A wisp of cooking smoke prose A wisp of cooking smoke prose 1

Cooking smoke is the hair flying in the village, the long string holding the kite, and the silent call of home. Xu Junwen said: "Look, the smoke in the wind that night looked like a picture of wild grass waving from the wrist. The clouds and smoke were dancing wildly. It was empty where it should be empty and full where it should be. That was what we were doing in silk and silk. What cannot be done on paper can be described as a true 'book from heaven'."

Such a sentence is love at first sight. Afraid of being lost in the vast ocean of literature, I picked up the mouse and edited it to the position closest to me. This is great. At dusk or midnight, when you sit alone, you can hold a cigarette to keep warm and talk to it.

This is a very down-to-earth prose. The writing style is fresh and simple, and the sounds, colors, shapes and tastes are comprehensive. The strong rural atmosphere is rippling, flowing, entwining, wrapping the feet that want to move forward, unable to move even half a step.

The smoke from the kitchen has a touch of nostalgia and a warm feeling of nostalgia.

Although I am not a tourist, I can also relate to it. Because I have always carried one thought; to have a chance to exile myself, stay away from my loved ones, experience a different kind of loneliness in a strange place, and enjoy the pain of being chewed by loneliness.

However, I can only think about it. Without this courage, I am afraid that my family will be worried; I am also afraid that people I know well will make groundless speculations... Even if I am far away, my soul will not get the peace I want. Alas... people who look forward and look back - like me - will never accomplish anything!

Then, let me be a wisp of smoke! In the snowy night with a faint blue light, on the roof with a thin layer of clear snow, let me raise my head, stretch my arms, hold on, expect, and call silently!

And what about you? No matter at the end of the world, no matter at the corner of the world; no matter walking alone, or sinking into the hustle and bustle; at the moment when your heart trembles inexplicably, at the moment when you close your eyes tiredly and press your hands to your temples... there is an inexplicable corner deep in your heart. Slowly a wisp of smoke rose. Maybe it was a warm, shallow smile hanging on the corner of his mouth. "Where has she been after all these years? How is she?" You, like me, cannot escape the distance of time and space. Thoughts from afar spread and grow like moss, creeping silently and peacefully. If you can't get any news, don't bother. A thorn stubbornly hurts in my heart again and again, but I don't want to remove it. That's it, it's good!

"The distant village is warm, and the smoke in the ruins", "I see the smoke rising again, the dusk covers the earth, I want to ask the smoke, where are you going..." I like this kind of tranquility and Poetry, let it dance lightly in your hometown, in a foreign land, at dusk, and at midnight! A wisp of cooking smoke prose 2

When I accidentally caught a glimpse of a wisp of cooking smoke, I seemed to see my mother walking out of the kitchen filled with the aroma of rice, using her hands like pine bark to pat away the dust all over her body and clean it up. Grass residue in the hair. Then, my mother stood quietly outside the courtyard, looking thoughtfully at the path at the entrance of the village.

It was dusk, and the tired birds were longing for their nests. My father took my sister and I on the way home from school. At that time, my sister and I’s most urgent wish was to see the wisps of smoke rising from the green trees and staggered poplar bushes - that sweet fragrance, no matter how far away it was. We can smell our mother's deep concern and it can also light up our eyes.

"It's time to eat!" The voice full of maternal love is a beautiful and deep ballad, echoing in the ears, especially sweet.

Wisps of smoke ----- the sweet fragrance

In that era of extreme material scarcity, all my mother did was just eat. There are three meals a day, including corn rice, porridge and corn pancakes. It makes people upset when they see it, but they still eat it after getting angry. Sometimes I vent my anger on my mother, who is silent and my tears keep falling.

So I fantasize every day: "If only my mother could do magic, the table would be full of delicious meals that I want to eat." Gradually, my sister and I discovered that the meals on the table were getting richer and richer. stand up.

But my mother rarely moves her chopsticks...

Now, we are living the life we ??wanted most when we were children. Unfortunately, we cannot eat the meals cooked by our mother every day. Occasionally when I go home, my mother's face is filled with happiness and she has been busy in the kitchen for a long time. The food was naturally very rich, but there was an inexplicable look of disdain on the mother's face.

Later, my father told me on the phone that my mother misses you very much and talks about it at every meal. This is the meal that my children like to eat. I wonder if they have eaten it. On the other end of the phone, my heart was astringent and the corners of my eyes were wet, savoring the deep love of my parents.

