In the third year of high school, many parents who work in other places will quit their jobs, return to their hometown and rent a house near the high school where their children go to school-accompanying them.

I don't envy someone to accompany me, but in the last class every morning or afternoon, when I see parents carrying heavy lunch boxes in the classroom window; I was really envious when the meat in the lunch box jumped on my nose through the thermos bucket and the glass window to tease me.

The first thing I did after class was to secretly call home: Dad, you bought the meat first, and I want to eat braised pork when I go home on holiday next month.

Many, many years have passed since the third year of high school, but the yearning and nostalgia for hometown food has only increased.

I miss the rice cooked by the firewood stove, the fried meat with sweet potato balls cooked by my mother, the tofu stewed with pickles and leaves in winter, and the wormwood cake in spring. ...

Those foods that seem to be used to or even dislike eating have gradually become the deepest attachment in my memory after I have been wandering for many years.

Husband joked: Are you afraid of happiness? You want to eat this and that every day. ...

two

When I met Huang Lei's The Cooking Diner, my attachment suddenly took root.

Huang Lei, a native of Jiangnan. It should be noted that he is not an actor Huang Lei who frequently appears in front of the screen.

He used to use the pen name Huang Xiaodao, a screenwriter, a columnist of Yilin magazine, and the most popular yellow fat man.

He likes to walk aimlessly and meditate in the breeze. There is an old child living in my heart, warm in reality and extremely romantic.

Cooking Smoke Diners is his second book.

Two people in one room, three meals and four seasons, this is the memory of home and the warm taste of food.

This is a book of delicious food.

In this book, the author writes about Jiangnan cuisine, which carries not only the memories of taste buds, but also unforgettable stories and a strong flavor of life in the stories.

When he was writing "Water chestnut dish", he recalled the scene when three or five children went naked to pick water chestnut in the pond when they were young. I seem to see my naughty and wild self in my childhood.

The happiness of childhood is really simple, just in those little black water chestnuts that are not enough to plug their teeth.

His interpretation of "wax" in Mao Tofu;

Under the corner of the winter, facing the sun, there are chickens, ducks and fish lined up. Before that, salt had penetrated into food for more than ten days. After the food is slowly dried by the warm sunshine in winter, the water gradually evaporates, and a strange fragrance is gradually emitted. This fragrance is called wax, which is the smell of the sunshine in winter.

I looked up at the kitchen wall. There were sausages from my hometown. It turned out to be the smell of warm sunshine in winter in my hometown. It turns out that no matter where I go, the taste of home and the love of my parents always follow me.

His evaluation of osmanthus lotus root is:

Sweet, rotten, soft, waxy and harmonious only set off each other's beauty, achieved each other's charm, amplified it, and finally achieved a whole, which is the essence of Chinese marriage. How to get along, a dessert in Jiangnan has been made very clear.

It's really amazing.

Understanding the true meaning of marriage from a foodie, it seems that the author is really a person who lives with great care, and only by thinking can he taste Chinese flavor.

three

I read this book slowly, because besides tasting the delicious food described by the author, I spend more time in the memories created by the author.

Not just his memory, but the memory of several generations.

The nostalgia of the grown-up people for their childhood, the nostalgia of the wandering people for their hometown, and the nostalgia of the living people for the dead. Even, this era is missing those national cultural traditions that are about to disappear.

I am addicted to the tempting fragrance of delicious food, floating in the author's beautiful and elegant writing, and sinking into the true feelings between the lines.

I am a woman.

When I was a child, my dad gave me the expectation of going to the hall and going to the kitchen.

Study, get married, work and teach each other.

This should be the fate that most women cannot escape.

When I grow up, I just think that "going to the hall" is nothing more than finding a relatively good job, and "going to the kitchen" is just being able to cook a few home-cooked dishes, as long as it is not bad.

Through the book "Cooking Smoke Diners", I feel that I was suddenly "seen". Once held in the palm of your hand for several years, people who "wash their hands and make soup" became busy people in the kitchen and were "seen" at once.

In the traditional marriage in China, the woman has always been an unknown role.

Over the years, cooking seems to be a natural thing for women.

A woman, the kitchen is the battlefield, and her greatest victory is to cook good dishes and watch the family at the dinner table eating their finished products with chopsticks.

In many places, women work hard, but women can't eat at the table. Even today, there are many places like this.

In Diners Cook Cigarettes, Huang Lei described all kinds of snacks in the south of the Yangtze River as "these things should only exist in the sky", and showed people the delicious food with these local characteristics with various allusions and words, which made me, a person who cooks every day, feel that I am not a "tinker" for a moment. I'm just an artist and poet.

My poem is not on the paper, not on my lips.

They are sealed in pickle jars in the dark corner of the kitchen;

In the sweet rice wine pressed under the thick quilt;

Looking at the dark wormwood ...

These poems were handed down to me by my mother.

label

As long as there are people, the smoke of the world will never drift away.

The world is full of smoke, and homesickness is a bit old-fashioned.

According to my mother's appearance, the rising plumes of smoke are my homesickness and the poems I left for my children.