After the Dragon Boat Festival, as soon as the morning breeze collected my clothes, the raindrops fell happily. The gentle rain, the continuous little rain, is thin and flexible, long and coherent, like the fine linen thread that grandma twists out while sitting at home, which will not break in the middle for three to five days. Everything in the cottage that was dry and burnt was moistened from the inside out. It was completely soaked. Every corner was filled with water molecules, and even every word that came out of the mouth was overflowing with juice. The rice gradually turns from green to yellow and ripe, and the bunches are condensed and elegant. We left the fields alone for the time being and allowed them to continue their swelling movements in silence until August. Just look at the raindrops, which are continuously twisted out of the clouds, and then hang down, weaving a wide curtain in front of the eaves. The eyes open one layer and another, extending to the opposite slope of the fir tree.

When it rains, all the fir trees think that they have not grown enough yet. In front of the rain, they stand on tiptoes and spread out their thick arms. Countless pine needles compete to lengthen their bodies. There is a sparkling raindrop hanging on the needle head, just about to fall, but not a drop, like a clean flower growing out of the dream bag of this world. It is covered with a tree, like condensed amber, which makes people feel filled with sighs. White clouds and mist are climbing and circling in the rain curtain, lingering vaguely. If you can't withstand the teasing of the wind, you will accidentally knock the dreams on the tip of the needle. After a burst of rustling sounds like nature, some dreams will be shy. They burrowed into the moss-covered earth under the fir tree, then put on grass-green clothes and carefully sprouted in the moist and cool underground. In fact, in less than half a day, they can't help but open a small umbrella for themselves, struggling to push through the thick layer of moss to enter the world, with the tacit indulgence and encouragement of the fir trees. Little yellow-brown heads popped out from underneath. The small body began to quietly store the thoughts that were everywhere in the mountains and forests. The more you listened to the thoughts, the more secrets they became. Therefore, I have always stubbornly believed that fir fungus is a story that grows out of our mountains and forests. Regarding mountains and forests, they have endless rights to speak and complain. After a rain event, countless romantic legends have happened.

On the third day of rain, the considerate fungi knew that the people in the village could not wait any longer. They took a good gulp of the rainwater, worked up their strength, and poured their He stretched his body out hard, and the small and cute umbrella suddenly expanded with a "bang". Just like the clouds in the sky, they were first condensed into a ball by water vapor, with sleepy eyes, confused and chaotic, docile and well-behaved. Slowly, the wind blew through the clouds and dispersed them, and it rained. As the rain continued, the clouds became thinner, lighter, more graceful, and more elegant. Cotton is generally gentle, soft, white, mellow, elongated, widened, shiny and beautiful. These are all in the form of dreams. A little fir fungus, when it begins to use a drop of rain as a seed to nurture its own dream, it has already come to the world in the form of a cloud. Starting from a translucent and clear seed, the small heart will expand in the moist breath of moss and sand under the fir tree until it blooms into a big flower. These are all the growth patterns and processes of a fir fungus that I can imagine and simulate with my child's innocence, from the end of spring to the entire summer and all the way to autumn. "The green hills after the rain are like conscience washed by tears." As long as there is lingering rain, there will be beautiful and green mountains around the village. There are countless creatures in the mountains, waving their bodies, soaking in the rain, living and growing secretly like all secrets.

Every time at this time, some restlessness slowly seeps out of the peaceful atmosphere in the village. Everyone can't help but communicate with each other with excited eyes when they meet. Everyone knows that the fir tree slope opposite is already filled with countless dreams. Looking for fungi while the rain curtain has not yet lifted is an extremely fascinating process. Like catching fish in the river, it has become the greatest joy in the childhood of cottage children. We casually put on an old piece of clothing, put on old shoes, prepared a long machete, a long bamboo hook, and a small backpack, and crawled happily and nimbly through the fir forest.

Fir fungus is a little thing that is afraid of loneliness. They basically come out to play in groups, and sometimes they are more naughty and clever than children in the mountains. Jumping from one hilltop to another, the forest is filled with their laughter, and their figures are everywhere, a bunch here and a cluster there. If you discover a fir fungus first, don't make it known about it. This will not only attract your friends to snatch it from you, but more importantly, it may scare other fir fungi.

These naturally timid guys will turn pale with fear, shrivel up, and their good-looking faces will turn from orange and brown to green or shrimp color, or they will simply hide under the thick moss and let you use a long hook to lift them all I just won’t come out to see you.

