Cooking Smoke Prose: Cooking Smoke
When I was a child, I once asked my mother: "Why is there a wisp of green smoke floating into the sky?" "My child, when it comes to Xiangwu, other people's homes are doing it. "Fan, if you see the smoke blowing, go home quickly so that the adults won't worry!" My mother said with a calm and peaceful look on her face, stroking my head. It seems that the smoke has become a benchmark and the direction of home.
The smoke in my memory always rises into the sky with the rhythm of sunrise and sunset. In the morning, smoke rises from the kitchen, reminding people that a busy day is about to begin. The adults carry their hoes and head towards their fields. At dusk, the smoke from the cooking pots swayed, waving to the people working in the fields, telling them to finish their farm work quickly and go home before it gets dark. On the way home, bunches of smoke rose from the village in the woods and slowly passed through the forest tops. Under the shining of the setting sun, it is like a thin layer of mist floating over the head of the forest.
At that time, I was a playful child who would never grow up. The smoke from the kitchen stove always liked to stand on the corrugated corrugations, look into the distance, and shout my baby name loudly in the direction where I was playing. I'll go home quickly. Sometimes if I didn't hear the call, my mother would follow the direction of the smoke and go to the pond, river, mountain or grassland to take me home. No matter how far I go, my mother can be found, because I can never escape the magnetic field of my mother's love.
Because of the smoke that rises at sunrise and sunset, I always fantasize about nestling in the arms of my parents and never leaving the village for the rest of my life. I want to stay in my mother's heart forever and become a child who will never grow up.
"You are so stupid. You have stayed in the village like your father all your life. What future do you have? If you want to study, only by studying can you change your destiny and live the same life as the people in the city!" said the father. He said to me while hoeing the grass in the field.
As people grow up, they gradually understand the meaning of cooking smoke.
Although I was still a child in my mid-twenties, I went up the mountain with my sisters to chop firewood. When I got tired, I saw smoke rising from the kitchen, and I knew I was hungry. Even though I had no strength, I still bundled firewood and carried it home. .
When the farmers are busy, the family is working in the fields. When they see the smoke, the mother goes home to cook. Sometimes it is after one o'clock at noon before the mother hurriedly delivers the meal, and the father throws the basket upside down. , placed on the ridge of the field, and placed on the vegetable tray, the family hurriedly filled their stomachs regardless of the mess.
In the morning, my mother hurriedly lit up the smoke, used firewood to cook porridge and rice. Before the rice turned into rice, she quickly took the empty basket to the vegetable garden on the back of the mountain to pick vegetables and go home. When the time comes, it’s just the right time to catch rice.
The land is like a rope of fate, tying us to the land and looking for the elements needed for life in the land. The family's heavy labor in the fields can only sustain their basic livelihood. There is no sign of prosperity, and the poverty is so severe that people can't breathe. When I was just over 13 years old, my father began to teach me how to use farm tools and work in the fields. He always complained that time passed too slowly and hoped that the smoke would rise early so that I could go home to rest and have fun with my friends. That exhaustion, it is still difficult to describe the pain in words, which made my young heart aching, and also inspired me to study hard and leave the village. This may be my father's lowest wish for me.
Living in the city, without a trace of smoke, I always feel an inexplicable loss in my heart. My life seems to have become a river that has stopped flowing. When I feel bored or hurt, I want to go back to the village, face the stove, light a cooking fire, and see the smoke coming out of the chimney, taking my troubles away and disappearing in the wind.
Sitting on a hill, looking at the smoke from the kitchen, my restless heart dances in the air with the smoke. All caress and snobbery disappear without a trace under the spread of the smoke. There is no longer philistinism and hypocrisy in my soul. Slowly return to calm.
Wherever there is smoke, it is an overview of someone’s life rooted there. Without smoke, there would be no village. Smoke has become my spiritual home. When my heart is empty, the smoke in my memory always rises in time, allowing me to find the yardstick of life in time from the desert, and always maintain confidence in life.
Nowadays, I can no longer go home often, but my elderly mother insists on staying in the village and is busy in the stove on time every day, creating the smoke that has tied me up all my life!
Everything in a village is the hope of people rooted in the land. It is also a flag filled with maternal love raised high in the village. The meaning of cooking smoke is the meaning of my soul.
Prose about cooking smoke: In the world of mortals, watch the smoke from cooking fires in all seasons.
Fireworks in the world, the taste of the world is cold and the taste of vicissitudes. The flowers bloomed on the street, they gathered and dispersed, separated and reunited again. There were so many feelings of separation and separation that I could no longer bear. I just want to let my soul retreat among the mountains and rivers, be an ordinary guest in the mortal world, and quietly watch the smoke of the four seasons.
Once upon a time, I made a promise to meet in the mountains and rivers, holding the misty clouds and letting go of all the obsessions in my heart. By the dust-free stream, amid the tranquility of the orchid grass, your impetuous mind can instantly calm down. Accompanied by the distant rhythm and listening to the low voice of birds, forget the worries and sorrows of the past.
