In the cold north, in winter, a bowl of sour soup jiaozi with thin skin and fresh stuffing warms up the whole winter.

Speaking of jiaozi, it's best to eat jiaozi stuffed with pork and radish made by my mother, and dip it in garlic and red oil juice, one bite at a time, just don't be too satisfied.

Since I went to college, the quick-frozen jiaozi in the dining hall always felt inferior to the taste cooked by my mother every winter solstice. As for jiaozi, I think as a genuine northerner, jiaozi bears our full memories.

As the saying goes, "To tie a person's heart, you must tie his stomach first", and mother is the one who ties our stomach. No matter how far we go or how high we fly, what we like best is the smell of mother's cooking.

When I was a child, my family was not rich. I basically didn't eat jiaozi at ordinary times, and I only ate jiaozi during the Spring Festival. That was the happiest thing in our childhood. In the twenties of the twelfth lunar month, every household is busy preparing, just to welcome the jiaozi in the New Year.

When my mother makes jiaozi stuffed with pork and radish, she always asks us little soldiers to help her peel the radish, chop the meat stuffing, peel the onion, make the stuffing, start kneading dough, roll the dumpling skin and wrap the jiaozi, perhaps by ourselves, and jiaozi will be particularly delicious when she eats it. There is a sense of accomplishment and happiness in silence.

Although I have my own home after my long marriage, I will always inadvertently reminisce about my mother's jiaozi every New Year. It is not so much that I want to eat jiaozi, but rather that I have an attachment to my mother.

Maybe choosing a kind of food represents an attachment and love.