A Wisp of Cooking Prose
A Wisp of Cooking Prose 1Cooking smoke is the hair of the village, the long line that holds the kite, and the silent call of home. Xu Junwen said: "You see, the evening wind in the smoke, how to look like a hanging wrist waved on the wild grass, clouds and smoke dancing, the virtual place false, the real place solid, that we can not do in the silk and paper, can be said to be a real 'heavenly book'."
Such a sentence, at first sight. Fear of annihilation in the sea of literature, with pick up the mouse to clip to the nearest position. This is good, dusk or midnight, sitting alone can embrace the smoke to warm, and smoke to talk about it.
This is a very grounded prose.
Cooking smoke, with a light nostalgia, but also with warm feelings of the countryside.
Although I am not a traveler, but I can also feel the same.
However, it can only be thought about. There is no this courage, afraid of family will worry; also afraid of familiar people will be unjustified speculation ...... even if far away in a different place, the mind also can not get the peace of mind wanted. Hey ...... look forward and backward people - like me - in the end nothing ah!
Then, let me just do a wisp of smoke! In the snowy night with a faint blue light, on the roof with thin snow, let me tilt my head up, stretch out my arms, hold on, look forward to, and call out silently!
And you? Whether at the end of the world, whether in the corner of the sea; whether walking alone, or sinking into the hustle and bustle; in your heart inexplicably a tremor of the moment, in your tired eyes closed, hands pressed to the temples of the moment ...... your heart in the depths of the corner of the heart, inexplicably slowly on the rise of a wisp of smoke. Perhaps it is a warm, shallow smile that hangs at the corners of the mouth. "After all these years, where is she, is she okay?" You, like me, can't escape the distance of time and space. Far away from the longing, like moss endless spread and grow, but also noiselessly quiet prostrate. I can't get any news, and I don't want to bother. A thorn stubbornly, in the heart of a hidden pain again and again, but do not want to pull out. Just like this, quite good!
"Ambiguous far people village, according to the market smoke", "and see the smoke rising, twilight cover the earth, want to ask gusts of smoke, where do you want to go ......" I like this serenity and I like this kind of serenity and poetry, let it, in the hometown, in a foreign country, in the dusk, in the midnight, faintly fluttering it!
A wisp of cooking smoke prose 2
A wisp of cooking smoke by chance, as if I saw my mother come out of the kitchen filled with the smell of rice, with the same hands as the pine bark, patting the dust all over the body, clean hair between the dregs of the grass. Then the mother stood quietly outside the courtyard, gazing thoughtfully at the path at the entrance to the village.
In the twilight of the evening, the tired birds thought of nesting, my father took me and my sister from the school on the way home. At that time, my sister and I's most urgent wish is to see in the green trees, green vines, the differences in the cover of the poplar bushes rising a wisp of cooking smoke ----- that sweet fragrance, even farther can smell the deep attachment of the mother, but also can light up our eyes.
"Dinner Oh!" That voice full of mother's love, is a beautiful, deep ballad, leisurely echoing in the ear, extraordinarily sweet.
A wisp of cooking smoke ----- that sweet fragrance
In that year of extreme material scarcity, what the mother did was just rice. Three times a day, in addition to corn rice porridge is a corn cake, let a person look at the heart, but after gambling or to eat. Sometimes they are angry at their mothers, and they are silent, and my tears fall down one by one.
So I fantasize every day: "If only my mother could do magic, the table would be full of fragrant meals that I want to eat." Gradually, my sister and I found that the table meals are increasingly rich. But mother rarely move chopsticks .......
Now, we are living the life we most wanted as children, and regret that we can't eat our mother's cooking every day. Once in a while to go home, the mother's face overflowing with happiness, in the kitchen busy half a day. The food was naturally rich, but the mother's face showed a difficult to understand the sarcasm.
Later, my father told me on the phone that my mother was very concerned about you, and that every meal would be a reminder that this is the kind of meal that my children like to eat, and that I don't know if they have eaten it yet. On the other side of the phone, my heart astringent, the corner of my eye wet, savoring the parents' strong love.
Now that my father is gone, only my mother is alone in that old house, many times I advised my mother to come to the city and live with us, but my mother stubbornly shrugged off for various reasons, and I y know that my mother does not want to leave the old house because of my father's infinite attachment to the smoke of the cooker, and that I do not want to give up!