Some fir fungi have just grown, in their prime years. They are shaped like an umbrella, with a thin crimson halo. The skin is smooth and elastic with mucus, and the spherical edges are slightly facing inward. Curled, shyly closed tightly. The handle below, although not very thick, is full of vitality and strength. Like a long-distance running champion, it has climbed countless mountains, forcing you to believe that it will not be long before it will lift the torch higher. Run further. There is also the older Firth Fungus, who must be the smartest child in the forest and the pioneer who comes out to see the world. When it first rains from the sky, when the first drop of rain falls to the ground and plays music, its sleeping soul is awakened with a "pop". So, that piece of rain became its seed and the wings it wanted to fly. Compared with other fungi, its umbrella is larger and more open, the edges are generously stretched, and the entire umbrella surface gradually sinks in, blooming upward into a mature and charming morning glory. There are some residues of branches and leaves stuck on it, and maybe there is still the breath of a plant, like a person's scars and memories, because they are afraid of being lost, so they refuse to leave a blank. Such a fungus is naturally very angry and noisy, because it can no longer hold back its heart. If you don't come to pick it, it will definitely rot for you to see. Of course, there are also the young fir fungi, which do not listen to the advice and warnings of the land, and follow the elders, insisting on jumping out from below, making a "swish, swish, swish" sound from morning to night. The small body has not grown at all, it is like a ball, and the umbrella handle below is not supported. It is wearing orange clothes and has a sneaky look. There are also some smaller fir fungi, which have just been condensed into a seed by rainwater. They happen to have the ideological and spiritual qualities of a fungus. They are attached to the surface of the land, like a grain of millet or a white protrusion, completely dreaming. . When encountering this, we are generally very tolerant and gently cover it with moss. We can use it as private wealth, make a sign next to it that only we know, and then wait patiently for it to grow up. Occasionally, one or two lone rangers will be found, standing there like kings, quiet but arrogant, cold and lonely, independent from the world, with a look of disdain. Although it is not said that they will conquer the country, at least they will conquer us. No matter how much moss you pull out around it, you won't be able to find any of its kind. You can only say that it is born with a free temperament and therefore despises the mediocre and commonplace. At this time, our mood is often mixed with fear, respect or distress, and we regret why we didn't discover it earlier and take it home.

The fir trees continued to open their palms and smoothed down the rain curtains one after another, letting the raindrops cover their hair, hide under their ears, condense in their eyelashes, and hang on the bridge of their noses. They keep shaking their bodies and shake them off, letting them cover our hair, hide under our ears, condense in our eyelashes, and hang on the tip of our noses. Let them wet our clothes and make our backpacks heavy. And we shake them down like fir trees and store them in the ground, under the moss, so that they can rest on the arms of the mountain, ferment, breed, and grow the next dream.

After a long while, what should be picked has been picked, and what should be hidden has been hidden. Everything has been arranged, and everyone can gather to show off their spoils. Either envy or jealousy, the surprise and admiration you feel when watching others pick up the densely piled fruits in your basket will make you the happiest person in the world at this moment. Afterwards, everyone secretly competed in their hearts, their eyes moved faster, their bodies became faster and more agile, and like radar, they shot back and forth in every corner of the fir forest. The fir forest continuously sends invitations to the entire village. No matter it is the children or adults in the village, including the elderly, they all use a dreamlike look to recall to you the sweet experience and sadness of going into the mountains as a child. This kind of fun, which is similar to adventure and treasure hunting, drives a village to perform it passionately. When you go out in the morning, you never know how many treasures you will carry in the empty backpack on your back; when your eyes, machete or long hook probe into a forest, you never know what kind of truth will come next. Naked and open in front of you; throughout the whole process of looking for bacteria, you never know how obsessed and happy you are.

Eating the harvested fir fungi is something that people in the village enjoy.

Put down the backpack in the main room, touch and compare the flowers while they are fresh, clean up the sediment and debris stuck on it, remove the thick roots with soil, put it into a white porcelain basin, and hold it until the water comes out. He washed it over and over again in front of the big well, receiving the envious looks of the whole village. This kind of treasure created by nature with the cleanest rainwater and the most spiritual mountains and rivers is born with a wonderful and incomparable umami taste. The cooking process requires almost no unnecessary complicated movements and seasonings on your part. It was so delicious that even the white clouds above the village couldn't help but stop and contemplate, recalling the piece of rain that fell on it on a distant morning.

Imagining this delicacy is nothing less than a torture and disaster for a person who has left his hometown. I can only say that when we hold up chopsticks and swallow the natural food gifted by the mountains in western Hunan, I am very happy that my ancestors made a wise decision in the initial migration, and my relatives who have been poor and worked all their lives are now At this moment of eating mushrooms, I am at least satisfied and happy. Many years later, when I followed my distant memory and saw the scene of us picking fir fungi in the mountains and forests as children, and relied on memory to gain emotional continuity, I thought of Kafka's setting for the protagonist in "The Hungry Artist" His wonderful and absurd spiritual height and sense of cleanliness caused him to justify himself before he died: "Because I can't find food that suits my taste." This gave me a strange idea, Xiangxi fir fungus, this dreamy spirit in the mountains, can it feed the empty stomachs of artists? Can this small cottage, this fir fungus hidden in the mountains, this lifestyle without strife and conspiracy, use its own simplicity and whiteness to resist the invasion of material civilization and the alienation of human nature, and save our survival? Difficulties return to inner peace and beauty.