Wen | Wei Zhongyou Editor| Swallow Photo | Network
Cooking tobacco is more like a plant in the hometown, and the dreams of the villagers grow year after year.
In the evening or early in the morning, a wisp of cooking smoke rises from a family courtyard, even if it is wind, frost, snow and rain, she is still floating in the sky above her hometown, graceful Nana, different shades, only her own men and slightly older children can distinguish which wisp is their own cooking smoke, in order to smell the smell of their own firewood.
Cooking tobacco is the schedule of three meals a day for countrymen, the whistle for the end of work, and the symbol of school and school. In the sixties and seventies, whose cooking smoke was thick, the smoke was long, and the bottom fire was strong, whose family's life was prosperous, it was better; whose cooking smoke was thin, the smoke was short, the days were sad and difficult; whose smoke pipe did not smoke, it may be that the cooking was broken, and the fire could not be built. From the cooking smoke, it is obvious that the villagers' lives are good or bad.
When I pay attention to and pay attention to my own cooking tobacco, it is after I go to elementary school, especially after school in the winter morning, facing the biting cold wind, stomping my feet, covering my ears, and my eyes are looking for the direction of my own cooking tobacco again and again, if my own chimney is still thick and billowing, it proves that my mother has not yet made a good meal, if the chimney is emitting faint green smoke, I am sure that my mother has made breakfast and is waiting for her husband and children to go home from school.
Many evenings, a few of our playful companions would catch radish worms and touch golden cicadas on the river embankment in the west of the village until we could not see the sparks emerging from many chimneys in the village. At this time, the adults began to shout anxiously one by one, "Little come, Ni Lai, go home and drink soup!" So, each of us sniffed the smell of firewood and grass from our own homes, and one by one we went home along the shouts of the adults.
Three meals a day, cooking smoke rises on time. Cooking tobacco should be a kind of crop that the mother most patiently serves, all year round, year after year, the mother tirelessly cares for her and cultivates her. If the cooking smoke of anyone's house did not rise on time, or was burned intermittently, then there must be something wrong with his family, the old ladies were either sick or did not come back to their mother's house, and the old men at this time were clumsily burning the pot, making their noses gray, and the children could not wait, so they nibbled on the leftover dry food.
The cooking smoke at dusk rises from the roof of the house of different heights and heights, and under the illumination of the sunset, the small village surrounded by the cooking smoke rises up a kind of simplicity, a kind of simplicity, a kind of simplicity, and more and more simple, quiet, beautiful and moving. The wisps of smoke render the scenery of dusk, and the people in the fields cook smoke, driving bungee carts, carrying hoes and walking back along the village road. Suddenly, the mooing of cattle, the rumble of bungee jumpers, the sound of dog bites, the barking of chickens, the barking of people talking and shouting... The dusk of the village under the cooking smoke becomes full.
One summer, I spent my whole life reading a kind of heaviness of cooking tobacco. After several days of heavy rain, the firewood and grass by the stove were burned, and everything that should have been burned was burned, and the smoke in the kitchen was billowing, causing the mother to cough and wipe away tears. Seeing that a pot of dry food was steamed with another fire, but there was no firewood to catch, the mother was in a hurry. The books we used, my mother picked up and put down several times. Seeing that the fire in the stove hall was about to be extinguished, she suddenly took off the wooden comb that had accompanied her for more than 30 years from her head, stroked it twice in her hand, and still entered the stove hall, and the dying stove hall seemed to be splashed with oil, and suddenly flourished...
That meal, I ate like a fish in the throat. Since then, I have actually liked the pungent tobacco smell of cooking tobacco, and deep into the cooking smoke, I smelled the sweetness of breast milk.
The cooking smoke of the hometown is wonderful and changeable, it is like the colorful clouds of the hometown, one moment cooking smoke, one moment cooking tobacco strips, and the other moment cooking smoke withering, so magical, so ingenious, so vivid and colorful, so interesting, so charming, dare to dance with the clouds of the sky, dare to compare with the clouds of the sky, dare to compare with the clouds of the sky, although it is not a cloud, but there is the abundance of clouds, there is the power of clouds, there is the generosity of clouds, and there is more open-mindedness of clouds.
Today, my mother is old and her walking is getting more and more tortuous. The cooking smoke in the hometown is also like the old people in the village, gradually withdrawing from the stage of history, replaced by biogas stoves, rice cookers, and low-carbon civilized lifestyles that make the rural kitchens look new. The occasional wisp of cooking smoke seemed to tell us that this would be the last sight of the countryside. The sight of dozens or hundreds of chimneys wafting out of the smoke of the past can only be cherished in the depths of our memories forever.
Author: Zhongyuan Painter Friend, formerly known as Wei Zhongyou, Yuncheng people, members of Shandong Writers Association, Shandong Photographers Association, like literature and photography, once served as the executive editor of "Yuncheng Literature and Art", there are essays, poetry in the newspaper.
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