"And see the smoke rising ......" an ancient song but flow of divine love. Every time you hum this song, it seems to see the hometown curling smoke, leisurely rising on the roof of their own homes, a seductive sentiment that people can not be calm for a long time ......
A wisp of cooking smoke prose 3Twilight is approaching, the sky drifting drizzle, I stand quietly in the doorway, look carefully at the village over the curling up of the cooking smoke, the smoke touched the The smoke touched the memories that were hidden a long time ago. Many memories have long been dusty, but I have never forgotten the smoke, the smoke has the smell of my mother. My mother's taste has become a lifetime memory, it is like a fresh wind, gently brushed the depths of the heart, with joy, with happiness, with me back to the previous time full of mother's love ......
Memory of the early morning, noon or evening, the kitchen over the family successively wafted up or white, or green, or gray The smoke is like a stream of smoke that is floating over the kitchen of every house. The smoke seems to be like a ribbon, the soft lines are flowing and beautiful. Especially in the rainy days, cooking smoke such as fog, faintly diffuse in the roof, the sky, that a hazy scene so that the whole village added incomparable charm, cooking smoke rendered into a painting of ink, I do not know how many poets and painters intoxicated, so that people are intoxicated by it, do not want to leave.
Nowadays, the village stove fire has been gradually replaced by liquefied petroleum gas, induction cooker and so on. Now the village, I have been very difficult to see the wisps of smoke, but every time I go home from work, I can not help but look at the roof of the family, the eyes constantly searching for that familiar smoke. Looking for that light smoke, looking for that happy flavor, and the memory of the mom's hard-working figure.
At that time, my mother never let me learn to cook, no matter busy or idle, she is always busy. Whenever the busy mom served that delicious meal, and dinner, mom from time to time to my bowl of vegetables in the scene. I always think that my mom is the most delicious in the world, the scene, the taste is still fresh in my mind.
Once, my mother was not at home, I was curious to learn from my mother's appearance of the fire cooking, the pot to add a pot full of water, and laboriously placed on the yellow smoke of the stove on the fire, began to busy stirring the batter. At the same time, I thought, stirring the batter to be the same as the mother to do the same thing, stirring the stirring than the mother usually do the thin rice a little bit, then add a little bit of flour, and then look at the thicker a little bit, and then add a little bit of water.
So I repeat how many times, until the pot of water boiled has not reached the mother to do a good job when the appearance of thin rice. Looking at the pot of boiling water, no longer have time to think about the thickness of the batter, a head of pouring into the pot. When I was finished, my father came back from school, he was surprised to see this scene, and when he saw the thin rice in the pot, he didn't scold me, but just told me, "Don't make fire to cook by yourself in the future, be careful of being burned by the boiling water, you are still small and can't do it yet". Said the pot from the stove fire down. In the end, I did not eat the rice, this is my first fire cooking, but also my life is unforgettable once cooking.
Later, when I went out to school and work, I would occasionally see the smoke rising from the cooker, and then I would miss the smoke at home, which is the simple scenery over the village, a poet's eyes away from the city noise of a lyric, a painter's brush indelible lines, is a faraway wanderer's thoughts of home. In my eyes, it is if the smoke and mist, flavorful, that a wisp of smoke is a beautiful landscape. The hometown is precisely because there is a wisp of smoke, only to make the original quiet, calm, detailed and space more a color, more of a family, more of a hometown.
In that curl of smoke, there is my warm home, there are my memories of mom. Looking back again, those days of smoke filled with those days, although busy, but happy.
The village smoke is still rising, curling around endlessly. Deep in the memory, that is the continuation of the mother's love ......
A wisp of cooking smoke prose 4Just so a wisp of cooking smoke stood at the top of the high slope, yearning for the moment of the blue sky and white clouds, was so a wisp of cooking smoke obsession. Open your eyes, do not want to miss a trace of the landscape. Full of green to mesmerize yourself, the vicissitudes of the stone tells the rotation of the seasons, the silence of the mountain deep hidden ancient stories, the weight of history here suddenly hidden.
