My mother was a tireless laborer, and in my limited fragmentary memories of her, there were few moments of her leisure and relaxation. The burden of the family's life is on her shoulders, and they rely on her inside and out.
My mother's hand-rolled noodles are the warmest and most delicious food I can remember. Every time I smell that familiar smell, it is as if I have returned to the past years and felt my mother's deep love for me.
In my childhood memories, every time it was time to eat, the whole village would echo with the sound of my mother calling me home, the mournful, long, and anxious cry of each word. Of course, if you don't respond in time or go home late, you will inevitably be beaten. I don't remember what psychology I used to have, every time she called me anxiously, I heard it but didn't answer in time, and I was scolded countless times for it, but I couldn't bear to be beaten.
My mother is an expert at housework, and her hand-rolled noodles and old steamed buns are very famous in the village. Every year when the wheat is harvested, I will help this family to thresh the wheat.
Before steaming the steamed buns, my mother took out the treasured old noodles (the noodles are also called noodles), which were left over from the first year, and they had dried up and turned yellow. She breaks the old noodles little by little and soaks them in a small bowl until they all turn into slurry. Then tie an apron and start blending. I played under her nose. She mixed the old flour slurry into the flour little by little, slowly kneaded it into a dough, put it in a basin and put it on the hot kang head to cover it with a quilt, and slowly fermented. After fermentation to a certain extent, it is then kneaded into a small lump, and then the dough is kneaded into a round ball with both palms interlocked, and then put it on the prepared steaming drawer and ignite the fire to steam.
When I was a child, I didn't have a lot of money, but my mother was always able to make delicious hand-rolled noodles from simple ingredients. She will get up early, knead, roll, and cut the dough, and the movements will be smooth and smooth, quickly rolling a dough lump into a dough about the size of the tabletop, and then roll it, quickly pull out the rolling pin, and then the kitchen knife will be cut into locks with a bright rhythm, and then shake it lightly with her hands, and one after another handfuls of noodles of uniform thickness will be placed on the table. Every step is done so carefully and meticulously. When I woke up, a steaming bowl of hand-rolled noodles was already on the table, sprinkled with some chopped green onions and sesame oil.
I would always gulp down my mother's hand-rolled noodles and praise as I ate, "Mom, your hand-rolled noodles are so delicious!" My mother would always smile and say, "If you like it, eat more." "Seeing me eat so deliciously, my mother's eyes were full of tenderness and satisfaction.
Mom is a resilient woman. As time went by, I grew up, left my hometown, left my mother. Every time I came home, my mother would always make me a bowl of hand-rolled noodles, and the taste was still so familiar and warm. I know that this bowl of hand-rolled noodles contains my mother's thoughts and concerns for me.
Now, nearly thirteen years after my mother passed away, I still miss her in tears when I dream back at midnight. In my heart, every action of my mother when she was working is a line of poetry, recording her silent dedication to her family and dedication to life. Her gray coarse cloth clothes and short black hair are indelible symbols in my memory. I hope she can feel my deep respect and endless thoughts for her in heaven. Those warm memories make me feel extremely happy.
The years have been fragrant, and my mother's hand-rolled dough is the best memory of my life. It's not just a dish, it's my mother's deep love for me. No matter how old I am, my mother's hand-rolled noodles will always accompany me, making me feel the warmth of home and my mother's love.