Ding, with a faint sound and the warm winter sun, knocked on my imminent body. As light as the sound of the sun falling to the ground, it should be the sound of bowls and spoons colliding, gently brewing and rippling in the warmth.

I got up to look at it, and the action was very light, lest I be surprised by this afternoon's dream. Through the ground glass, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure, slightly short and stout, not skilled in cooking and a little clumsy.

It's the father.

There is a table of ingredients on the white porcelain stove table, mostly red dates, longan and other supplements, as well as some unknown medicinal materials, which are carefully packed in beautiful porcelain bowls by my father. I smiled. I never thought he would be such a delicate person. Holding a wooden spoon in his right hand, he carefully stirred slowly in the pot, but did not dare to get too close to the pot wall, and drew an arc very carefully. The hot air in the kitchen formed a layer of water vapor on the glass. I can't see clearly inside. Following the faint fragrance and the thick posture in the pot, I guess my father is cooking tremella soup.

I leaned against the half-open kitchen door, and through the gap, the vague figure gradually became clear in my eyes: my father was wearing a floral apron made of cotton cloth by my mother, and the gentle dress on my mother was stretched over my father's slightly obese stomach, which seemed a little stiff. Lace made a summary at the back, leaving a shallow impression. His mother's slippers were on his feet, and it suddenly occurred to him that his slippers were hanging on the balcony. Somehow, there is an inexplicable acidity, and suddenly I feel that this scene is too abrupt.

Looking up, there seems to be a piece of paper on the cupboard door. It's a recipe vaguely, and I don't know what is pulling my mouth up. My father even carefully marked the order and quantity of each ingredient. Those words, one by one, are neatly arranged. I think my father, who has been in business for a long time, may not have written such serious words for a long time.

Father picked up the porcelain bowl on the table and put it carefully by the pot. From time to time, he looked at the paper on the cupboard door and whispered their order, still stirring in his hand.

It's the first time I've found such a warm and meticulous father.

In Dongyang's description, I began to meditate and stare at my father's back. Camel sweater seems to have been worn for a long time, with slightly curled corners and small fur balls. Father turned away, and the light on his face properly divided the light and shade. Still a handsome man, years did not leave those so-called indelible marks on his father, but it was in those subtle details that he wantonly nibbled away his years.

Father carefully put the tremella soup into the wooden bowl at hand and put a delicate porcelain spoon on it. I gently pushed open the door, and my father turned around and looked at me a little at a loss. The wooden bowl on the table is filled with sweet and thick warm yellow soup, and the rising heat shines with strange pearl luster. Jujube juice made a circle in the soup, and the aroma sneaked into the bottom of my heart. Father put his hand on the wooden bowl and said, "Drink and watch." His words suddenly increased. "Red dates are brought by customers from Xinjiang. Are good things ... "

I scooped a spoonful full: "Dad, actually I don't eat red dates." My father looked at me with some fear. I buried my head and took a big bite at the dates in the spoon.

Actually, it doesn't matter anymore

As long as you have the warmth in your heart, that's enough. Isn't it?