The first day of writing 1 just dawned, the sky was slightly fish-belly white, and the surroundings were still hazy, like a silver-gray veil. Dim lights faintly rippled from the bridge, and hot fog rushed out of a column of white fog and soared into the sky. It's still quiet around, but I know grandpa has already opened the shop early.
Grandpa has an ancestral craft-sausage powder. Every day at dawn, he goes to work in rice rolls's shop by the bridge early. This kind of fine, smooth, soft and refreshing rice flour needs a stone mill made of bluestone to grind a uniform and delicate rice slurry. Then prepare all kinds of ingredients, just waiting for the villagers to come and taste.
When I was a child, I always liked to stay in my grandfather's shop and watch him busy entertaining guests. Grandpa's craft is very clever: first sprinkle a layer of oil on the plate, brush it evenly with a brush, then pour a ladle of rice paste into it with a spoon, sprinkle salt and some fine chopped green onion, pour the ingredients into it, and then push it into the stove. Soon, the fragrance will be overflowing.
At this time, I took out the plate and saw a thin powder film, which was bright, soft and elastic. Pour a little pure peanut oil, which is already mouth-watering. The mouth is soft and the crisp taste comes from the tip of the tongue. I love this smell, not only because it is delicious and attractive, but also because Nora rice rolls smells like grandpa.
Grandpa's taste is grandpa's most skillful craft, the simplest breath, the hardest sweat and the purest heart.
"An egg sausage!" -"Good!"
"A sausage!" -"coming!"
The ups and downs correspond to each other, forming a most beautiful duet at the bridgehead.
Every day after work, grandpa's face is always white with steam, but this can't cover up the darkness on his face. Sweat hangs on the temple, and the towel on the shoulder always turns into a wet towel.
When I was a child, when I saw such a hardworking grandfather, I always wondered why he had to work hard day after day. Perhaps, people are just surprised that a 70-year-old man is still pulling rice rolls so hard.
Later, I learned that a diarrhea not only showed grandpa's efforts and persistence, but also carried his unique time story.
Compared with the mainland, Hong Kong in the 1980s was really thought-provoking. Even if you stroll through the old streets of Hong Kong now, you can still see the prosperity of the past. At that time, my grandfather and Taigong opened a restaurant in Hong Kong, and my grandfather's craft was legendary. In the inheritance of such traditional handicraft skills, grandpa fell in love with this ancient taste and was very proud of his craft.
After Hong Kong's return to China, retired grandparents could have enjoyed family happiness, but when they returned to their hometown, they left the shop at Qiaotou. I know my grandfather's obsession stems from his love for this traditional craft and the inheritance of traditional culture!
Grandpa often smiles and says to me, "You have not only ordinary rice rolls here, but also the unique flavor of Hongkong in the 1980s!" In grandpa's smile, I clearly feel the persistence contained in simplicity, which is the memory of grandpa when he was young, the precipitation after years of vicissitudes, and the simplicity of life!
A dish of diarrhea, a generation; For a while, a feeling! It is the waiting of years, the fragrance of time precipitation, and the constant for many years-the taste of grandpa!
In my heart, there is a clear spring, which is the softest and most fragile place in my heart. I have been carefully protecting the clear spring in Hong Na, letting it wait quietly and dry up while waiting.
Until, one day ... an accidental falling red leaf flew in front of me, floated into my heart, stirred up ripples and touched my heart.
I don't know, what is life, is it solemn? Is it gorgeous? Or passion? I don't know my past history or my mysterious future. I don't know how small I am in this vast universe. All this, everything, scares me. I don't know, at the same height, is there a pair of big hands of fate controlling my future, just like I am controlling an ant?
It turns out that life can be so great or so humble.
Why is life just a hurried life? Why does life always come and go in a hurry? The rising sun is full of joy of life, but in a blink of an eye, it has been sparse in Gui Yue. The passing days, even for a moment, are like a drop of humble tears, rushing in the bitter sea. I'll never get it back. A flash in the pan, behind the beauty is the pain and helplessness of life.
