Time series changes, driven by the eastward movement of several powerful air-conditioning groups, winters and agitations are taking place, with the wind blowing through the doors and windows. At this point in time, mothers are prepared to make up for cold, sweet, sweet foods — lotus 8 porridge. In memory, a family gathers by the fireplace, waiting for the porridge of my mother's troupe to come to the stove, hoping to hear the groaning, as if it were a warm winter melody, telling the warm stories of the cold。
When i was a child, i asked my mother, "who is the gruel?" the mother laughed, and she was afraid that it sounded so quiet that it was written on paper. I see that the porridge is based on wheat from my land, and that the porridge is based on a lotion, and is accompanied by a variety of herbs, acoustics, acoustics, acreage, lily, inner gold and rice。
Every time a mother talks about the folk rumours of “nineteen to nine, to feed, to drink hot porridge, to cool”, she gets the porridge's taste ready. Mothers are careful in every porridge process, and i am often told that firewood must be kept in order for the porridge soup to be warm and bright. By the time lily's sprain splits and walks away, the purple and red sands become light yellow, the porridge can come out。
I couldn't wait until the iron boiler went down. When the saliva of my mouth strutted at my tongue, i could not wait to take up the hot porridge, and breathed with care, and kept swirling the bowl, and the hot porridge passed through the throat, and the warmth came to my stomach, and the warmth came into my body, and the cold went out. And we dredged round and round, and dazzled the forehead。
Since becoming a family, they have been living outside. On a number of occasions, i have had all kinds of porridge with chinese ingredients, porridge, porridge, and porridge, but every time i taste and taste, there's always a sense of confusion. It's always hard to untangle it. It's a cold storm, and it's not going to stop. I remember my mother walking across the mountain, digging for her medicine, and the mother's hard work, and the warm images of my mother standing by the stove to feed the porridge... The fragrance of lotus's 8th porridge came from time to time, flowing across the north and the south, and i felt like my mother was laughing. I can't sit down anymore. I'll take my wife and kids home。
I just came in. I've had other porridges. Mother knew we'd come home, and she'd have finished the grub. And she brought out some bowls from the stove, and she was hungry, and she raised a bowl, so that you could chew and swallow, and ate every bite。
And the mother smiled, and saw that we were full of joy, and that we had not yet reached the end of it, and a few bowls. It's like an entanglement, a belly drum, a hiccup, and it's just soothing. Watching the son who eats and picks out in the daytime, he's running towards me to light up the bottom of the bowl, and heated cheeks are as red as apples。