The blue roof in the sunshine at will flaunt, before the house so rise a wisp of warm cooking smoke; simple house must be full of warmth, I sat on the hill quietly taste the wisp of cooking smoke. Rising wisps of cooking smoke, let my thoughts drift far away. As if I saw the gray-haired grandmother kindly called me to eat, but also like a mother to do a good job of hand-rolled noodles standing in the door to me hope, but also like grandpa in the winter to give me a hardwood fire, but also when I was a child to sleep in the father to give me the warmth of the bed of bean sprouts. I am so attached to the smoke of the smoke, the heart rises up the red sun, the sun is below the blue water and blue sky, abandon the troubles and unhappiness of life, would like to be attached to such a wisp of warmth of the smoke of the smoke of the smoke of the simple life of simple happiness, the heart and then there are no more selfish thoughts. The rising smoke purifies my soul, and my heart longs for that holy emotion, pulling an autumn grass for myself, and green leaf buds to decorate myself every day.
The warmth of the cooking smoke to me inclusive, I can here hissed and shouted, so that the grassland birds fly on the wings, so that the eagle just so in the high sky circling, so that the stallion just so in the vast grassland gallop; intelligent fox laughing at the clouds Shu Yunzhuang, with the camera to shoot the most beautiful moments. No more foxes, beautiful foxes can become immortal in drunkenness.
In fact, life can really be so simple, a wisp of smoke is enough to warm us up, hard-working hands to create wealth, as frank as the days of poverty, the heart to retain a light attachment and attachment, is also considered to be a wisp of smoke in the ordinary life of the warmth of the smoke.
A wisp of smoke prose 5
Cooking smoke invisible, the wind will blow without a trace; Cooking smoke has feelings, the starting point is always interpreted a school of living color. In addition to the legend of the immortals do not eat earthly fire, since ancient times, there are human places always endless smoke curling up.
When I was a kid, I always hated the smoke in my hometown in the mountain valley, because three meals a day always have to deal with firewood. There are dry and wet firewood, there are large and small, there are flammable and more non-flammable, so the smoke is thick and light, but the days are long, are invariably smoked pain in my childhood eyes, but also smoked black to live in the kiln and the house.
Because of the smoke, I used to be in tears, because of the smoke, I have to go to the field to find more firewood. In those days, burning coal for cooking was always a luxury in the eyes of the family, even if a period of coal fire on New Year's Day, the impatient people have to stuff a handful of dry wood in the stove, so the fire started again, the smoke was born. Perhaps in people's eyes, there is no smoke will not be cooking, not through the fire baptism of the meal will not have a delicious flavor.
More than twenty years ago, my hometown, a "field house smoke often cover the field" of the scene. When I was working on the ground, I looked at the village not far away, and when the smoke rose, it must have been the time for me to finish my work; and when I went up to the mountains to graze the cattle, I smelled the familiar smoke, and it was the same as getting the signal to return to the fence. When the smoke rises, the ravine will also be wafted with a strong smell of rice, more mixed with the call for the family to eat the thick voice of the countryside, in a moment, a quiet and poetic countryside ink painting will be spread out.
Cooking smoke contains the most personalized expression of the farmers, because the meal under the smoke, or salty or light, or spicy or sour, all by their own say, are full of their own unique understanding of life and experience. The smoke must know the master's secret, but it does not go to the next person to say, it only said to the side of the wind, only said to the sky white clouds, only said to the chattering larks.
In the past, my father deliberately kept the habit of cooking by fire, but a sudden illness made my father lose the ability to cook, so the last wisp of cooking smoke in my hometown was also dispersed helplessly. In fact, the hometown of the smoke has long been no longer the scene of the past, this is the progress of the times, however, in my always with a faint sadness.
Recently, I traveled outdoors and saw a hotel in order to attract business, the signboard is written "firewood rice". Sure enough, a pitch-black iron pot, a stove red dry wood is burning, looking up at the rising smoke, as if I was looking up to the home, looking up to the smoke shrouded ravine ......
A wisp of smoke prose 6In early winter, the wind, in a hurry, with breathing and heartbeat, with imperceptible vitality, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind. It falls and floats up again.
The old family tree stood as a pale poem, the branches danced by the wind, like the frosty hair of the mother who stood at the entrance of the village and watched. The sunlight lengthens the shadows. The sunlight stretched the shadows. The wild and unruly dead grass, like lifting up the once magnificent green silk.
Separated from the heavy winter winds and increasingly numb faces, standing at the mouth of the memory lane, I religiously search for something, in addition to the colorful and fragrant folk culture of the old home is about to be annihilated feelings of regret and longing, is the memory of some of the old trades that have retained the warmth of their loved ones and traces of their own childhood, when these crude but also the real thing reappeared in my memory, with a history and culture, I have been in a deep reverence, and I am very proud to be a part of it. When these rough and true things appear in my memory, I stop and visit them with great reverence for history and culture.
