The pumpkin seeds could also be dried.
The pumpkin skin could be fed to pigs.
Pulled pumpkin vines could be used for kindling, truly nothing was wasted.
Qiao Qingyu made pumpkin pancakes that evening.
He Xiuyu stood in front of the calendar in his study. In just two days, it would be Qiao Qingyu's birthday; she would be turning eighteen. The thought made his heart beat unusually fast.
Like a thief, he sneaked a little box into the drawer.
Then he hurried out to help serve the rice porridge that Qiao Qingyu had cooked.
Only when Qingyu returned did this place feel like a home, otherwise it would be cold and empty.
Xiao Hu had a particularly good nose. Despite the distance, he seemed to smell the cooking from the He family and used the excuse of delivering pickles to Qingyu to stay over. By now, he was already sitting obediently on a chair with Rongrong.
