Bread, scones and polished rice grains all made me suddenly hungry. Modern people are the "meat-eating generation" in a sense, but I insist on noodles and rice.
Once, on a rainy day, I watched a stranger's funeral on a mountain in the country. The person who presided over the ceremony held a basket of millet, sprinkled it on it and read, "Son of Fulu-Oh-". Suddenly I feel that my eyes are hot, and suddenly I feel that the lines are gorgeous and perfect. The smell of millet can praise God and comfort the dead.
It is thirty years old. One day, I was slowly chewing a mouthful of rice, and suddenly I was surprised to find that my mouth was full of melon seeds. I didn't know I was eating rice seeds from rice fields in the south of the Yangtze River. I don't know how many times I went to Taiwan Province Province, and I don't know whether I came from Jian 'anping or Pingtung, a small town as sweet as "a cube of sugar" described by the poet. But no matter where the rice comes from, I am grateful. There are many affectionate thoughts in it, from Tang Yu's ancient times to the present.
I also like bread very much.
The bakery always smells like baking, so I sometimes go in and smell it without buying anything.
Baking bread in winter afternoon is really a happy time. Even the air in the street is noisy and turbulent for a while. The master ran quickly with a black iron plate and sent the crispy and burnt bread to our eyes like a myth.
I especially like the thick and round bran bread, and sometimes I buy a bunch of it foolishly. According to legend, Taoist cultivation of immortals must "avoid the valley". I don't want to avoid the valley. I want to be a man. I want to listen to it all my life.
Sometimes I can't think of the real reason why I like bread or rice. Do I love the white taste that is far beyond sweet and sour? Do I like it? Has it always been a humble origin of food for poor people? Am I fascinated by the feeling that I suddenly saw the sacredness of my ancestors, or am I just in love with the' strange joy' of pots and ovens?
I don't know, I only know that it is a happy thing to walk all the way in this chaotic century and stand in the bakery waiting for the bread to come out.
I came from Yongkang Street with my little daughter, surrounded by delicious cakes and roasted chicken legs, corn and sweet potatoes.
Walking past the booth of "Mittem" and meat chaff, I took her to stand in front of a bowl of noodles.
"Do you want a bowl?"
She looked at the sticky thread in surprise and agreed. I ordered a bowl for her and stood by to watch her eat.
She finished eating a bowl and said:
"It's delicious. I want another bowl! "
I ordered her another bowl.
Later, she became a fan of noodles, and later, I don't know how it evolved. There is a legal noodle day at home, and it is stipulated that they must be taken to eat once every Tuesday as a snack. It wasn't serious at first, but it wasn't until one day, because we couldn't take them there, our little daughter hid in bed and cried, that we found out that it was more real than we thought.
The next Tuesday, even if it rains, we will bring back bowls. When it doesn't rain, we will sit hand in hand at the stall and watch the colors and sounds flowing all over the street while eating.
A bowl of noodles contains our love for this land.
A Hunan native and a Jiangsu native met on this island, fell in love, gave birth to a son and a daughter, and four people sat in a street stall, which was in Yongkang Street (what a good street), and the market in Taipei always made me sad and happy. Lianyungang, Linyi, Lishui, Qingtian (such a good place to produce stones) surrounded Yongkang! ) And further away, it is Tongshan Street, which belongs to my mother's hometown. A little further, there is Changsha Street, which belongs to the father. I was born in Jinhua. Jinhua is a street now. I have lived in Chongqing, Nanjing and Liuzhou. Chongqing, Nanjing and Liuzhou are all highways. The parting mainland is in Guangzhou. When I get to Guangzhou Street, I always feel depressed. The place where I got off the boat was Keelung. Strangely, even Keelung has it.
The road in Taipei stretches its arms around the territory of China, but Taipei is still Taipei.
Just eat a bowl of vermicelli, in the narrow Yongkang Street, we and our children have infinite love for this land.
Some people, some people, I have forgotten their surnames, and their faces are always floating-like a clear sky, which we can't see throughout the rainy season, but we remember clearly.
