godfather of surgery

Chapter 1462 Who Washes the Dishes?

Chapter 1462 Who Washes the Dishes?

Actually, there's nothing wrong with that. When someone does a job for a long time, they will naturally be influenced by it, especially their way of thinking.

Teachers who have been teachers for a long time tend to be preachy and want to summarize the main idea of ​​everything they see; doctors who have been doctors for a long time look at everything from the perspective of health, and want to ask about the medical history of every passerby who coughs; police officers who have been police officers for a long time feel that society is full of risks and traps, and even when crossing the street, they suspect that the person on the other side is scouting the area.

Yang Ping probably thinks he's the same way. If he doesn't approach something from a rigorous scientific perspective, he feels uncomfortable and thinks he hasn't done it well and is just going through the motions. So, that's how he naturally cooks.

Although he hadn't cooked in a long time, Yang Ping's carefully prepared breakfast was excellent in both taste and nutrition, and was well received by Xiao Su and Da Bao, as evidenced by the fact that they finished their meals completely.

Yang Ping spent the entire Sunday with his family, a peaceful, harmonious, and happy time.

He didn't turn on his computer to check papers, didn't call to ask about the lab's progress, and even put his phone on silent. He played Lego with Da Bao and watched a show with Xiao Su for a while, even though he didn't understand the show at all. But that didn't matter. Seeing Xiao Su laughing so hard, he felt that this was more informative than any academic paper.

As evening fell, he stood on the balcony, watching the sunset, and suddenly remembered a sentence he had read in some book: The best state of life is not to do everything right, but to have some things that don't have to be done perfectly.

He thought about it and felt that what he said made a lot of sense.

Then he thought about it again and felt that the statement was "not logically rigorous".

Forget it, I won't think about this on Sunday.

On Monday morning, Yang Ping had just arrived at the research institute when he was drawn to a loud argument.

The sound came from the laboratory at the end of the corridor, a mixture of German and English, occasionally interspersed with a few words of Chinese. Yang Ping approached and listened; it was Mainstein and Weber arguing.

To be honest, it's nothing new for these two to argue. Mainstein and Weber, now pillars of the institute, are both top experts in their respective fields, but their personalities are diametrically opposed. Mainstein is like a volcano ready to erupt at any moment, while Weber is like an iceberg that will never erupt. A volcano and an iceberg together—that's quite interesting.

The scale of the operation today is clearly larger than usual.

"You're wasting cells! Wasting reagents! Wasting electricity!" Mainstein's voice was sharp, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, capable of shattering glass. "The third time! The third failed replication! Your temperature exposure time theory is completely wrong!"

Yang Ping could imagine Mainstein's expression right now: his eyebrows furrowed, his nostrils flared, his lips trembling slightly with anger, looking like a lion with its mane standing on end. Frankly, if anger could generate electricity, Mainstein alone could light up the entire research institute.

“It’s not that the theory is wrong,” Weber’s voice was low but firm, like a dull knife slowly being pulled on a whetstone, “it’s that we haven’t identified all the variables. The first two failures, I found the problem of room temperature fluctuations. This time…”

"What? This time you even changed the incubator!"

"I suspect it's the carbon dioxide concentration."

Mainstein scoffed. "Carbon dioxide concentration? The monitoring shows five percent, with an error margin of plus or minus 0.2 percent!"

“What we’re monitoring is the temperature of the water tank, not the actual concentration in the petri dishes,” Weber said, his tone completely flat, as if Mainstein’s anger was as transparent to him as air. “I placed a separate sensor next to the petri dishes and found that every time the door was opened, the CO concentration would drop to 3.5 percent, and it would take 20 minutes to recover. In those 20 minutes, the pH of the culture medium would rise from 7.4 to 7.6, which is enough to change the state of the cells.”

Mannstein fell silent.

Yang Ping pushed open the door and entered the laboratory. Inside, two elderly German men stood facing each other, separated by an incubator, like two fighting roosters. Upon seeing Yang Ping, they both turned their heads simultaneously.

“Professor!” Mainstein interrupted, speaking at breakneck speed, “Weber has gone mad! He wants to equip every single petri dish with an independent CO2 monitor, every single one! Do you know how much that costs? Do you know how much work that will require? Do you know…”

"Great idea!" Yang Ping said.

Mainstein froze, his mouth still forming the word "I know," as if he'd been put on pause. After a moment, he finally reacted: "What?"

“The monitoring of the incubator is at the incubator level, not the petri dish level.” Yang Ping walked to the incubator, opened the glass door, and looked down at the layout inside. “The incubator level can only guarantee the average value of the environment inside the incubator, but for each petri dish, the actual environmental parameters may vary because of different placement, distance from the door, and whether there are heat sources nearby. Weber, where is your sensor data?”

Weber pulled a USB drive out of his pocket. Yang Ping noticed that his dark circles were much lighter than last time, which meant that he had paid attention to his schedule and was no longer staying up late to work overtime.

