Mom, steam steamed bread quickly. She scooped up flour, poured it into the basin, brushed it, poured a basin of water, put some yeast in it, clenched her fist, divided by three times five, and kneaded the noodles while talking to you.
Just now, the floating flour was swept away. It must be lying in the basin, snoring like a sleeping baby.
Mother easily moved the basin, put it on the kang, covered it with a quilt, and went to do something else.
I sit next to my mother, sometimes quarreling with her, sometimes telling her about school, and sometimes telling her about my troubles. I said, my mom, listen, when I'm excited, my mom will help me analyze the tricks.
More often, my mother will scold me and think I don't study well. When she is angry, she coughs violently and her eyes are red with anger. Naturally, I am very sad. She punched the dough with her fist and vented her disappointment with her son in this basin.
Naturally, my son grew up and my mother couldn't fight. It's also because I'm incompetent that my son is ashamed, so I can only be angry with this dough.
I held my breath, but I didn't admit my mistake The mother-child relationship was once deadlocked.
Mother thought that the dough was going to ferment, so she opened the quilt and the lid, pinched the soft wheat-flavored dough with her fingers and said, OK, the noodles can be steamed.
This will naturally dispel my anger. In my mother's eyes, I look like this dough. My mother hates iron not to produce steel, and my disappointment always makes the mother and son have a cold war, and then there is a bloodier mother-child relationship.
Mother poured the noodles on the chopping board and rubbed them. Noodles are much more obedient than her son, and they are given any shape. The mother expects her son to have eighteen kinds of martial arts, such as steamed bread, to eat realistically, to go out of the hall, to load vegetables and to pick red dates. Noodles, rabbit buns, jiaozi, wonton, etc. What I got from my mother is very famous in the village.
Mom is making steamed bread, and I am making a fire to boil water. Waiting for the water to boil, just like my mother is waiting for me, enjoy it quietly. Water and other steamed buns are put into the pot, just like my mother, anxious and impatient, expecting time to pass quickly, so that I can grow up and escape from this backward place.
The water is boiling and the steamed bread is in the pot. Mom frees up her hands to do other things, clean up the chopping board and wash the knives. Tell me not to stop, increase the firepower and let the air in the steamer come up.
Finally, steam roared out of the crack in the lid. Mom looked at the time and said, it will be ready in another 40 minutes, and then the steamed buns will be unloaded!
What bothers me most is this way. I don't know how much to steam a day, so I can't eat less. Busy all day, when do you stop to think about your own business? Why is there no one else in my family doing well? Mother heard my complaint and sighed, alas, baby, people have a hard time all their lives. Steam steamed bread, eat steamed bread, and then steam steamed bread. Everyone should eat steamed stuffed buns, and there are steamed stuffed buns where there are people.
I'm hysterically fed up with this steamed bread. My mother steamed so much that I couldn't finish it. Many of them are moldy. I just can't throw them away. I made it into wheat rice and ate it. There is no food and no meat. I'm greedy, so naturally it's not delicious. Look at this stupefied bun, just like the rural people around you, it is lifeless.
I want to escape from here, a seed, sprouting in my heart.
I hate everything in the countryside, just as I don't like this bun. Steamed buns are everywhere. Including the person who steamed buns, my mother accompanied me and took care of me every day. I lost my freedom, and she often quarreled with my father because of my little things. I'm really bored and I'm determined to leave.
When I eat rice, I think it is really delicious. I eat rice and stir-fry every day, and my mother provides me with living expenses I'm happy and proud, as if I'm going to be a public official.
I spent a few years there in the county town, my mother didn't have enough to eat at home, I slept soundly in class, my mother was sweating in the orchard, I was joking, and my mother was sighing.
All I know is that when I got home, I immediately became docile and clever, pretending to be a good boy, so that I could get more living expenses when I left. You show your true colors as soon as you leave, especially when you go back to school. I squandered my mother's hard-earned money and humiliated my conscience.
In those years, money was naturally spent, grades were in a mess, and bad skills grew a lot. I am more and more hypocritical, and my mother is getting older and more helpless.
Mom says rice has no nutrition. Look, this baby is getting thinner and thinner. You should eat more steamed bread. Actually, my mother doesn't know that I didn't put my living expenses in the right place.
I finally escaped from my mother and went to work and live in a city in the south. I don't have to eat steamed buns anymore. Mother is getting older and weaker.
After working for five or six years, I suddenly miss the countryside and the steamed buns made by my mother. I always thought mom was here, and so was steamed stuffed bun. I want to go back if I want to eat, but I'm busy. Even when I go back, my mother knows that I don't like steamed buns and I'm still cooking the southern food I just learned.
I always feel that there is plenty of time, so don't worry. When I get rich one day, I will take my mother to live in the city. Besides, I actually like eating steamed buns.
Later, my mother suddenly left. She didn't write down her unique skills in making steamed buns, and I didn't catch up with the idea of leaving some audio for her. In short, just watching, eagerly away from my life world.
I want to cry, but I cry badly, a pair of crocodile tears.
I don't want to cry, but I feel uncomfortable and look like I have no love.
I settled down and learned how to make steamed bread. In a foreign land, I was alone, mixing noodles, and suddenly found it difficult to make steamed buns. Even if the wrist is worn out, even if tears or sweat fall in, the dough still won't close properly, and steamed bread naturally doesn't taste like mother. I finally changed my feelings or attachment to each bun from disgust to nostalgia.
I don't like it, but my indispensable mother, steamed bread, will accompany me through this life. With this guilt, I will say sorry to you for being late, mom, I love you.