Shen Mo was silent for a long while.
No wonder his uncle said there had been no activity for half a day; with this approach, he might not be able to finish a dish even by nightfall.
He dried his hands, threw the paper towel into the trash bin, and asked Shen Father, "What do we do now?"
"Shrimp dumplings," Shen Father said, placing a dough skin he had rolled out in front of him, quite pleased with himself, "I didn't expect it, but I seem to have some talent for making dough-based dishes. Look at the thickness of this skin, isn't it very even?"
Shen Mo didn't respond but silently picked up a skin, scooped a small spoonful of filling into it, folded both sides together, pinched it tightly, and then asked Shen Father, "How many have you made?"
Shen Father said, "Two."
"…" Shen Mo's movements faltered, his fingers pressed too hard, and the filling oozed out of the skin.
Shen Mo felt that this wasn't about preparing their dinner but rather self-indulgence.
