See the smoke rise again.

Yesterday, I was still arguing with my daughter that "the desert is lonely and straight, and the long river falls into the yen." Before I knew whether the solitary smoke was straight or not, I fell into the smoke of my hometown sadly.

When I was a child, every household made ecological dishes, firewood stoves and firewood. Whenever cooking, the whole village is "warm and far away, and there is smoke in the Yiyi market". The smoke rises in the chimney and swings on the roof, intertwined with poetry, hazy and ethereal.

If it is sunny, it is a "solitary smoke", which goes straight into the blue sky like a leucorrhea;

If it's raining in Mao Mao, it's "a flat forest, a cloud of smoke", which faintly permeates the roof, like an ink painting.

Because my parents are busy with farm work, I have been a new force in the kitchen since I was six years old. At that time, I was not tall, and I had to step on the bench when cooking. It's too easy for me to light a fire, but because there was no chimney at home at first, the smoke from the kitchen came out of the hole and drifted into the house. I walked around the beam and reluctantly went out of the house. It was "late in the morning, smoke came out of the forest." Because of this, the roof of the kitchen is often covered with "dust". Once it rains, the semi-solid "coffee" in free fall will drip endlessly, and you will win the prize carelessly. It is sticky and extremely difficult to clean.

If it were any worse, when it rained and wet the firewood, the smoke directly declared "I love my family" and reluctantly returned to the kitchen. And that little me, straight down a "dusty fireworks color", straight down a tearful, swallowing. Fortunately, such days came to an end with the construction of chimneys and my life in middle school.

In fact, the memory of cooking smoke is more about my mother, and it is the memory of my mother calling us home for dinner.

At that time, no matter what I was doing outside, as long as I saw smoke coming out of my roof, I knew my mother was cooking, and I knew it was time to go home, even though the superstar of that meal was still pasta I didn't like very much. Before my mother's voice resounded through the village, my brother and I appeared in the yard and at home with the rhythm of cooking smoke.

Moreover, after living in the middle school, every time I go home, I just walk to the village entrance, and I can see the smoke curling up on the roof. anxious to return's footsteps are even more urgent. The air is filled with the familiar smell of dried radish stew, which stimulates every taste bud and can't stop.

After studying in college, my yearning for home turned into my reluctance to smoke in the kitchen. Whenever I see wisps of white, green or gray smoke hanging over people's roofs, I think of my home thousands of miles away, my mother's food, my parents' hard work and my lovely brother.

Later, life in my hometown improved, firewood gradually withdrew from the historical stage, and there were fewer and fewer kitchen cigarettes. Until now, there is nowhere to be found. That light like fog, plumes of smoke can only rise in the depths of Ran Ran's memory, just like Teresa Teng's song:

See the smoke rise again.

Dusk enveloped the earth.

I want to ask about the smoke from the kitchen.

Where are you going?

The sunset is poetic.

The scenery is picturesque at dusk.