Now that my father is gone, my mother is the only one guarding that old house. She has repeatedly persuaded my mother to come to the city to live with us, but my mother stubbornly refuses for various reasons. As children, we know very well that The reason why my mother didn't want to leave the old house was because she cared deeply about her father and was reluctant to let go of the smoke from the kitchen stove!

"See smoke rising again..." An ancient song is filled with divine love. Every time I hum this song, I seem to see the smoke from my hometown slowly rising on the roof of my house. A kind of enchanting emotion that makes people unable to calm down for a long time... A wisp of smoke essay 3

Dusk is approaching , drizzle was floating in the sky, I stood quietly at the door and looked carefully at the smoke rising over the village. The smoke touched those memories hidden long ago. Many memories have long since been buried in the dust, but I have never forgotten the smoke from the kitchen, and the smell of my mother in the smoke. My mother's smell has become a memory of my life. It is like a wisp of fresh wind, gently blowing through the depths of my heart, bringing me joy and happiness, taking me back to the time full of maternal love...

In the early morning, noon or evening in my memory, wisps of white, green or gray smoke floated over the kitchens of every household. The smoke is like ribbons, and the soft lines are elegant and beautiful. Especially on drizzling days, the smoke from the cooking pots is like mist, faintly permeating the roof and the sky. The hazy scene adds incomparable charm to the whole village. The ink paintings rendered by the cooking smoke have intoxicated many poets. and the painter make people intoxicated and reluctant to leave.

Nowadays, the stoves in the village have gradually been replaced by liquefied gas, induction cookers, etc. In today's villages, it is difficult for me to see the wisps of cooking smoke anymore. However, every time I come home from get off work, I can't help but look at the roof of that house, my eyes constantly searching for the familiar cooking smoke. Looking for the faint smoke, the smell of happiness, and the hardworking figure of my mother in my memory.

At that time, my mother never let me learn to cook. No matter whether I was busy or idle, she was always busy alone. Whenever my busy mother serves that delicious meal, and when I eat, my mother puts vegetables in my bowl from time to time. I always feel that what my mother cooks is the most delicious in the world. The scene and taste are still fresh in my memory.

One time, my mother was not at home. I curiously followed her example and started cooking. I filled the pot with a full pot of water, put it laboriously on the stove fire that was emitting yellow smoke, and started busy. While stirring the batter. At the same time, I thought to myself that the batter should be the same as the porridge my mother makes. When I stirred it, it became a little thinner than the porridge my mother usually made, so I added more noodles. When I saw it was a little thicker, I added some more water.

I repeated this so many times until the water in the pot boiled and it still didn’t reach the same level as when my mother made the porridge. Looking at the churning water in the pot, I no longer had time to think about the consistency of the batter, and poured it all into the pot. When I finished all this work, my father came back from school. He was surprised to see this scene. When he saw the porridge with a human figure in the pot, he did not blame me, but just told me, "Don't make a fire to cook by yourself in the future, be careful not to be burned by the boiling water." "Scald, you are still young and don't know how to do it." He said and took the pot off the stove. In the end, I didn't finish the meal. This was the first time I lit a fire to cook, and it was also an unforgettable meal in my life.

Later, when I went out to school and work, I would occasionally see the smoke rising from the kitchen. At this time, I would miss the smoke from the kitchen at home. It was the simple scenery above the village, and in the eyes of the poet, it was a place far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. This lyric poem is an indelible line in the painter's pen, and it is the longing for home of a wanderer in a distant place.

In my eyes, it is like smoke and mist, with various charms. The wisps of drifting smoke are beautiful scenery. It is precisely because of the wisps of cooking smoke in my hometown that the originally quiet, plain, and peaceful space has added color, family affection, and nostalgia.

Under the curling smoke, there is my warm home and my memories of my mother. Looking back, those days filled with smoke were busy but happy.

The smoke from the village is still rising and lingering. Deep in my memory, it is the continuation of maternal love... A wisp of cooking smoke prose 4

Standing on the top of a high slope, longing for the moment of blue sky and white clouds, I was fascinated by such a wisp of cooking smoke. Keep your eyes open and don't want to miss a trace of the scenery. The greenery makes me enchanted. The vicissitudes of stones tell the rotation of the four seasons. The silent mountains hide ancient stories. The weight of history flickers here.