The data curves are displayed on the screen.

The blue line represents the incubator's set value, which is stable at 5%, as straight as a line drawn with a ruler. The red line represents the actual measured value next to the petri dish, fluctuating like an electrocardiogram, with each opening of the door creating a deep trough, dropping to a maximum of 3%, before slowly rising again.

“Look here,” Weber pointed to the screen, his finger tracing the curve. “That beautiful data from last week was done on Saturday morning. There was no one in the lab on Saturday, no one opened the door, no one came in or out, no one took reagents, put out samples, chatted, or made phone calls. In short, the CO concentration stabilized for four hours. These three repetitions were all on weekdays, and the people in the lab next door opened the door frequently, so the concentration kept fluctuating, like riding a roller coaster.”

Yang Ping stared at the red curve for a full minute.

He said slowly, "So, your temperature exposure time may just be the surface. The real reason is the synergistic effect of CO concentration fluctuations and temperature fluctuations. A single variable has a limited impact; when two variables fluctuate simultaneously and interact, they produce an effect greater than 1+1=2."

Weber's grey-blue eyes seemed to light up two lamps. "Yes! It's like...like stewing soup. If the heat is too high, you can add water. If there's too much water, you can reduce the heat. But if the heat is too high and there's too much water, the soup will be ruined."

Yang Ping raised an eyebrow, and couldn't help but smile. "Your analogy is very down-to-earth."

Mannstein rolled his eyes but didn't say anything. He knew that the discussion was over when Yang Ping said "good idea."

"Weber, what is your verification plan?"

“Two control groups!” Weber said quickly. “First, keep the temperature constant and only change the CO concentration to observe the individual effect. Second, keep the CO concentration constant and only change the temperature to observe the individual effect. Third, change both simultaneously to observe the interaction effect. If the interaction effect is significant, the hypothesis can be confirmed.”

"Sample size?"

“Each group must have at least six replicates, and three independent experiments must be conducted. In total…” Weber did some mental calculations, “...fifty-four groups.”

"time?"

"Two weeks."

Yang Ping nodded and handed the USB drive back to Weber. "Okay, good luck!"

Weber took the USB drive, turned and walked towards the clean bench, his steps twice as light as when he came in. Mainstein stood there, looking at Weber's back, then at Yang Ping, and finally sighed, muttering something in German that Yang Ping didn't hear.

At noon, Yang Ping had a simple meal at the research institute's cafeteria.

The restaurant wasn't crowded. He carried his tray and found a corner to sit down—it was his habit; he preferred quiet when eating. He had just taken a couple of bites when someone sat down opposite him.

"Professor Yang."

It was Lu Xiaolu, holding a steaming bowl of beef noodles with a layer of red oil floating on top. It looked so spicy it would make you question your existence. Yang Ping had never understood how a southerner could eat something so spicy.

"What's up?" Yang Ping asked.

Lu Xiaolu slurped up a mouthful of noodles, hissing from the spiciness, before saying, "First, the K-therapy medication has arrived, and I've put the quality inspection report on your desk. Second..." He paused, lowering his voice as if he were talking about something shameful, "Dean Xia called me this morning and said there were some problems with the renovation of the new research institute."

"What's the problem?"

"During the fire safety inspection, the evacuation route width was 10 millimeters off, so the fire department refused to approve it."

Yang Ping frowned: "Ten millimeters?"

“Yes, ten millimeters.” Lu Xiaolu said with his head down, “Dean Xia said that all departments are keeping a close eye on the new research institute project, afraid that something might go wrong. But that’s good, the quality will definitely be top-notch.”

“Yes, being meticulous is the right thing to do,” Yang Ping said.

“Also,” Yang Ping put down his chopsticks, “you will personally oversee Lin Xiaoyu’s treatment. Everything must proceed according to procedure, and if any abnormalities occur, stop the treatment immediately.” Lu Xiaolu replied solemnly, “Understood.”

After finishing her noodles, Lu Xiaolu wiped her mouth and said, "Professor, have you been... too tired lately?"

Yang Ping looked up at him.

“I noticed you rubbed your neck three times while you were eating today,” Lu Xiaolu said.

He smiled and said, "Your observation skills are good, but I'm not tired, it's just..."

"Just what?"

Yang Ping said seriously, "I'm just thinking about what to cook when I get home tonight."

Lu Xiaolu opened his mouth, his expression as if he had heard something unbelievable. In his mind, Professor Yang's brain should be filled with all sorts of high-level medical theories, how could he possibly have room to consider such a mundane question as "what to cook tonight"?

Lu Xiaolu walked away with a smile.

In the evening, Yang Ping left work on time.

He first went to the supermarket and bought pork ribs, rice vinegar, rock sugar, and the "sour plums that make your teeth ache" that Xiao Su had specifically requested. Pregnant women's tastes are always unpredictable; one second they want something sweet, the next they want something sour. You can never guess what their taste buds will ask for next. Passing by a fruit stand, he saw a big, round watermelon and remembered Da Bao's comment last time that "the watermelon is sweeter than the pork ribs." He picked the roundest one and had the vendor weigh it. It weighed 12.8 jin (6.9 catties), enough for the family for two meals.

