Following the line formed by the green walls and white tiles, following the taste of memory. The familiar bowl of wontons poured into my mind like the tide of the evening; mixed with grandma's smile and my tender face...
The wontons in my memory are like this: the wonton slices are crystal clear, soft, sticky, smooth and refreshing when you bite it, and then bite it in. The tight fresh meat accompanied by pure and beautiful gravy, instantly full of mouth, thick and clean; a white bowl, a few drops of oil, a pinch of coriander, the pure beauty, a happy stomach, and a warm heart.
Along the track of memory, accompanied by the gentle whisper of the wind, and the blooming of new flowers under the bright sun, my thoughts drifted to a very far place, where there were grandma, me, wontons...
1 or 2 years old, that was a carefree childhood wearing open-crotch pants. He often sweated heavily and ran back from outside exhausted. Grandma's eyes smiled into crescent moons. He gently stroked my red face with his heart and big warm hands, and brought a bowl of hot wontons. The white fragrance fluttered and "snuck" into my nose. Just like that, I enjoyed the wontons under my grandmother's spoon with her.
is a little older and goes to elementary school. After school, I quickly ran towards the white tiled house standing quietly at dusk, under the setting sun, the red glow was like a child riding on the wind, and what flowed in my heart was my longing for home, and there was only one belief in my heart: that is, home, grandma's wontons.
jumped out of the deep pool of memories and finally returned to the bright and clear light that I thought about day and night. The trembling hands slowly stroked my hair, which was so similar to what I felt more than ten years ago. It was warm, considerate, friendly, and gave people a sense of stability and stability; but it was a little different. The difference was that my grandmother was old and her hands were weak, and I grew up.
can't resist the old man, so he is eager to make wontons for me. From chopping meat to rolling the skin, each process is completed by my grandmother alone, with her hands and feet being nimble and as skillful as engraved in her bones. I know that it is her love for her granddaughter that makes her want to use one step to create the care and love she has been doing for more than ten years. Rain: Seeing that short figure busy in front of the smoke-filled stove, the white mist flooded her, her hair turned gray, I let my eyes blur and tears raged. The blur, rubbed, and transformed into pictures flashed in her mind: her turbid eyes were expectant, and a lonely figure looked away in the setting sun and waited for her family to return. It was still the same bowl of wontons, hot, warming to the heart.
Every platform of life is the most beautiful scenery. The wind carries the dead leaves to send thoughts from afar, growth, leaving home, wandering, settle down, and longing.
The gorgeous leaves fall, and the veins of life can still be vaguely visible. Only after losing this bowl of wontons did I realize that family affection is hard-won.
