In the evening, I went fishing on a small river on the outskirts of the city. Suddenly I saw a small chimney of a brick house by the lake. A wisp of black smoke rose up into the air. Slowly, Disappearing invisibly, the long evening breeze brings the smell of firewood, so I unexpectedly think of my hometown and the smoke from my hometown.
"There are wildfires in the mountains and valleys, and smoke is rising from the villages and ruins far and near." In the dark, it feels like returning to my hometown and seeing relatives busy in the kitchen. The blazing fire illuminates their faces, making them feel The aroma of food mixed with the smell of firewood drifted out of the window. At this time, someone's cell phone played Teresa Teng's "Seeing the Smoke Again" very appropriately: "Seeing the smoke rising again, the dusk illuminates the earth..." Suddenly, the tide of homesickness completely overwhelmed me...
< p> After years of wandering, the smoke from my hometown often rises in my dreams, lingering in my heart, just like the overwhelming nostalgia.At dawn in my hometown, as the dawn gets brighter and the morning light first appears, the concerto of pots and pans plays out in every kitchen, announcing the beginning of cooking time. Soon, everyone Billowing smoke drifted out from people's chimneys one after another.
"The distant village is warm, and the smoke in the ruins", the smoke from the hometown is ethereal and light, naughty and cute, with the beauty of tranquility and elegance. The smoke is full of morning steam, light and ethereal, It is colorful and ever-changing, sometimes like swirling thick clouds, sometimes like twisted hemp rope, sometimes like a flying dragon in the sky, sometimes like a girl's bangs, sometimes like an old man's beard, sometimes like the long-sleeved skirt of a good dancer, sometimes like a masterful painter's hand. Randomly graffitied abstract paintings... The sky over the countryside seems to have become a huge stage. The chimneys of each house seem to have become sprayers specially designed for the stage. The crisscrossing and agglomerating smoke drifts around on the stage, leisurely. The breeze carried away the smoke, and slowly, the cloisonné sky returned to clarity, revealing the original emptiness and tranquility of the stage.
As it approaches noon, various forms of smoke continue to float out from the chimneys of every household. Under the burning and transmission of the sun, the smoke is like transparent wings, light and thin, rising in the air and quickly blending into the air. The blue sky turned into a faint dream without any trace. The smoke from the cooking pots at this time seems insignificant, but in fact it is very charming. Watching the smoke coming out in wisps, constantly drifting in the wind, like a master painting on the blackboard. Unsatisfied with the outline of the painting that was finally drawn, he painted a few strokes, erased them immediately, and painted a few more strokes. Wiped it off again... After looking at it for a long time, I couldn't help but smile.
"The smoke from the kitchen is silent in the desert, and the tired birds are returning in the cold sun." In the evening, the bustling countryside gradually returns to silence, and the tired birds after a hard day's work return to their nests one after another. Smoke from cooking is everywhere in the village, and there are some Against the background of the setting sun and the afterglow of the setting sun, the floating smoke from the cooking pots dyes the countryside into a landscape painting full of psychedelic colors. After looking at it for a long time, I seem to have turned into a wisp of cooking smoke, floating in the sky over my hometown. Looking at all the people in the world, my heart is free and carefree, and the clouds are calm and the wind is gentle.
The so-called cooking smoke is the thick smoke produced by incompletely burned firewood. When I was a child, I was an expert at making fires. I knew that using firewood to cook rice and stir-fry vegetables was a technical job. Each handful of firewood stuffed into the stove should not be too much or too little. If too little, the firepower would be insufficient, which would affect the quality of cooking. Too much will easily lead to insufficient combustion and produce large amounts of smoke. The excess smoke overflows the furnace and fills the entire kitchen. The smoke is billowing, and the kitchen seems to have become a fairyland on earth. The smoke makes people cough and cry. Woof, almost suffocating, I had to rush out of the kitchen, take a few breaths of fresh air, and then go back to light the fire. Every time I see firewood stuffed into the stove, it ignites like a beep, and bright red flames float out of the stove. The smoke is very little, not enough to choke people. It feels like a great feat has been accomplished, and a sense of achievement and satisfaction arises spontaneously.
The smell of cooking smoke is the smell of home, the smell of warmth. Nowadays, my family uses gas, and few people use firewood to cook. The smoke gradually fades away and is forgotten by the times. However, I still often Thinking of the smoke from my hometown. It is the umbilical cord of the wanderer's homesickness, the most beautiful cloud in the wanderer's eyes, and leaves an indelible memory for the wanderer.
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