The blue roof flutters freely in the sun, and a warm wisp of smoke rises in front of the house; the simple house must be full of warmth, and I sit on the top of the mountain and quietly savor the wisp of smoke. The rising wisp of smoke made my thoughts drift far away. It seemed like I saw my gray-haired grandma kindly calling me to eat, and like my mother making dough and standing at the door waiting for me. It was also like my grandpa lighting a fire for me in the winter, and even sleeping on the bed my father gave me when I was a child. the warmth of a bed of bean stalks. I am so attached to that wisp of cooking smoke, and the fiery red sun rises in my heart. Under the sun is the clear water and blue sky. I abandon the troubles and unhappiness in life and would rather be attached to such a warm wisp of cooking smoke. The simple life and simple happiness, there is no more in my heart. So many selfish thoughts. The rising smoke purifies my soul, and my heart longs for that holy emotion. I can pull out an autumn grass for myself and decorate my days with green leaf buds.

The warm smoke embraces me. I can shout hoarsely here, letting the birds on the grassland flap their wings, letting the goshawks hover in the high sky, and letting the horses stay there. Galloping on the vast grassland; the clever fox smiled at Yunshu Yunzhan and captured the most beautiful moments with his camera. No more foxes pretending to be powerful than tigers, beautiful foxes can become immortals when drunk.

In fact, life can really be that simple. A wisp of smoke from the kitchen is enough to warm us. Hard-working hands create wealth. The days of poverty are just as calm. Keeping a light care and attachment in the heart is considered ordinary. A wisp of warm smoke in life. A wisp of cooking smoke prose 5

The cooking smoke is invisible and disappears when the wind blows; the cooking smoke has feelings, and the starting point is always a lively interpretation. In addition to the legendary gods who do not eat the fireworks of the world, since ancient times, there have always been endless smoke curling up wherever there are humans.

When I was a child, I always hated cooking smoke in my hometown in Shangougou, because I had to deal with firewood for three meals a day. There are dry and wet firewood, large and small, flammable and non-flammable, so the smoke is sometimes thick and light, but over time, without exception, it hurts my childhood eyes and blackens my eyes. Cave dwellings and houses for shelter.

Because of the smoke, I once burst into tears. Because of the smoke, I had to go to the fields and alleys to find more firewood. At that time, burning coal for cooking was always considered a luxury in every household. Even if a coal fire was used during festivals and festivals, impatient people would still put a handful of dry firewood into the stove, and then the open flame would start again, and the smoke would suddenly disappear. born. Perhaps in people's eyes, cooking without smoke is not cooking, and meals without fireworks will lose their delicious taste.

My hometown more than 20 years ago had a grand scene where "the smoke from the farmhouses often covered the fields." When working in the fields, look at the village not far away. When smoke rises from cooking, it must be time to finish work; when you go up to the mountains to graze cattle, smelling the familiar smell of cooking smoke is equivalent to getting the signal to return to the pen. When the smoke rises from the kitchen, a strong aroma of rice spreads in the ravine, mixed with the rich local accent calling the family to eat. In an instant, a tranquil and poetic rural ink painting unfolds.

The most individual expression of farmers is contained in the smoke, because the food under the smoke is salty or light, spicy or sour, it is up to you, and it is all filled with your own unique views on life. understanding and experience.

The smoke must know the master's secret, but it doesn't tell others. It only tells the breeze around it, the white clouds in the sky, and the chirping skylarks.

In the past, my father, who was frugal all his life, still deliberately retained the habit of cooking over a fire. However, a sudden serious illness caused his father to lose the ability to cook, so the last wisp of smoke from his hometown was helpless. The ground dissipated. In fact, the smoke in my hometown has long lost its former glory. This is the progress of the times, but it always brings a touch of sadness to me.

During a recent outdoor trip, I saw a restaurant that, in order to attract business, had "firewood rice" written on its sign. Sure enough, under a big black iron pot, a stove of red dry firewood was burning brightly. Looking up at the rising smoke, I seemed to be looking up at my home, looking up at the ravine shrouded in smoke... A wisp of smoke prose 6

It is early winter, and the wind falls and rises again at a rapid pace, carrying breathing and heartbeat, and with imperceptible vitality.

The big tree in my hometown stood like a vast poem, and the branches fluttered by the wind were like the frosty hair of a mother standing at the entrance of the village and looking up. The sun lengthens the shadows. The wild and unruly withered grass is like lifting up the once magnificent green hair.

