Sheep are beautiful, fish and sheep are fresh, and people's love for mutton can be traced back to the beginning of distant farming.
When I was a child, at the end of the seventies, at the end of the year, a message would ignite the nerves of the adults and children in the village, that is: the team had killed sheep!
In the wide yard of the team, poles were erected as soon as the sound was passed, and the fat goats were hung on it and peeled, and a large iron pot was propped up on one side to add water and fire.
The most exciting thing is that we children, gathered in the courtyard of the brigade early, what are we going to do? play. Crazy play. Just the white gas floating out of the lamb pot, whirring, you pull me, even the rolling belt crawls.
It takes an afternoon to cook the sheep, and in the evening, as soon as the sky is dark, the pots of every household are placed in the yard, crooked and long, large and small, like a very hungry and expectant mouth.
At this time, we who were tired of playing with the adults stood in the courtyard and looked at the fragrant cauldron. That pot of meat, in that era when even grain was in short supply, was not only beautiful, fresh, but more of a kind of reward that penetrated into the internal organs: to treat the little salt and little oil stomach, to treat the soul of the ragged clothes, to treat the twisted and struggling roar, to treat the stubbornness of the head that was lowered to the dust again and again...
What did lamb taste like at that time? I don't even remember. Now that I think about it, the most memorable thing is the sentence that was passed down by the whole village: "The sheep were killed in the team!" The team has killed sheep! "The joy of the unbridled flow and the light in the eyes burns the dirt roads in the village into the dust."
The most memorable thing is to drill into the orange pile with your friends, suddenly catch it and laugh, clap and jump, that kind of pure laughter, that kind of unscrupulous, screaming in the sky, full of happiness, which is rare in the years after growing up.
A generation has a generation of memories, when the brigade, commune, township, are gradually gone, playing, drying grain, river beach watching movies have become history, boiling lamb gradually become a daily food on the street, it began to be called cauldron whole sheep ...
There is always a kind of love that haunts the heart, think about it, it is all nostalgia!
【About the author】 Huang Cuiling: Teacher of Boshan No. 6 Middle School, member of Zibo Writers Association. He loves life and loves to read, and has published nearly 160,000 words of prose in CN Magazine. Three novels, in the midst of exploration.
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