Author: Chen Qingqing.
Editor in charge: Xie Wanfei.
WeChat editor: Wang Xinyuan.
When I was a child, I used to see small fireflies on summer nights. They shimmered with a faint green light, skimming through the humid air, piercing through the thick of the night, undulating and shimmering in the deeper darkness. No matter how dark the night is, the fireflies always light themselves up.
This little bit of light, like snow on the leaves, fell in my childhood, accompanied me from my hometown to the distance, and guided me to radiate my own light in the ups and downs of the years.
I left my hometown when I was 12 years old. There is no water in my hometown, there are tall woods, ridges of land and gently rising hills. In spring, the purple-pink sycamore blossoms bloom on the branches, and the flowers are filled with bright "spring wine", and the small garden is filled with an intoxicating fragrance with just one tree. The swallow is the messenger of spring in his hometown, it has a tail wing like a double scissor, dexterous like a song, flying obliquely in the sky, composing a wonderful spring dance in the spring harmony;On the ridge that has been silent for a winter, the judge is ...... new green and hope
Later, I went to the south and saw for the first time the water towns in the south of the Yangtze River that are "tiled with new green water and apples" described in the poem. A bay of blue waves;Stone bridges are diagonally horizontal;Willows hang low;A lot of hibiscus. The ancient fragrant courtyard with blue bricks and tiles, the pavilions and pavilions built by the water, the bluestone pavement with a silent sound, and the exquisite and unique wooden boats are secluded. Jiangnan, even the wind is stained with water vapor, which is fresh. Every scene and object is soaked in the aura of water, and it is blurred in the charm of water.
For children born in the north of the Qinling Mountains and growing up in plain villages, they are accustomed to seeing the heavy loess, the strong north wind, and the fierce sorghum red in their hometown. At a certain moment, the heart is unconsciously ironed soft by this beautiful water.
That night, the wind swept through the water, bringing the sadness of Xun, and in the afterglow, several awning boats were far away, startling a circle of light rippling on the river. In an instant, the shadows of the bridge, the trees, the houses, and the people shattered into a river of golden light in the leisurely oars, making it impossible to tell whether the scene was in the people or the people in the scene.
I don't know if this cold sound fits the wanderer's state of mind, or the sparkling water waves that day are mixed with the graceful Wu Song of the boat lady, or the old red lantern fluttering in the wind evokes a different kind of emotional ......At that moment, the tremor of the soul and the passing time roared. I once thought that my eyes should be a clear spring in the south of the Yangtze River, and my soul should be a wisp of water grass swaying in the water town.
Later, when I was in a foreign land, I often appeared in my dreams with the slightly "rustic" local voice of my hometown;In the green wheat fields in spring, the fresh and fragrant shepherd's cabbage and spring leeks are freshBright green cornfields in summer;In autumn, sorghum leaves curled up in clumps of hoarfrost and dried green radishes sprinkled with peppercorns on a stone mill;During the winter and New Year, every household hangs salty sausages in the courtyard, and there are steaming pots of fried meat, fried tofu, and ......
The soft water town is quiet, and it has never touched my heart in a lonely dream. In search of answers, I returned to my hometown again.
Returning, the reckless North China Plain waited quietly, and my small footprints set foot on this boundless wilderness and hills. The train roared, and behind Xu *** was the ...... of the mountains and sleeping fields that slowly retreated in the mist
When I got home, it was nearly dusk. The setting sun gilded the entire village with a touch of red. The lilac smoke swirled along the eaves, wrapped around the treetops, jumping away in the wind. On the persimmon tree at the entrance of the old house, the withered yellow leaves have long been knocked off by the north wind, and a few dark red and shriveled fruits hang on the branches, which looks particularly empty in winter. My mother came out to greet me, her old face was tightly wrapped in a fuchsia scarf, and only the licking eyes showed me, still alive. The smell of straw and corn stalks wafted through the air, as well as the smell of steamed steamed buns from my mother.
Nothing seems to have changed in my hometown, compared to the bustling crowds, busy streets, and high-rise buildings of the big cities, it is so cramped, quiet and shy, only the hissing of insects in the wilderness, the burning stars in the night sky, and the ethereal smoke and ...... in the mountainsFamiliar, rustic and intimate.
As I did when I was a child, I sat in front of the stove to add firewood to my mother's fire, grabbed a handful of firewood and stuffed it into the hearth, and watched the straw and firewood dance wantonly in the light and heat, making a crackling and popping sound. In front of the stove, the red light of the fire illuminated the mother's body. At this moment, my mother is so focused, chopping, stir-frying, seasoning, thickening ......She danced the spatula like a skilled performer, using the stove as the stage, the chopping board as the instrument, the whole grains as the rhythm, and the pots and pans as the tune, playing a feast in the name of love for her daughter.
The flames are blazing, the tongue of fire licks the bottom of the pot, and the hot steam is steaming, and the soft roasted tofu, crispy pot, fried spring rolls ......Plates of hometown delicacies spread. After frying, my mother pulled in the stove with tongs, and a few blackened sweet potatoes rolled out. Mother picked one up and tossed it back and forth on both hands. White smoke came out of the hot sweet potato, and my mother held it in both hands and blew it, and carefully handed it to me.
This is what I just planted this year, it's sweeter than honey, you can taste it. Mother said eagerly. I gently broke it open, and the golden sweet potato meat exuded a sweet and silky aroma, and when I took a bite, it was soft and glutinous and sweet, and it was still the taste of my childhood. The mother smiled with satisfaction, and her smile was full of pride.
The stove made of yellow mud, the firewood burning vigorously, the smoke rising, and the roasted sweet potato in my hand that is sweeter than honey make me feel like I have returned to the happy moment when I was a child, laughing and playing in the fields with my friendsIt was as if I heard my mother standing at the door ......of her house, calling me to come home for dinnerTime has faded away, and the friends at that time are now scattered everywhere, and the child who treads water on a rainy day and picks flowers on a sunny day has also grown up. It's just that this stove hasn't changed, and the firewood is still burning brightly, cooking the heart-warming original flavor of this world.
In this simple and old stove house, I meditated on the Jiangnan thousands of miles away, thinking of the willows caressed green by the breeze, and the smoke and rain dyed by ink dots, it is so lovely, poetic, elegant, and fascinating, but I finally understand that it is not my hometown.
My hometown is in the North China Plain, and it has the thickest clay stove made of yellow mud, and the cooking on the stove is the taste of home, and the smoke is the feeling ......of home
Review: Yang Yue.
Reviewer: Zhou Wei.
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