After beginning of spring, the wind changed from a steel knife scraping bones to a woman's jade hand. The face of the sun, gradually faded away from the disease white, radiant with warm red. The sky is like a mirror made of sapphire. The water in the river is steaming, as if it had just been poured out of the teapot of the Dragon King. Inadvertently looking at the field, ah! The eyeful of green can make people's souls intoxicated.
The kingfisher is a fairy sound, and the willow flute is Tong Meng. Masculine men, feminine women, like yellow land, true colors of the picture.
After school, the children carried wicker baskets and flew to the wheat field like rabbits.
Stand, sit, lie down, close your eyes back to back, relax, and strive for strength and will. Or, while chasing a child, a group of children shouted-euphemistically: the police catch a thief.
Crazy enough, tired of playing, carry a wicker basket and dig out a radish tree with fat and green leaves. In the sun, people's eyes shine like green elves.
Radish trees can be fried, mixed, steamed, put into a noodle pot, and wrapped in steamed buns and jiaozi.
Maybe radish tree is the meat of oil fairy? Looking at the fragrance, smelling it, and eating it is more fragrant.
About my friends-a bunch of shrimps, crabs and girls-I think they are prodigies and fairies? People are blessed and have to taste the delicious radish tree.
And I, with three lives, don't deserve good food.
I gouge out a radish tree every day and wash it every day. My mother throws my radish tree to my big black pig every day.
My mother's own flesh and blood is not as good as a pig.
Mom hates me.-I know. Maybe it's because I made my female teacher cry. Maybe it's because I stole eggs from home for wheat and apricots. Maybe it's because I should give a beggar half a pot cake and one. From the day I don't know, my mother hates me.
My mother also summarized "I can't": other wild vegetables, such as gray vegetables, tremella mushrooms, wild spinach, wild radish and so on. Still can't get into my job; Such as elm money, Sophora japonica and willow buds, can only be fragrant in the rice bowls of other children.
My hope is always a mirage, and my efforts always fail.
I haven't eaten the top, middle and bottom treasures, and I always think that radish trees are them.
In the wheat field, the radish tree aroused my greatest hope.
In my sleep, my mother stole the enjoyment from me and threw it away.
I'm afraid I'm possessed One night, I left home quietly.
Night is a ghost world. The sound of leaves behind is the footsteps of ghosts, and the cry of owls in the ear is the soul rope in the hands of ghosts. Han Xing blinked the monster's eyes, and the earth was covered with Yamaraja's black dress. The songs of insects that used to be pleasant to listen to are also like the organs of the dead.
I can hear my heartbeat clearly.
My mother told me to fly happily in the wheat field with a hoarse throat. I am a kite, and my mother is the rope that ties the kite.
My mother is superstitious and dare not walk through the cemetery alone in broad daylight. There are many ghosts at night, afraid that mom won't meet any?
Mine. I miss the radish tree so much! Mom, I'm sorry.
I sneaked home and got into the corn stalk to listen to the excitement. Mother's cry: high like a gong, low like a hum, rushing and racing torrent, slow and swirling. That spell is Bai Ni's book written by Mr. Lao Can. Occasionally I can't hear the sound. I'm afraid this effect is what calligraphers say.
Of course, this is how I feel as an adult. At that time, it was just fun.
I fell asleep listening to it. I ate a bowl of radish noodles in my dream-up to now, when I think of that bowl of noodles, my mouth is still fragrant and oily!
Mom didn't come home all night. At dawn, I came home, soaked and trembling.
I'm scared like a crushed larva. Mom didn't scold me. With tears in her eyes, she took out the calendar locked in her heart.
Bread is the pillar of life. One side of the soil and water support one side. But for thousands of years, natural disasters and chaos have been staged constantly, and the tragedy of "white bones are exposed in the wild, and there is no cock crow in a thousand miles".
1959, a catastrophe befell the hardworking and brave people of China. Once again, the dragon that gave birth to the great nation was bruised and dying.
There is not a grain in the house or a grass seed in the field. The porridge in the canteen can be used as a mirror. The withered child curled up in the corner. Crazy people secretly went to the Yellow River levee to dig a mouse hole to catch hedgehogs. Helpless women hope that they can't take off the stars in the sky and stuff them into their children's mouths.
Heaven and earth are hungry mouths with their mouths open.
My younger brother, who just can talk, holds his parents' legs and cries every day: "I eat seven (steamed stuffed buns)." Looking at the skinny son, mom and dad can only comfort each other with tears.
That time, my father went to the county for a meeting and took two wowotou. I couldn't bear to eat it, so I walked fifty miles to take it home. When my brother saw Wotou, his eyes were full of fire and he jumped up like a wolf.
After dinner, my brother asked, "Is there a meeting tomorrow?"
Immediately, my mother changed from a dwarf to a giant. She must let her son eat another dish.
The wild vegetables in the wheat field are a few steel needles in the sea, and only half of them have been found after searching for a long time. Several new buds at the top of the willow tree have become the greatest hope. Liu Ya, Liu Ya, you are not a phantom of Bodhisattva Yang Liuzhi, are you?
Mother dragged her pregnant body to the willow tree. Liu Duoer stood too high, and the hook in her mother's hand couldn't help her.
In a trance, Liu Ya is a fairy, an arch bridge in heaven, delicious rice and a sweet smile of her son.
Come on! A little more, and you will be in heaven. Isn't the golden sunshine flashing on the willow bud the Buddha's light?
Come on! "Click", mother turned into a butterfly and flew away.
My sister fell asleep happily before she had a look at the world.
Wild vegetables give my mother nightmares. Mother's sensitive and fragile nerves can no longer bear the suffering of wild vegetables.
Radish tree, fuck you!
In the later years, I kept "Mom's Story" hibernating.
I hope Mom's Story will disappear forever, and I pray in my heart.
After getting married, I took my mother from the countryside to the county seat. Mother is lucky to have a lot of money. She can eat whatever she wants, take a walk if she wants, and fight if she wants to learn boxing. The old man is happy from ear to ear all day, walking like a gust of wind, just like taking rejuvenation pills.
One day, my mother said, "Go back to my hometown to eat radish trees."
"What? Mom. "
"When I saw chicken, fish and meat, my mother couldn't digest it, so I had to change my appetite."
Eating wild vegetables is a fashion now, whether in cities or rural areas. My wife and children have been clamoring for a picnic many times, but I don't agree-I'm afraid to wake up my mother's grief-stricken memory.
Our family went to our hometown and planed a laundry list of radish trees. The mother paid off the debt she owed her son, and the only thing the son could do was listen to her.
My son's childhood life was Jianlibao, cartoons and four-wheel drive. My son can't understand my father, and neither can I understand my grandmother.
Radish Tree is a teaching book. I let my son eat wild vegetables and tell him "grandma's story". In my son's mind, I want to cast a set of shots of grandma looking for "food" in the field and looking for "food" in the tree.
Today, wild vegetables and leaves are no longer food. They are just photographers who shoot the past.
I hope they will always be monosodium glutamate.
I hope our descendants will never reproduce by wild vegetables again.