that; I’d assumed that they’d have a private chef to do that.
“Oh yes. Well, she used to before her arthritis started to bother her.” As Uncle Hong says this, he gives a flippant wave of his hand, illustrating how unimportant he thinks things like cooking are.
I swallow the lump of irritation in my throat, focusing instead on the large pigs rooting around in the trough. The smell of manure is unexpected in its intensity, almost like a punch to the nose. They’re much bigger than I expected, though of course I have no idea what the standard size of a pig is, and unlike pigs in cartoons, none of them are pink. They’re white, in fact, with black coloring on their heads and rumps, and surprisingly hairy, and the sounds they make are disturbingly guttural. It strikes me again how different real life is, being here in the flesh with live animals as opposed to seeing them on the screen—
My thoughts are interrupted by a loud squelch, and I look down to see that I’ve stepped right in a pile of—argh, of something really thick and sticky andargh, argh. When I lift my leg, my cowgirl boot comes free from the pile with a sucking sound. Somehow, I manage to swallow the cry crawling up my throat and merely utter a small “Oh.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Uncle Hong says.
I nod slowly, trying to ignore the muck that now encrusts my new boots.Focus on the ranch, focus on the ranch…
A loud, monstrous sound wrenches my attention away from my boot. Contrary to popular belief, cows do not, in fact, moo. The noise that they make is closer toMrrroggrrrrhhh: a deep rumble that comes straight from the depths of their bellies and is closer to what I imagine a sleeping dragon might sound like instead of an animal whose favorite pastime is grazing on grass.
“Oh my—” I manage to stop myself, but it takes quite an effort, as I look up and find myself right next to a massive cow’s head.
When did the cow sneak up on me? It’s so close that I can feel its warm, gusty breath on my cheek. Once again, the smell overpowers me. When I read up on ranches and what to expect, I didn’t spare a single thought for how they might smell. The only way I can describe it is:It smells very much like a large, warm, living beast.I step quickly away from the monstrous thing, and Uncle Hong says, “A beaut, isn’t she? This is our Qinchuan cow. She is very prized; her milk is like liquid gold. And all our cows are grass-fed only, and range freely, so they are super healthy. This one is named Xingxing.”
“Star,” I say weakly, taking another step away from the cow.
“Yes. Star, because she is a star,” Uncle Hong says. “Oh, watch out behind you.”
I jump as a shockingly wet snout nudges the back of my head. It’s another cow, and its touch is so solid, so real, and so powerful, even in its casualness, I can’t help the small squeak from escaping my mouth, but manage to keep it from turning into a scream.
“This one is called Tiantian.”
“Sweet,” I say, backing away from the cows.
“Yes, because her milk is sweet as candy.”
More cows have appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. I am now stuck in a horror film, probably one namedThe Silence of the Cows. They are all massive, every step they take makes their bodies judder a little, and the closeness of them is overwhelming. They’re so incredibly loud, too. I don’t understand why children are taught that cows gomoo. Every time one of them goesMmrrrrrruuurgghhh, the sound reverberates through my eardrums and down the length of my body.
Uncle Hong studies me from the corner of his eye. “You are familiar with cows, yes? You said you have them in your family farm back in China?”
“Oh yes!” I give a vigorous nod. “Yes, plenty of cows back home.” I fight to keep the confident smile on my face. “There’s, uh, Daisy, of course. And Maisie. And, ah, Hazey.”
Uncle Hong tilts his head to one side. “You gave them Western names? Interesting.”
Damn it. Of course they wouldn’t have been given Western names. “Only personally,” I say. “I mean, their real names were, you know, things like Diyi, Dier, Disan…um, yeah. We just numbered them, we didn’t really name them.”
“Ah, you didn’t want to get attached before they were slaughtered? Smart thinking.” Uncle Hong’s eyes never leave mine as he speaks. “You told Shang you miss your farm a lot.”
Shang has caught up with us and is standing a few paces away, stroking one of the cows’ sides while listening to our conversation.
I try hard not to look at Shang as I say, “Yup, I did. I do miss it a lot.”
“You grew up herding the cattle back home, right?” Uncle Hong says.