The sky is like an old man who has seen the world before, and it looks at this unpredictable world with a tolerant and compassionate eye. A piece of fallen leaves chased another piece of fallen leaves to fly to the distance, so high and low staggered my mood.
In the restless winds, the leaves form a sky-wide net, and you can hear the distant footsteps of the years, as well as the obsessive call for time. The sky and the earth, the leaves and the wind, human beings and memories, in the separation and reunion of the tangled, contradictory, and returned to the grateful thoughts.
In such a season, I am full of love for life, those lingering memories of my hometown, those accompanying me to grow up with the minutiae, those thick and kind people, like a seed eager to break through the frozen soil to feel the spring, so that I was born in the city, I was born in the city, urgently searching for the hometown of the soul in this piece of land that I like me to cry, I miss me to be angry at me for my love, I am misunderstanding me to cry out with some of the lost flavor exchanges. Some of the lost flavor exchanges, talking, communicating, as a thanksgiving for this piece of land to raise me.
Memory, is the time in the bottom of my heart stacked images, can not be erased. And the longing for the hometown is fermented in the heart of the strong feelings of nostalgia!
The wind, in the ear grows wings, fanning out the colorful light of the hometown.
I seem to see that the spring breeze, everything from sleep to wake up, the air is filled with the fragrance of rapeseed flowers, chasing the wheat waves screaming running `children, the sky flying colorful kites.
I will dream of summer, the grass barley hidden in the children's songs: kicking funky children, picking up Boogu egg children, play grass movie games ...... summer dreams, in the eyes of the children. The flowers bloomed, the children's dreams opened.
Abundant autumn, autumn insects singing the harvest of the pipa, the river grass drinking the rain, more fertile, plow columbarium rake tool shine, the sky turned light green, the children's world rapidly expanding into a large and large fields, red spike sorghum field, running horse-drawn carts, the most enticing is the mother of the pot can be gluttonous boiled through the soft and sweet sweet groundnuts.
The groundnut is a symbol of abundance in the old country.
Autumn is also the brightest moment of the wild jujube tree, jujube like the stars tied hands and feet, tired, let the children's mouth to gnaw; persimmon tree lit a yellow lantern, inviting the children day and night, looking forward to; petunias have come to the moment to show off their own, blue, purple, red, purple, pale pink, occupied the ditch, the river, the fence wall, but also the girl's heart rendered a rosy, romantic and beautiful, and the girl's mind. The girl's heart is rendered in a romantic and bewildering way.
The wind sometimes crosses the earth wall, slipping into the small yard of the farmhouse, hanging a long string of red peppers on the head of the house, braided into a twisted braid on the old elm branches of corn, drying in the mother's new sorghum stalks "񼆙"zi radish strips, the calf is breastfeeding, playing with a slingshot, the fall to give a person is the fullness of the rich feeling: a wind, a leaf, a leaf, the girl's mind is rendered rosy. Feelings: a hint of wind, a leaf, a flower, a child's cry, the sound of a bird flying ......
I can't remember how many times I dreamed of a gale, and in the gale there was the cry of the windwoman, and it was winter. In the sing-song book, in some distant time, winter is cruel. In my memory, the children wore tattered clothes, their faces wore the color of underfed vegetables, the clouds were gray, the earth was gray, the trees by the roadside were gray, the adults' thoughts were gray, but the children's thoughts were not gray. They are still playing with water by the river, going to the fields to shoot geese, playing skittles, and playing with cocoons.
Even when the world turns black, the world of the children is transparent, and it is because of the children that the world brings hope at all times.
Facing the sky, facing the magical nature, facing the sunny morning, I caught a yellowed leaf with my hand, and all the disappeared voices, breaths, and shadows were resurrected mutilatedly under my pen in this seemingly barren season.
Hometown grass and trees, hometown brothers and sisters, the light of the old house is still there, the call of the dewdrops is still there, hometown smoke like a butterfly flying up to the sky, become misty and far away. I'm still a lonely child away from my hometown, and when I look back, my eyes are full of weeds in the fields and my mother's stooped figure.
Writing is a kind of old-time memory, I chose to be happy to do the melody of my life, step in the rhythm of the time, I use a child's gratitude and thoughts, the hometown of the thick story of the whole book, gift to the feet of the hot land.
I am a wisp of smoke in the hometown, in the wind, in a butterfly gesture.