#在哪都要好好过年 #
Tomorrow, tomorrow is the Chinese New Year's Eve. This morning out to buy vegetables, see the vegetable market in front of a brine shop, a long line of old parents methodically waiting for procurement, watching, watching, the eye sockets are suddenly a little sour, the first time a lonely family of four left Su su home, no in-laws no parents The family is really calm, and the New Year does not have that kind of lively atmosphere.
From the time I came back from grocery shopping, my mood had been fluctuating, peeling oranges in the afternoon, peeling one after another, eating until my head was a little blank, and by dark, there was a lot of orange peel left on the table.
Looking at a large pile of orange peels in front of me, I unconsciously think of the oranges in my hometown, every autumn, my parents will pick the oranges in the orange garden, wrap them in plastic paper, stack them in cardboard boxes, put them under the bed, and wait for the children who have left home to come back to eat at the New Year.
The taste of the orange is eaten in the mouth, and occasionally there is a very fresh and sweet beauty, occasionally there is a sour and slippery coolness, and occasionally there is a musty light taste underneath. Unlike the oranges on the outside, the uniform pure sweetness, the taste may be the unique taste left to me by my parents.
Holding a piece of orange peel and squeezing hard, a smell of oranges emanated from the small hole, sniffing and sniffing with his nose, as if hallucinating in front of his eyes.
The old house in my hometown appeared in front of me, and the steaming sticky rice was steaming in the wooden barrel in the old house, and I saw my mother drying the steamed sticky rice in a bamboo dish in the sun, drying it into a transparent hard shape.
Then pour the grains into a large cauldron wrapped in sand, stir-fry over high heat, fry them into white flowers, and sift off the fine sand with a sieve, leaving a fragrant popcorn.
The mother then used a hot pot to stir-fry a large pile of black sesame seeds and set aside for later.
Mom and Dad continued to be busy, the rice soaked in the water the night before, grinded with stone, and soaked in the water just grew a stubble of malt, mashed them all, and then a brain put the rice juice, wort mixed together, poured into a large pot, added water, boiled, from the morning to the evening, from the initial thin white juice water to the final golden viscous sugar liquid, the wort sugar is done.
At this time, Dad put the wooden basin full of popcorn and fried sesame seeds that had been prepared, mixed the wort sugar into the basin with a spoon, stirred it well, covered it with a thick white cloth, changed into a pair of clean shoes, and stomped hard with his feet, which was firmly formed.
Peel off the white cloth, cover the pot on a clean wooden board, and with a few taps, a round thick pastry appears. Dad and Uncle took the knife in hand, cut the cake into several long pieces, and then cut it into thin rectangular pieces, and the so-called sweet sesame cake came out.
That was the taste of the New Year snack that I most looked forward to when I was a child, and the snack was divided into clay jars, and my brother and sister and I each had one, and we ate small bites from the New Year to the snacks that were satisfied for two or three months of school.
Smelling the orange peel, it seems to smell the aroma of sesame cake again, as if seeing the busy figure of parents.
Tomorrow tomorrow is Chinese New Year's Eve, and tonight in my dreams I peel a piece of orange from my hometown and eat a piece of fragrant sesame cake.
There is also the scene of tomorrow posting the Spring Festival, setting off firecrackers, and going to the mountain to worship the ancestors...
If you don't write it, let the taste of the hometown come to tonight's dream...