Once upon a time, I promised a chance encounter in Yangzhou with fireworks in March, and rushed to a misty rain of apricot flowers in the south of the Yangtze River. Go boating on the West Lake, stand on the broken bridge, and trace the ancient opera excerpts from thousands of years ago.
"The heart of the wave is swaying, the cold moon is silent", I also wanted to walk gracefully on the moonlit night of the Twenty-Four Bridge, pick the red medicine beside the bridge, and sing the graceful chapter.
Traveling through the poetry of the Tang and Song Dynasties, Jiangnan is just a dream, and I don’t know how many people have fallen gently into their dreams. A mist of apricot blossoms, a moonlight in the courtyard, and a puddle of clear water of the West Lake, just like this, they unknowingly enter the heart, making people yearn for it.
Wandering all the way to the end of the world. Riding a horse and flying in the dust, from the bluestone alley with willows to the path covered with fallen leaves; boarding an orchid boat alone, from this shore of misty water to the other shore of the setting sun; covered with wind and dust, following the steps of the predecessors, leaving behind again Leave footprints to future generations. I have heard so many people’s stories, and seen so many times of spring flowers and autumn moons, but in the end, what was folded together was just a pile of ink-stained title pages.
The duckweeds gather and disperse, the moon waxes and wanes, and no one knows where their final habitat will be. Recalling the past becomes increasingly clear, while looking at the future, it remains blurry. In a landscape with no choice, I had no choice but to follow the footsteps of time and rush there. Until that day, youth quietly fades away, and the face is covered with vicissitudes of life.
With clear face and bones, she walks in the world filled with fireworks. Many times, I feel inexplicably tired, inexplicably tired, inexplicably sleepy, inexplicably hurt, inexplicably sad, and sometimes I just want to sleep forever and never wake up. So I always like the tranquility of mountains and rivers, and I like to outline the shadows of mountains and rivers in my mind. I wish I could watch the two lamps of the sun and the moon and dream a dream of Spring and Autumn. In the silence of memory, a few words of the past are collected; in the meagerness of the past, the plain face of the past is engraved. From then on, I walked along the mountains and rivers, accompanying myself with the mountains and rivers and the breeze.
An unknown encounter, a passing glance. Now, it seems that it is time, what should come will always come, and what should go will eventually go. Those affectionate pasts seem to have been gradually forgotten in the passage of time; those unpredictable futures, in the coming years, it seems that I have already been prepared to accept them. If I disturbed anyone's dream when I turned around, please believe that I didn't mean to do so. Because I believe that no matter when, what month, or what year, as long as we are destined, we will meet again.
The wind and moon in the forest and spring are peaceful and peaceful. In the journey of life, I am trying to find spiritual refuge. But on the other hand, I still yearn for the warmth of making tea in this mortal world and miss the aroma of old wine. I didn't dare to tell anyone about my thin heart. I just crushed all my thoughts into pieces with an ink pen and hung them on mottled plain paper. In the world of mortals, cold and summer come and go, standing at the end of the Chinese years, quietly enjoying the tea brewed with the taste of the world, waiting for the misty butterflies to fly across the sea and perch on the branches of the world of mortals. Until the prosperity fades away, the mountains and rivers remain the same, the clouds and water of Xiaoxiang remain unchanged, and the autumn dream remains without a trace.
Time goes by, the romance changes, and the emotions you once invested are only harvested in later memories. After passing through a period of human life, I have repeatedly felt the emotion of "if life is just like the first time we met". However, if you have the happiness of flowers blooming, do you have to accept the coldness of flowers falling? The water chestnut in the world of mortals accidentally scratches your sincerity. Try your best to lower your head and smile. In the next section of the landscape, will everything be lost to time? The wind blows away, and everything that returns to me is light and calm?
How many things have happened through the ages. The charming world of mortals has broken so many hearts and ruined so many people's relationships, and finally disappeared in the rolling mortal world, forever buried in the bottom of memory.
I am tired of reading about worldly affairs and look down on human relationships. I began to learn the maxims in the Jing Pin Huang Sutra, and it seemed that every word was telling me to let everything happen and be calm and calm. Time goes back and forth, and in the world of mortals, all we can do is wait silently for the ending that has been arranged by the years.
A hundred years of life may be really unnecessary. For a cup of overnight bitter tea, I have to make a meaningless taste, pass through the thorns of the world, wade through the turbulence of the world, and stay safe in Zimo. In Xianchen, in front of the Hongchen Ferry, I watch the smoke from the cooking pots in all seasons, looking at the fleeting time like water indifferently, waiting for an obsession, and saying goodbye!
People who have read the prose about cooking smoke also:
< p> 1. Prose about the smell of cooking smoke2. Prose about cooking smoke
3. Prose about poetry about cooking smoke
4. Prose about homesickness about cooking smoke
5. Prose about missing the smoke