That year, when I was in the second grade of primary school, there was a female teacher-I don't even remember her face, but she seemed to think she was beautiful (which teacher is not beautiful in the eyes of primary school students? ) I also vaguely remember her not so bright blue. I have no impression of what she taught us, but I will always remember that in an afternoon composition class, a classmate raised her hand and asked her how to write the word "dig". She thought for a moment and said:
"I can't write this word, which one of you can?"
I stood up excitedly and ran to the blackboard to write words.
That day after school, when the students said "goodbye" to her in unison, she said to the whole class:
"I'm so happy. I learned another word today. I want to thank this classmate. "
I was as happy as wings at once-I never seemed so proud in my life.
Since then, I have met countless dignified and noble scholars who seem to know everything. But what they taught me was far inferior to that female teacher. Her modesty and generous praise made me grow up suddenly.
What's the harm if she can't write "dig"? She discovered the precious confidence in a little girl's heart.
Once, I went to a rice shop.
"Can you deliver the rice to our camp tomorrow?"
"yes." The fat woman said.
"I have given you the money, but if you don't send it," I said uneasily, "what evidence do we have?"
"ah!" She cried, her eyes wide open, as if she had heard a sensational crime. "We dare not do such a thing."
When she said the word "dare not", I was scared by that look. What is she afraid of? Is it a noble and ancient rice selling industry? Or "Raise your head three feet, and you will have a god."
Today, ten years later, if I meet her again, I may not recognize her, but every time I meet that omnipotent person, I will think of her-why are others fearless?
One summer, at noon, I came back from the street and the red brick sidewalk burned people's soles.
Suddenly, I saw a middle-aged man in rags leaning against a wall, his eyes closed, and Li's black face twisted like a dead root. I don't know what she is enduring.
He may have heatstroke and needs a glass of bitter ice water. He may be very sad and need a word or two of encouragement, but the streets are full of people, beautiful leather shoes are walking on the beautiful sidewalk, but no one stands still and looks at him.
I stood for a while, trying to help him, but my aristocratic education made me worry. If he was crazy, if his behavior offended me-so I killed my sympathy and let myself leave as coldly as others.
Who is that man? I don't know. He didn't see me when he fainted at noon that day. We are just passers-by. But his pain occupied my heart, and his helpless shadow plunged me into long-term remorse.
God once let us meet in the same street. Why can't I give a little brotherhood? Why do I have the right to ignore his pain? Why do I have such shameful self-esteem? If possible, I really want to see him again, but who knows where he is?
We don't always have a chance to do good-if we miss it once.
The stranger's face is an irreparable regret to me.
I can't remember the determinant in algebra at all. I do remember the thin, short and unremarkable algebra teacher.
In July of that year, when I arrived at the college entrance examination room, I only felt that my whole life was trembling, and the carefree years were slim. Who can predict their life after the examination room?
Unexpectedly, the algebra teacher was there. It is quite surprising that his pale, expressionless face should have crossed two cities and appeared in the examination room.
Then, he squatted in the mud, picked out a piece of gravel and told me the determinant. I listened anxiously, as if I had never felt so much. The soil in the soil can be such a beautiful paper, and the sharp stone can be such a beautiful colored pen-the first time I understood it, it was he who made me understand the so-called "gentleman's pursuit of Tao" spirit beyond Zhu Zhu's notes in the book.
Unfortunately, I didn't pass the determinant test that day, and I haven't touched the algebra book since. My last algebra class was actually squatting in the mud. My whole middle school education also ended in that classroom without walls and roofs. After more than ten years, I suddenly chewed out how beautiful that meaning was.
What is the algebra teacher's last name? I don't remember. I can remember many small words filled in by the Chinese teacher, but I can't remember the name of the algebra teacher. Always feel a little guilty. If you go to your alma mater, it shouldn't be difficult, but I always feel that it is not necessary. Isn't he more valuable than many people whose names I remember?