Cooking smoke is a homesickness, holding the hearts of wanderers; Cooking smoke is a faint miss, polishing the footsteps of wanderers going home.

Cooking smoke is a silk thread that is constantly being cut and confused. One end of it is tied to my hometown, and the other end is tied to my heart. Wherever I go, I will never forget the smoke from my hometown. Because, that smoke carries the warmth of hometown; There is a mother's long call in the smoke; The smoke in the kitchen is the root of my life.

It has been many years since I left my hometown. Whenever I see the smoke floating in a small mountain village in a foreign land and smell the burning smell of corn stalks in the air, my heart will miss home. Feelings are stirring my heart.

Cooking smoke is a cloud rising from the village, hovering over the village, which is the breath and root of the village.

"By my thatched door, leaning on my cane, I listened to cicadas in the evening breeze. Sunset lingers at the ferry, and the smoke of dinner floats out of the house. " Walking through this five-rhythm poem by Wang Wei, I savored the poet's mood, leaning against the wind with crutches, listening to the cicadas in the trees in the evening, watching the sunset on the ferry and the lonely smoke from the kitchen in the market. A touch of ease and leisure, a touch of free and easy leisure, the village where smoke rises, gives people a colorful and musical rural look. This kind of scenery is copied into the most beautiful picture in the poet's pen. Walking in the mountain village haunted by kitchen smoke, I feel infinite attachment to my hometown.

I stood in the distance looking at the direction of my hometown, and a ray of homesickness, wrapped in a strong smell of kitchen smoke, came to my face. Cooking smoke, you are my dream hometown. When I walk into you, I will feel the warmth I have never felt before.

In the morning, with the crow of the rooster, the small mountain village woke up. The brilliant morning glow crosses the horizon and rises in the east of Ran Ran. Bright light passes through the old elm tree at the head of the village and is reflected obliquely in the village. Mother is always the first to get up, get dressed and walk to the ground, holding a bundle of firewood. The match "sniffed" gently, and a thick fire lit in the stove, reflecting her smiling face and hope for happiness. The chimney on the roof emitted gray smoke, which drifted with the breeze and slowly circled over the village, and was dyed dazzling golden yellow under the illumination of the morning light. The breeze blew, and the smoke in the kitchen rose, blew away gently, and finally disappeared into the green fields.

The village began to be lively, with the banging of buckets, the barking of dogs, the chirping of sparrows and the footsteps of people doing morning exercises on the road. A brand-new day has begun.

Mother is very busy every day, spinning like a top, and the home is clean and warm under her control.

Mother filled a ladle of food in the ladle and scattered it in the yard. The old hen leads a group of chicks to eat. The old hen opened her wings and giggled, telling her children to eat quickly. The great white goose has a slender neck, vividly spreads its beautiful wings and shows its beautiful figure. The little pig arched in the circle and kept humming. Cattle are calling "Cleisthenes" in the enclosure, waiting to go out to plow.

The fire on the stove in the house is burning, and the gray smoke hovers over the roof, kissing the village gently, just like a beautiful picture scroll, which is fascinating. Those golden sunshine hiding in the corner of the village, accompanied by smoke curling up, floating around, intoxicated in everyone's heart.

Mom's cooking is the best When I was at school, my mother got up early every day to prepare breakfast for me. Every day, I face the smoke and set foot on the road to school. It was my mother's love that accompanied me to grow up all the way.

Many years later, I left my hometown and ate all kinds of delicious food in a busy city. But what I miss most is my mother's home cooking and the light of corn stalks in the kitchen hall.

When I was young, my family kept a big fat pig every year. My mother said, "The food is grown in our own home. If we dig up the mountain, as long as we work hard, we can kill pigs and eat meat at the end of the year. " Industrious mother, facing the sunrise and resting at sunset, gave us a happy childhood with a pair of industrious hands.

In summer, my parents go to work in the fields. My sister and I came home from school, put down our schoolbags, picked up a small bamboo basket and went up the hill to play with salsola. At that time, although we were young, we also knew our parents' hard work and always helped them do what they could. My little sister and I are reflected in the sunset and walking on the path in the field. Holding a sickle, squatting in the furrow, cutting the salsola one by one, and bringing happiness home one by one. The sunset passed through the farmland and the red light fell on the country road. The small village under the setting sun is quiet and warm. Whenever smoke rises in the village, my sister and I carry bamboo baskets full of victory products and go home happily. Around my mother, whoever cuts more cuts less, arguing proudly in front of my mother.

What I remember most is when I killed Nian Pig. As soon as we entered the twelfth lunar month, the weather in the north was already very cold. Mother counted the days, and when the twelfth lunar month came, it was not far from the New Year. In cold weather, pigs don't like to grow, and food is wasted. Besides, we clamor for meat every day. As soon as our parents summed it up, they began to prepare to kill pigs. Father found the most famous butcher in the village. I heard that he never misses killing pigs. We are very particular here. It is unlucky to kill a pig once, but not once. Once the pig shakes away, it will be caught and killed again. Most villagers are very taboo.