Standing in the alley of memory across the heavy winter wind and my increasingly numb face, I devoutly search for something, except regret and regret that the colorful and fragrant folk culture in my hometown is about to be annihilated. The feeling of nostalgia is the recollection of some old trades that retain the warmth of relatives and traces of my own childhood. When these rough and real things reappear in my memory, I stop affectionately countless times with great awe of history and culture. ,visit.

The sky is like an old man who has seen the world. It calmly looks at this unpredictable world with tolerance and compassion. One fallen leaf chases another fallen leaf and flies into the distance, so my mood is staggered up and down.

In the restless wind, the leaves form an overwhelming net, and you can faintly hear the footsteps of the passing years, as well as the infatuated call of time. The sky and the earth, the leaves and the strong wind, human beings and memories, are entangled and contradictory in separation and overlap, and return to the thought of gratitude.

In such a season, I am full of love for life. The lingering memories of my hometown, the details that accompany me when I grow up, and the honest and kind-hearted people are like people eager to break through the ice. Let me, who was born and raised here, desperately search for the soul of my hometown. In this land where I like, I cry, I miss, I am angry, I love, I misunderstand, I cry, and some lost customs Communicate, tell, communicate, in order to be grateful for the land that raised me.

Memory is the image that time has layered in my heart and cannot be erased. And the distant look towards my hometown is the deep nostalgia fermented in my heart!

The wind grows wings in the ears, fanning out the colorful light of my hometown.

I seemed to see everything waking up from sleep in the cool spring breeze. The air was filled with the fragrance of rapeseed flowers, children running and screaming after the wheat waves, and colorful kites flying in the sky.

I will dream of summer, and the green grass contains children's songs: playing kicks, picking up ancient eggs, playing grass movie games... The dream of summer is in the eyes of children. When the flowers bloom, the children's dreams bloom.

In the abundant autumn, autumn insects play the harvest pipa, the grass by the river drinks the rain and becomes more plump, the plow and rake make a shining appearance, the sky turns light blue, the world of children It rapidly expanded into vast expanses of fields, red sorghum fields, running carriages, and the most tempting thing was the soft and sweet sweet potatoes cooked in the gluttonous mother’s pot.

Sweet potatoes are a symbol of abundance in my hometown.

Autumn is also the brightest time for wild jujube trees. The jujubes are like stars with their hands and feet bound, and they are piled up, allowing children to chew them; yellow lanterns are lit on the persimmon trees. , making the children think about it day and night, and look forward to it; morning glories have also come to show off their own moment, blue, purple, bright red, big purple, light pink, occupying ditches, rivers, and fences, It also renders the girl's thoughts brilliant and confusing.

The wind sometimes crosses the earthen wall and sneaks into the small courtyard of the farmhouse. A long string of red peppers is hung on the hilltop of the house. The corn is braided and placed on the old elm branches to dry in the sun. The radish strips on the newly braided sorghum stalks, the suckling calf, the children playing with slingshots, autumn gives people a full and rich feeling: a trace of wind, a leaf, a flower, and the sound of a child. A cry, a sound of birds flying...

I can’t remember how many times, a strong wind appeared in my dream, and the wind woman’s shout appeared in the strong wind. It must be winter. In the songbook, in a distant era, winter was cruel. In my memory, the children wear shabby clothes and look like they have not had enough food on their faces. The clouds are gray, the soil is gray, the trees on the roadside are gray, and the thoughts of adults are also gray, but the children Our thoughts are not gray. They still floated by the river, went to the fields to shoot wild geese, play slippery, and play in cocoons.

Even if the world turns black, the world of children is transparent. Because of children, the world will bring hope at any time.

Facing the sky, the magical nature, and the sunny morning, I caught a withered yellow leaf with my hand. All the disappearing sounds, breaths and shadows were in this seemingly deserted place. Seasons are resurrected incompletely in my writing.

Every plant and tree in my hometown, my brothers and sisters in my hometown, the lights of the old house are still there, the call of the dewdrops is still there, the smoke from my hometown is like a butterfly flying into the sky, becoming vague and distant. Far away from my hometown, I was still a lonely and helpless child. When I looked back, all I could see were the weeds in the fields and my rickety figure.

What I wrote is an old memory. I chose happiness to be the melody of my life. Following the rhythm of time, I used the gratitude and thoughts of an innocent person to compile the rich stories of my hometown into Book, a gift to the warm soil under your feet.

I am a wisp of smoke in my hometown, rolling in the wind, changing like a butterfly.