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What does it take to be a qualified foodie?

Everyone brings their own recipes with them when they come into this world, and they will use their taste buds to remind you of the place where you grew up.

I was born in a pastoral area, and before I was eight years old, the recipes that my taste buds memorized were milk tea, fried rice, and hand-braised pork.

When talking about food, my sense of smell will quickly open up, and the following pictures will appear in my mind: the smell of cow dung mixed with cooking smoke, my father and mother returning from shepherding, with the faint scent of mugwort on their bodies, and the fire starting

The dried mutton simmered slowly, the heat quickly filled the room, my mother and father drank tea, talking about the sheep and horses and things about my growth... If I hadn't been eight years old,

Something happened in my family, and I thought this was the recipe for me to come to this world.

Unfortunately, overnight, I was swept away by the wind to a strange foreign land like a sapeng grass.

From then on, my recipes and hometown gradually became a background in my memory, eventually making room for another delicious dish!

This delicious dish is called braised noodles!

When I first arrived at school, I lived in uneasiness and panic. I had not yet been freed from the misfortune of family changes. I lived humbly and carefully every day like a silent wind.

My deskmate is a local. At first he would make fun of my accent and clumsy movements like other students, but after the teacher talked to him, he seemed to be a different person and took great care of me.

Although he talks little, he will quietly bring me a pancake from home or rush to help me line up to get water, confronting classmates who bully me.

But I am not grateful to him at all. I have a vague feeling that he also knows about my family's misfortune, which is the secret and inferiority deeply buried in my heart.

Until one weekend, he whispered in my ear and said: His mother wants to invite me to his house for a meal!

He deliberately said the word "please" so sincerely.

I agreed!

When we went to his house, I saw from a distance his fat mother, wearing a green scarf and a water-red coat, leaning against the courtyard wall and looking over here.

When he saw me, he seemed to have known me for a long time. He stroked my head affectionately and said: "Unfortunately (poor), I am dead, my dear. My aunt will be your mother from now on. How much do you want to eat?"

Auntie will make it for you!

Although she asked for my opinion in a consultative tone, she had actually already decided on what to cook, and told my classmates firmly: "San'erzai, go get the firewood, and let's make braised noodles for Ulji!"

That was the first time I knew that there is a delicacy in the world called braised noodles.

My aunt is the kind of person who walks with wind, works neatly and smoothly, and her voice sounds like an opera singer, with the sound of gongs and drums.

While she was scolding my classmate with exaggerated movements and pretending to be angry: "Get away from me, you're going to hit me and cut me off," she was talking with her son about what happened at home in the past week.

When he talks about being happy, a string of silvery laughter shakes the bowls and bowls as if they are about to vibrate.

That was the first time I discovered that work could be so festive and coherent, like a skilled floor gymnast, and I was dumbfounded.