the beauty of the sunrise is implicit and restrained, and there is absolutely no intention of publicity. When the sun rises from a mountain top in Ran Ran, its gentle sunshine is like ten thousand golden lights surrounded by the Buddha. When the golden lights come into contact with your eyes under the heavy fog, your heart is so calm as water, like a bath of the soul, giving people a kind of courage and strength that is not afraid of difficulties and obstacles.
Although I think the sunrise is beautiful, I am a person who seldom looks up at the sunrise for two main reasons. First, I like to sleep late and often miss such beautiful scenery. Second, because I am tired of aesthetics, I feel that the sun that I can see every day is nothing special. Even so, it doesn't affect my love for the sun. Some ethnic groups put the sun on the national flag, some ethnic groups write the sun into myths, some poets write the sun into poems, and some painters draw the sun on paper ... Unlike those who love it deeply and strongly, my love for the sun is as cold and low-key as sunrise. I put the sun in my heart and compare it to life.
When I think of those days in my grandmother's house, the sun always rises from the northeast of the gate. There is a small hillside with a dense bamboo forest and several tall eucalyptus trees beside it. Every morning, the sun climbs over the bamboo forest with difficulty, and then hangs on the eucalyptus tree on the far left. It is red and looks like a big orange hanging on the branch from a distance. In a blink of an eye, it has been nearly eleven years since I left my grandmother's house, but my heart and memory have never been far away from there. I have reason to believe that I am composed of two people now. One is forced to enter the society to make a living and live a life without fun every day. One is willing to stay at grandma's house, standing at the gate every morning, watching the unchanging sunrise, but his heart is full of joy.
at sunrise, even before sunrise, grandparents have already got up. Grandpa sat in front of the earthen stove and added firewood to the stove hole from time to time. Grandma stood in front of the earthen stove and watched a pot full of iron pots being slaughtered into small pieces of red vines. The water slightly higher than the red vines kept bubbling like magma, accompanied by a rumbling sound. Grandma tossed a few times in the big iron pot with a big shovel in her hand, scooped up a little red vine with the big shovel, looked closely, and then said with experience, "It's time to sow corn flour." There are several cups of corn flour. Pour it into the pot and stir well, then cook it for some time. This cauldron of red vine is the food for three pigs in grandma's house for one day.
as for our breakfast, grandma usually cooks it in an antimony pot next to a big iron pot, or rather, in an antimony pot outside. The antimony pot inside is often only used to boil some hot water for washing faces and feet, and only when we treat guests at home is the antimony pot inside used for stewing meat soup.
Grandma's breakfast is usually porridge, and some beans such as mung beans are put in the porridge. In the season of harvesting sweet potato, sweet potato pieces are released. The sweet potato has a red skin and a white heart, and its taste is basically the same as that of chestnut, so the porridge cooked in this way is slightly sweet and delicious.
Grandma keeps chickens all the year round. Because the hens can lay eggs and live longer, the roosters will be miserable. They have just turned 1 years old and haven't crowed proudly for a few days, so they have all gone to the table. Grandma's hens are also very successful, and they can lay a few eggs every day. Every time the hens jump out of the henhouse and scream loudly, I will definitely fly over and pick up the eggs with the residual temperature of the hen's body.
Grandma's eggs are not in short supply. Grandma often cooks some eggs in porridge in the morning. From then on, I hated the taste of eggs, especially the taste of yolk, and felt a little fishy. I only wanted to eat that part of egg white every time. If you fry the eggs, you will like to eat them if they are salty and less fishy. I like to eat poached eggs once in a while.
Grandma is a hospitable person. Whenever there are guests at home, she will cook a few poached eggs after dinner, usually two poached eggs for each person, and some white sugar water with mash. Actually, I prefer mash water to eggs. After entering the society, I tried to copy my grandmother's poached eggs many times with the eggs and mash I bought, but every time the yolk and egg white would come apart. The perfect poached egg is that the egg white is evenly wrapped around the yolk, shaped like a purse, looks yellow in the white and has an appetite. Every time I eat poached eggs, I will use a white porcelain spoon to gently prick the egg white skin to reveal the yolk. The shape and color of egg yolk are actually similar to the sun at sunrise in grandma's house. Playful, I will poke the egg yolk and crush it until the egg yolk stains the whole bowl of mash water yellow. Later, it was not until a stomachache and diarrhea that it was discovered that the yolk broke apart and floated in the mash water, which was similar to diarrhea. Since then, I have never eaten poached eggs like this.
in my memory, grandma is the yolk in a poached egg, shining like the sun, while I am the thin egg white skin on the outer layer of a poached egg. At the beginning of the morning, grandma gets up according to her daily routine, and the sun rises slowly according to its original route, while I feel this calm and peace of mind in the cool world.
The sunrise at grandma's house is where my sun was born. The sun is my life, from the moment of sunrise to the sunset when the night fills the western hills. In my opinion, all life should be quiet, quiet birth and death, quiet joys and sorrows. When some life tries to break this silence with blood and cruelty, it will be punished by nature. Of course, there may also be another kind of punishment. Grandma's waist is crossed, and her white hair is raised in the wind. The most just and kind eyes flashed in her eyes like wind, fire and lightning, and then she stood majestically in the rising sun, pointing at his nose and calling him a dog's blood spray, which made his ancestral grave emit black smoke. (It's a joke here. Grandma is a kind and gentle person. She is not vicious, and she is not as fierce as some village women. )
August 7, 22 in Neijiang, Zhu Hongchu (Editor: Deputy Editor)