If fallen flowers, leaves, dead branches and dead willows once represented a splendid life, then it is really too short. The beautiful bud in full bloom suddenly became dead and withered! Butterflies will also die in the cold fragrance of flowers in Xia Hou!
It turns out that life is just a beautiful fairy tale to comfort a broken heart.
I hate the autumn wind, which is always ruthless, taking away the soul of the leaves, leaving only withered empty shells to lament in the autumn wind.
In fact, every leaf is crying, but the wind is too strong. The crying is too small.
Gently stretch out your hands and hold up a fallen leaf. The withered body can't feel any breath of life. I panicked, and my life ended like this? One day, I will fall and disappear like this fallen leaf, and will soon be replaced by new green leaves. Just like an ant, it comes unremarkable and goes insignificant. I'm lost.
A pot of muddy wine is endless, and life is endless. Happiness and pain are interdependent. A white dress, a cold sword. Heroes travel all over the world with swords, in that cruel Jianghu. He speaks forcefully, his brow is tall and straight, and he walks forward. After his daughter left, he became free. However, on a lonely moonlit night, I can only chew bitterness alone. The swordsman has no confidante, only a cold sword. (of a period) ending.
Smiling with a sword ended her life and disappeared into the smoke.
The sunset on the lake treads on the water, and the solitary sword prints resentment with one handle. There is a trace of bitterness in life. Even heroes cannot escape the weakness of human nature.
Life can be so cold.
Do you believe in the afterlife?
I believe
In the afterlife, I would like to be the wind.
Precipitate the first component, hibiscus fragrans and lilac jasmine, and cluster into a ball, which is fragrant and refreshing. "There are green steps outside the lane and flower diameters in the lane." This is the old street where grandparents live and a place to be proud of. It is not rich here, but it is dressed up like a rich man's garden by these flowers. It's not interesting, but there is an abrupt and empty yard with no color at all-this is my grandfather's home.
I haven't seen any flowers except the yard in front of the house. There are only tall trees in the few acres under the back hill. When I was a child, I couldn't see the top unless I was held, so I could only stare at the crumpled trunk. I remember when I was a child, I always thought my grandfather was too sentimental, so I often went to other people's yards to see flowers, and I didn't hide my desire to plant flowers at home. Unfortunately, my grandfather was always unmoved.
Maybe some things are meant to be. After junior high school, I seldom went to grandpa's house, but I was reluctant to go that time. Now that I think about it, I am still very touched.
It was the last winter vacation in junior high school. It was the Spring Festival, all my friends were in the city, and the weather was very cold. Listening to my parents say that I will go back to the countryside to spend the New Year with my grandparents, I have an unspeakable feeling.
After living in grandpa's house for a few days, I couldn't help going out for a walk. Although the weather is still unclear, it is even more depressing to go out-because the flowers are in a tragic state of withering: yellow leaves roll down, but they are covered with snow for an hour and then disappear. Although the growth of age made me understand the truth of "flowers floating with water", this scene still made me feel sad.
So I buried my head and walked on. I was moved. When I looked up, I was covered with snow. I didn't find it until I cleaned it up That's a tree. According to my childhood memory, it was probably planted by my grandfather's family. I can see most of it when I look up, but I am surprised only when I see it clearly: there are almost no snowflakes on the straight trunk, as if it has never snowed. If it weren't for the occasional new shoots, you would think that God cares about this treasure land and deliberately doesn't snow here-because there are few snowflakes on every tree here.
When I got home, I asked my grandfather how big these trees were. He told me that the smallest trees are in their twenties, and centenarians are full of trees. Their roots are deep and firm, and their trunks are thick. Even though the bark is full of vicissitudes like wrinkles on the old man's face, it is still as strong as a young man in his prime.
When I look at the tree and grandpa, I feel like I'm looking at the same kind. Grandpa grew up with the tree and grew old together, but the soul in his bones became more and more stable like the roots of the old tree, and his heart sank. Who cares what kind of "red cherry and green banana" he is around?
People of our age should learn from these trees and take root quietly in the soil. What I fear most is probably like a flower, which is in a hurry to open! But it is easy to be broken.
I want to be a tree, but I don't like flowers.
"Grandpa, can you help me plant this sapling together?"