Cooking smoke is one of the brightest and warmest landscapes in the hometown.
In the evening, smoke rises from the kitchens of every household, light and ethereal in the afterglow of the setting sun, filling the countryside and the dense trees. What an infectious picture of the countryside, etc., imprinted in my mind.
Cooking smoke has a sound, which is the mother's most gracious call. I remember when I was a child, my friends and I were chasing games in the fields carefreely, and the laughter drifted into the atrium of my mother's heart with the wind. Whenever I saw the cooking smoke rising on the roof of my house, it was time to go home, and I felt my stomach grumble at once, and if I didn't come home for a long time, my mother would have no time to take off her apron and shout our names in the village. The first thing that woke us up in the morning was the wisps of cooking smoke at home, the smell of rice urged us to get up, the cooking smoke exuded the love of the mother, and the cooking smoke was full of the warmth of home.
Cooking tobacco is a flower that blooms on the stove of the farmer's family, and when there is a flower, there is food and clothing in life, and there is hope. The people working in the fields saw the cooking smoke rising from the roof of their houses in the distance, and the tiredness of the body had disappeared without a trace, and they seemed to have felt the simple and strong aroma of the meal on the dinner table. I remember my mother always coming home a little earlier to zhang Luo for dinner, I like to sit on the small horse in front of the stove to help my mother add chai and pull the bellows, and my mother wears an apron to go in and out. The aroma of the meal slowly filled the courtyard, and there was a faint change of intensity. In the courtyard, the family eats dinner around the dining table, a porridge and a meal, simple dishes, also relish. My father planned tomorrow's farm work, and my mother repeatedly told us to take a shower early, do our homework and go to bed.
Cooking smoke is the root of the village, a wisp of thought, no matter how long it is pulled, it will never break. When I grew up, I worked outside the home less and less, but my mother's worries became more and more. I always see the cooking smoke of my hometown in my dreams, and I always long to return to my mother's side and eat a full meal made by my mother. Years are a merciless carving knife, carving deep wrinkles on the mother's face, fortunately the mother can still take care of herself, and the roof of the old home will still rise on the smoke. The cooking smoke in the hometown is more warm, the cooking smoke is the love of the hometown, the cooking smoke is wafting with the love of the mother, and the cooking smoke is the taste of home.
Cooking tobacco also has its own joys and sorrows. When the sky is clear, the cooking smoke rises slowly, cheerfully greeting the sky over the village. When it rains and snowstorms, the cooking smoke is low and lazy, and it hovers low in the room and refuses to disperse, like a wronged child, playing with sex vigorously. Nowadays, the cooking smoke in the village is getting thinner and thinner, and it is only during the New Year's Festival that it is lively and returns to the way it was when it was a child. Cooking smoke has a warm reunion, but also a sad parting, but cooking smoke is to love their own home, whether it is a low grass house, or a brand new brick house, they never abandon, still rise from their own courtyard, always looking in the direction of home, no matter where they drift, they will fall back to their hometown.
Cooking smoke is an invisible language that tells the history of the village and calls our hearts back home. The fireworks in the world are the most soothing to the hearts of mortals. Cooking smoke is not time, but it contains a lot of time-related things, and the smell of fireworks contains endless feelings of home. Seeing more cooking smoke and getting used to cooking smoke, I am used to the true meaning of cooking smoke confession in the world, especially accustomed to the confession of cooking tobacco in my hometown. There is a wisp of cooking smoke in everyone's heart, floating up in front of their eyes, melting with the sunset, sunset, breeze and past years, warm and fragrant, with an inexplicable touch and sorrow.
The place where the cooking smoke rises is home, and that is our way home.
(Hu Fuying, Shandong Zoupingren, literature lover, member of Binzhou Writers Association, this article was originally published on the essay network)
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