When they got home, Xiao Su was lying on the sofa, her belly quite noticeable, like a round little pot turned upside down. Da Bao was lying next to her, drawing something on a piece of paper with colored pens.

"Dad!" Da Bao jumped up, hugged his leg, and looked up at his father, saying, "You bought a watermelon!"

"There are also spare ribs." Yang Ping held the bag up high. "I'll make sweet and sour spare ribs tonight."

"Yay!" Da Bao ran around the living room twice, like a happy little dog.

In the kitchen, Yang Ping tied on an apron. It was a blue one bought by Xiao Su, with the words "Master Chef" printed on it—a gift from Da Bao.

He began to prepare the ribs.

Washing, chopping, blanching, and caramelizing sugar—every step was strictly followed, but Lu Xiaolu's words kept echoing in my mind: "Add more sugar, less vinegar."

The key to caramelizing sugar is controlling the heat. The rock sugar slowly melts in the pot, turning from white to golden yellow, and then to amber. The whole process is like a slow-motion chemical reaction. Yang Ping stared at the bubbling syrup and suddenly thought of Weber's incubator. Temperature, CO concentration, and time—three variables working together—determine the final product.

What about home cooking?

Sugar, vinegar, cooking time, plus an... emotional weighting factor.

He thought for a moment and added an extra spoonful of sugar.

The ribs sizzled as they hit the pot, releasing an aroma that exploded like a mini-explosion. Da Bao peeked out from the living room, sniffing, "Dad, it smells so good!"

"Go wash your hands and get ready to eat."

Xiao Su smelled it too. She walked into the kitchen, supporting her lower back, and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. This was a little difficult to do now because her belly was in the middle, like a round obstacle. She rested her chin on his shoulder: "Why are you being so good today? You left work on time and even cooked for me?"

Yang Ping said, "The research institute has been very efficient lately. Weber found the reason for the experiment's failure, Mainstein is supplementing the data on unknown factors, and Lu Xiaolu is keeping an eye on K therapy... I can take a break."

"Slacking off?" Xiao Su laughed. "You call this 'dynamic priority adjustment,' right?"

Yang Ping was taken aback. "...You peeked at my flowchart?"

“It’s more than just a flowchart,” Xiao Su said, letting go of his hand and pulling out the paper. It was a flowchart with forty-eight nodes, which he proudly waved around.

When the sweet and sour pork ribs came out of the pot, they were a bright red color and smelled wonderful. Each piece of rib was coated with a crystal-clear sweet and sour sauce, like it was plated with amber. Da Bao couldn't wait to pick up a piece, take a bite, and his eyes narrowed into slits. His expression was as if he had eaten the most delicious thing in the world.

"Dad, this is sweeter than the last one!"

"Is it tasty?"

"Delicious! Sweeter than watermelon!"

Yang Ping looked at Xiao Su, who picked up a piece, chewed it carefully, and nodded: "It's really good, but there's too much sugar?"

"An extra spoonful."

"why?"

Yang Ping thought for a moment and said seriously, "Because pregnant women crave sweets, this is...emotionally weighted."

Xiao Su paused for a moment, then reached out to help Yang Ping tidy up his hair that was sticking up from the steam: "Professor Yang, I accept your emotional weighting."

"Thank you!" Yang Ping served her a bowl of rice, then remembered something, "I haven't decided on the forty-ninth node yet."

“Don’t think about it,” Xiao Su said, her eyes sparkling in the lamplight. “The best point is no point at all. Just do what you want, add as much sugar as you want, and it doesn’t matter if you make mistakes. Anyway…”

"Anyway what?"

"Anyway, we all love what you make."

Yang Ping looked at her, at her gentle eyes under the light, and at Da Bao next to him, whose face was shiny with oil from gnawing on ribs.

He suddenly realized how wonderful the world was.

He said, "Okay, the fiftieth node: no node."

Da Bao looked up, a piece of pork rib still in his mouth, his face glistening with oil, as if he had just been fished out of a frying pan: "Dad, what does 'no nodes' mean?"

Yang Ping wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth: "It means that from now on, Dad won't need to check papers when he cooks."

"Then what are you investigating?"

“Check…” Yang Ping thought for a moment and said seriously, “Check what Da Bao wants to eat, and check what Mom wants to eat.”

Da Bao nodded in satisfaction, then made a request that made Yang Ping ponder: "Then I want to eat Ultraman-shaped ribs!"

"...This needs to be studied."

Xiao Su laughed so hard she couldn't stand up straight, her "little pot" on her belly jiggling: "You've made significant progress, so as a reward, you don't have to wash the dishes tonight."

"Then who will wash it?"

"I'll wash!"

Da Bao raised his hand.