I was born in a mountain village bordering the mountain and the city. It is a land of geomantic treasures connecting the great plain with Shan Ye. When I enter this fertile field, people will feel bathed in the harvest of the four seasons.. In the childhood years, although there was no colorful halo, there was a memory like water and wine that could never wipe away the warm smoke curled up in my hometown.. In the early morning of the mountain village, there was no noise, everything was so fresh and plain, accompanied by a few cock crows, thick smoke billowing from the farm hearth, like clouds, as if setting violet’s essence, rising slowly and floating leisurely, carrying the villagers’ infinite hopes for the future and blending into the sky.. Sentimentally attached to the wisps of sunrise in the village, it adds a few minutes of beauty to the quiet mountains and lush trees.. The bird falling on the eaves, the magpie climbing on the branches, said nothing, telling this pure thought. The early cultivators seem to have no intention of knowing what delicacies can be made in the cooker, or carrying plows or hoes to catch up with the cool morning air and go out to the fields.. When they are tired and hungry, they can get snacks that the children send to the fields with some heat.. In the evening of winter, the cold mountain area, a few withered leaves and the cold, long and light smoke from cooking fires form the soul of the hometown, bringing warmth and warmth to the winter in the cold mountain village.. Old and young, men and women, gathered together, surrounded by a steaming pot of boiled potato, and talked about Sang Ma, which was warm, warm and interesting.. The mountain village baptized by the spring rain is surprisingly fresh, and wild flowers spread across the mountain are racing to open for fear that no one will pay attention to themselves. At the edge of the ditch, the little snail stretched its body and labored to wriggle, as if it was time to show itself. The active children don’t understand that getting caught in the rain will lead to colds and illness. They go to pick wild flowers and snails in twos and threes.. When hungry, I have to raise my wet little head and watch my chimney carry some heavy smoke rising from the rain and guess what my mother will do to eat.. Children don’t know what the wet years are, nor do they know what the dish meal is.’ All grains are hard’. Cooking smoke is hope. A hot rice aroma, accompanied by fishy smell and a small dish of pickles, is delicious.. Mature golden color is unique to the countryside. Although my hometown is a fascinating autumn scenery in Ma Pingchuan, it is also a charming autumn scenery between gentle slopes and valleys, but it also presents a clear-cut and thick scenery.. The plowman, busy with autumn harvest and rickets body, was so sleepy that he lay flat on his back and took a nap along the terrain, looking up at the smoke flowing up from plumes of pillars into the clouds, there would never be the monotony and loneliness of ” the cloud breaking the wild goose lake Tian Yue and the sheep returning to the cold grass smoke” in Longshang, full of the fullness and joy of harvest.. The liveliest and most joyful thing in my hometown is New Year’s Day. Zhuang households also like to enjoy it. After a year of hard work, they have been at leisure for a while and eat well for a few days. Poor days are not poor years.. Near the end of the year, every family will kill pigs and sheep, steam steamed buns and cook dishes, and pound rice cakes … Ah, at this time, the green smoke coming out of the cottage of the village family depicts the tracks of spring sowing, summer busy, autumn harvest and winter storage, marking the passing of time.. The crackling flames in the hearth leapt with joy of harvest and joy of festival.. Cooking smoke is the eternal theme of my hometown, the clouds of purple mist that transpire from the golden plate of the sun, and the clusters of splendid flowers that float in the vicissitudes of life.. Is the hometown of cooking smoke, will be far away from the hometown of wandering children of printing and dyeing deeper and thicker! In my memory, it is like a ballad with a strong local rhyme that accompanies my growing up, even hovering over my hometown, that is: smoke from cooking fires. The smoke curled up from cooking fires is a dance of smoke. It is a stream flowing to heaven.. Where does the smoke come from? From the hearth. Children may be unfamiliar with a face. What is the hearth? Now, I’m afraid it’s only available in the folk museum, but half a century ago, it was a necessary cooking tool for every family in the countryside. In the countryside at that time, burning coal was a luxury. The main fuel for cooking was firewood, but even firewood was not easy to obtain in the plain where trees were scarce.. When a daughter goes to a blind date, one who has a heart can tell whether the family will lead a life through diligence and thrift from the size and conformity of the woodpile in front of each other’s door or in the courtyard.. When I was a child, every time I came to school, we went to the wild to beat pig grass, dig wild vegetables and collect firewood. As long as I looked up and saw the sunset and smoke rising over the village, I knew it was my mother waving us to go home for dinner.. In the smoke, there is the smell of food. In the smoke, there is a mother’s call. Where does the smoke dissipate? Only know that the wind brought them to the sky, the smoke as carefree as the cloud, is the home of thousands of cooking smoke in the world? Or the smoke of celestial immortals? After the meal is ready, the charcoal in the stove has not been completely extinguished. We will take a piece of sweet potato and bury it in it.. After a meal, there will be a strong smell of baked sweet potato burnt out of the countryside.. After dinner, his father always lit his pipe with a piece of charcoal and sat on a stone at the foot of the earth wall to swallow clouds and vomit fog. How many past events in the past years have become a cigarette in his mouth.. Most of the firewood burned into fire, and three minutes passed into smoke. The rest was plant ash. One hundred acres of field manure should be the forerunner. plant ash is the best fertilizer. Villagers are never reluctant to throw it away.. In autumn, in Shan Ye, along the banks of the river and in the fields, there are often flying fairies with wild smoke like clothes, dancing gracefully in the wind, perhaps the playful shepherd boy lit up a piece of weeds, or the working folks lit up crops, roots and weeds that were cleared from the land to be deeply dug up.. The ethereal clouds and smoke infuse the distant mountains near the trees, the fields in the wilderness, and the wild geese singing in the sky like Chinese paintings with the distant poetry of ” faint flying bridge across the wild smoke”. The smoke from the kitchen is warm and haunts the nostalgic family in the years of hardship, with father’s hard work, mother’s love and childhood memories inside.. Wild smoke is poetic, the wilderness is long, and several clouds and smoke fills the air, drifting with the wind. blowing in the wind embellishes the emptiness of autumn and wild, smearing out the natural beauty and carefree interest of the season.. Cooking smoke is an idyllic and affectionate old song. Wild smoke is a long and elegant landscape picture scroll. Smoke, divided from Conghua, is not a good thing, but it once carried human civilization. The first wisp of smoke from cooking fires let human beings begin to walk out of the wild age when Ru Mao drank blood..At present, the smoke billowing from the industrial chimneys makes us confused and helpless, especially the war smoke makes us uneasy and palpitative.. Only smoke from cooking fires can bring me deep memories and warm feelings of’ warm and distant villages, smoke from yiyi market’; Only wild smoke can bring me a natural kind, simple and romantic poetic daydream – there are families in the place where the smoke comes from. What a sweet and intoxicating picture of returning home from cooking smoke and pigeon whistle! Does the original intention of human fireworks refer to curling smoke and thousands of lights?? After a day at home, three meals a day, smoke should be the most human fireworks taste. Unfortunately, with the development of the times, many classical poetic things full of memories and feelings of many generations are quietly disappearing from our lives, such as cooking smoke, fishing fire, wild ferry, boats, folk songs, folk songs and customs … ah, which smoke cloud is my hometown in memory? The hometown of Yuan Ye has a father’s tomb, and can no longer see the stream-like cigarette in his pipe, but the mourning drizzle of his children during the Qingming Festival.. Cooking smoke is a long memory of past years, isn’t it! That’s the lingering concern of the lost relatives. Now the sky in my hometown is no longer touching with smoke, and people’s hearts have only left wisps of beautiful memories..