The next day, at first light, my father, uncle and butcher Wang caught pigs from the pigsty, put a large pig-killing stool in the middle of the ground and put a basin filled with pig blood underground. Then I lifted the pig to the stool, and the pig's screams got into my eardrum and buzzed. I hid in the house and watched from a distance. When the butcher knife fell, the pig snorted and stopped. Mother made a fire with firewood, burned a pot full of hot water, shaved and gutted. In half a day, more than two-thirds of the pork was divided and put on the kitchen table.

Mother started in cook the meat, and the smell of meat filled the whole village with smoke. Every year, the day of killing pigs is as lively as Chinese New Year, and all the neighbors come to eat meat and blood sausage. Everyone takes turns to come. Whoever kills pigs brings a few tables of banquets just to be lively. Pork can be eaten almost every day in the twelfth lunar month.

Now, young people have gone out to work, leaving only old people and children at home, and fewer and fewer people are killing pigs. That kind of memory, with the joy of childhood and the smell of cooking smoke, stayed in my memory and became an unforgettable past.

The old elm tree at the entrance of the village guards the village year after year. The smoke from kitchen chimneys kissed the branches of the old tree, lingering like a long-lost couple. The village is filled with the smell of red bean paste, and February 2 is the day when villagers make red bean paste. I don't know when this custom began to continue, but I know that since the village came into being, villagers will make sauces and continue to this day. My mother's skill in making sauce can be described as unique. My mother first selects the best soybeans, picks out shriveled grains and black grains, and puts them in the sun to make them turn golden yellow and shine brightly. Mother washed the dried beans and made a fire in the kitchen. The blazing flame burns at the bottom of the black pot, and the burning bean stalks make a "snapping" sound, like crying, and like telling the helplessness of brothers and sisters in the thousand-year history. I can't help but think of Cao Zhi's famous sentence "Boil beans and burn beans, and beans cry in the kettle". We are born from the same root, so why should we rush to speculate with each other? "Whenever I sing this poem, I will think of the sauce flavor in my hometown, and that unforgettable feeling will breed in the smoke.

Boil water in a large iron pot until the beans are cooked until the soup is clean and the beans can be crushed by hand. Beans can't be burnt. The sauce made from burnt beans is black, not golden yellow, and it tastes bad. At this time, turn off the oven and stew until the next morning, when the beans are reddish brown, take them out and cool them, and then twist them into uniform bean paste with a sauce mixer. Put it in the attic for fermentation, and add the starting sauce on April 18 or 28 of the lunar calendar. Wash the sauce blank, cut it into small pieces and put it in a big sauce jar. In every yard in the countryside, there is a sauce jar covered with a sauce bucket woven with wicker. Large salt is added to the sauce in the jar according to the standard of 1 to 0.6. Without salt, the sauce goes bad easily, while with too much salt, the sauce is too salty and tastes bad. Only this standard is the most suitable, and my mother's sauce is also the best. Fill the jar with boiling water to fully melt the sauce blank, cover the sauce jar and leave it for three or four days, then start raking, once in the morning and once in the evening, and throw away the excess foam deposits. Rake it every day, and the sauce will become very thin. After a month, the big sauce can be eaten. It is a specialty of our country and has a strong homesickness. No matter where I go, the sauce flavor in my hometown always holds my heart back.

However, I haven't smelled Maotai in my hometown for a long time. It appears in my dream and haunts my mind. Recalling the delicious food of the past, I met the taste of my long-lost mother's soy sauce in my dreams countless times.

The old elm tree is a good place for us to enjoy the cool in summer. The sun sets in the west, and we children will play under the old elm tree after school. The dense old elm reflects the afterglow of the sunset, and the mottled shadows fall on the open space in front of the old elm, which has become a paradise for our children. We hopscotch under the tree, kicked our pockets, played house, covered in mud, but had a good time. Older people, with small benches, sit under trees and chat. Their parents are short and all the old things are being discussed. Grandma Zhang is hard of hearing and can't hear clearly, so she keeps interrupting. Aunt Li has a loud voice and speaks like a war. Everyone chatted with each other and had a pleasant day with laughter.

The sun sets in the west and smoke rises from the village. The smoke in the kitchen is the call of the family. Whenever we see smoke rising, we all go home for dinner. The old people hobbled home with benches. The children haven't had enough fun. Hua's little face is filled with a happy smile. Some crazy children don't like going home. Mothers stood at the door, and the long and magnetic call floated into our eardrums under the conduction of kitchen smoke. We don't want to go home

The smoke from the kitchen in the mountain village has not changed its original appearance in the long years. It's very kind of you to touch my heart deeply.

As I leave home, the smoke from my hometown is getting farther and farther away from me, but my homesickness is getting stronger and stronger. I heard my mother calling me home at the entrance of the village. Under the moonlight of cooking smoke, the family was happy and warm.

Cooking smoke in my hometown is the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen. No matter where I go, the smoke from kitchen chimneys is a bright lamp that never goes out, illuminating my steps forward and giving me the warmth of my life.