It turned out that my mother was flipping through the locust flower cake in the frying pan, which was the poem she wrote to me, careful but sincere and warm. - Caption
That locust tree
In the blink of an eye, it was the day of spring and warm flowers, and the taste of my mother's locust flower cake spread in my heart again.
"Mom, let's go pick locust flowers." I want to eat locust flower cake! Counting, this sentence has been said by me for more than ten years.
Whenever the locusts bloomed, I would drag my mother to the canal, where a few wild locust trees grew sporadically. From the time I watched my mother pick flowers to my mother watching me pick flowers, unconsciously, for more than ten years, my mother's locust flower cake has never been absent.
And on those sunny days, there was always a breeze blowing, like a mother's hand, bringing the aroma of locust flowers from the turn of spring and summer to my kitchen.
Mom's love
From the beginning of the washing, the rough but flexible hands began to compete between the kitchen and the food. Salt, flour, eggs, the simplest spices and ingredients always listen to mom, obediently waiting for the transformation of growth under her hands. The oil in the pot "nourished" and eagerly invited her to perform this simple but vibrant magic trick. Only to see the mother, still so bland, but also make people feel fully engrossed, she skillfully poured the mixture into, then she would always look at the pot, and then look at me next to me, seriously said: "Don't turn the pot immediately, wait for it to tighten the skin, don't worry, otherwise it will rot." ”
I glanced at the "adolescence" locust flower cake in the pot and thought, "How many times have you said that?" How to say it again? ”
The waiting time doesn't take long, but it also takes patience. After a while, my mother began to turn over the formed locust flower cake, her eyes were gentle, and I always felt that she was stir-frying a poem about locust flowers in a frying pan, careful but sincere and warm.
Companionship is the longest confession of affection
When the acacia cake is golden, you can see the world outside the pot. The locust flowers have long lost their original childish posture and are quietly looming in the locust cake, but the aroma is enough to prove their existence. With one bite, the locust flowers were given new life by their mothers, and they blossomed again on their taste buds.
When I was in the examination room, I suddenly thought of the locust flower cake made by my mother. At this time, I suddenly understood that the process of my mother making locust flower cakes was not the process of growing up with me? From the time of a well-behaved child to the adolescence when she needed patient companionship, it turned out that the locust flower cake she slowly turned in the frying pan was the poem about growth written to me.
Mom's cultural level is not high, but she integrates her own philosophy of life into the kitchen, and subtly tells me that growing up requires unhurried wisdom.
When the spring flowers bloomed again, I was on the road to growth, guarding a pot full of the aroma of locust flowers.
Spring
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