Prose on mother and stove

Do you often see prose in your daily study, work or life? Prose is a narrative literary genre, which expresses the true feelings of composition and has a flexible writing style. Do you know what problems should be paid attention to when writing prose? The following is my carefully arranged essay about mother and stove. Welcome everyone to refer to it, I hope it will help you.

On the one hand, the stove bears the warmth of a family and also bears witness to the greatness of maternal love. The longer you leave home, the more homesick you become. I dreamed several times that my mother cooked and fried the most delicious food in front of the stove, and my homesickness always bloomed on my mother's warm stove. ...

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As far as I can remember, the cooktop in my hometown is a cuboid made of clods, with a thick layer of red clay skin on the surface, and the oil is smooth and bright. One left and one right can hold two cauldrons, and the old bellows can be used to blow the air below. There is a big water tank on one side of the stove. If it is cold in winter, there will be a jar of sauerkraut, and some dry wheat straw and buckwheat straw will be piled next to it to make a fire in the stove.

There are also some commonly used stoves on the stove, which are all necessary stoves. With the baptism of the years, these stoves washed by their mothers have also been painted with a deep color, which gradually blends with the color of the stoves. It is definitely not rust, but the traces of the years. The spatula, spoon, colander and broom brush placed at the foot of the stove inadvertently give off a kind of smell, which is the smell of mother's long-term cooking, cooking utensils and firewood. They stayed with the pot day and night and cooked the most delicious food for us in the years. As long as I can remember, my mother has changed the broom for washing pots again and again, and I don't know how many times. When there was only one broom handle left, mother asked it to say goodbye to the stove.

Since my mother has no daughter, cooking for my mother has become my exclusive right as the eldest son. Every time I cook or steam steamed bread, I help, mainly to make a fire. At that time, I made a lovely fire, and it was the best thing to read Jin Yong and Gu Long's novels while making a fire. However, once a fire almost broke out. I remember my mother asked me to boil a pot of boiling water, and I was reading while boiling water. Because the stories in Jin Yong's novels are so attractive, I unconsciously forgot to add firewood, which caused the unburned firewood at the door of the stove to fall on the dry firewood next to it and immediately ignited a raging fire. When I found it, it was burning badly. I was so scared that I stood there in a daze and was at a loss. My mother just came and put out the fire in time. If my mother didn't come back, the kitchen might have burned out that day, and now I'm afraid to think about it.

At that time, the family was poor and there was no food, so they used big white porcelain bowls to pack vegetables. Potato dish is the most common dish on the table in my hometown. Mother put the sliced potato chips and red onion aside, dug a small amount of solidified lard with a spatula, then dropped a few drops of linseed oil with a spoon and threw it into a warm pot. When the potato dish was half cooked, my mother began to add water and scooped water with a long-handled plastic spoon, and "squeaked" twice. My mother took a spoon and dropped a few drops, but she hasn't finished drinking. There is very little oil in the pot. In those years, there was no money to buy oil, and there was too much water to cook. The water in my hometown is sweet and pure, potatoes are pure natural green food, and the potatoes fried by my mother in Caicai are especially delicious.

I remember when I was a child, when I just learned to help my mother make a fire, I looked at the burning fire in the stove, but I didn't know how to add firewood. I just stuffed dry wood into it. The fire that had been burning vigorously was suddenly stuck by me, and there was no flame. I couldn't open my eyes when I saw the thick black smoke. I'm coughing and I'm worried. My mother looked at me in such a mess and told me that "the heart of the fire should be empty, and the heart of the people should be public", and it was necessary to set up a firewood fire. At that time, I didn't understand what my mother said. In my understanding, it is to add less firewood and make the fire hollow.

According to my mother's statement, I started to add fire, take out the extra firewood in the stove chamber, and support the dry firewood with a fire stick, so that the fire was hollow and could not be ignited. In a hurry, I forgot the bellows next to me and stammered directly at the stove chamber with my mouth. Suddenly, the flame suddenly came out of the stove and smelled a burnt hair. I rushed to the side mirror and saw my eyebrows and hair messy. Now, sometimes in retrospect, I can't help laughing at the thought of my embarrassment. With the passage of time, I gradually understood what my mother said: when the firewood is empty, the fire can come into contact with more oxygen and space, making the fire more prosperous; To be a man, we must put justice first in order to have a clear conscience.

I remember when I was a child in my hometown, the 23rd of the twelfth lunar month was the day of offering sacrifices to the kitchen, which was also a small year. On this day, my mother got up early and began to clean the yard before dawn. After cleaning up the yard, she went to the stove and presented a small dish of steamed bread and fruit. Then I started a busy day's work. According to the custom of my hometown, my mother cooked a pot of delicious slurry on the stove and fried a large plate of sauerkraut. But so far, every time I go home, on the 23rd of the twelfth lunar month, my mother still keeps making trouble. As for why I want to eat a stir fry, I remember my mother once said that with the passage of time, I have forgotten it now. When it was getting dark that night, my mother asked my brother and I to kneel in front of the stove and burn some paper money, which meant to send the stove owner to heaven, while my mother was chanting the formula "Heaven speaks well and the lower bound is auspicious".

When the twelfth lunar month is around 28, the countryside begins to fry things and steam steamed bread. Fried meatballs, fried cakes, fried fritters, fried buckwheat fish, etc. I am very busy these days. My mother always gets up early and gets greedy for the dark. She is busy outside, preparing food for the New Year. These days, whether it's steamed stuffed bun, twisted dough or oil cake, my mother is familiar with it first, so that she can share it with the whole family and enjoy herself.

Now, I no longer believe in these things, but I still pray and bow down, because I bow down to everyone and pray for the safety of my mother and family. And every year on the first morning of New Year, I will kowtow to the old people in the village with my uncle. I have been working outside, and I seldom see the old people in the village. The Spring Festival has become the best link between me and my dear villagers. Wherever I go, I can't forget the simple folks, and I can't forget that I was born and raised in the yellow land.

Now the stove in my hometown has long been replaced by cement, with tiles attached to it. It is much cleaner and brighter than before, and it has lost its former color, but it is rarely used, so biogas stoves and induction cookers have replaced stoves. Every time I enter the twelfth lunar month, I say to myself: the winter vacation is coming. I will go back to my hometown to help my mother steam steamed bread and wrap jiaozi, then pull up the bellows by the fire, watch my mother's busy figure by the fire, then slowly build a fire, smell the familiar steamed bread and feel my mother's love.

When I came home last year, I watched my mother shuttle in front of the stove as usual, her hands and feet were still neat, except for a few frosts on her temples, and her waist was more bent than before. ...

Today, life is well-off. After cooking, the thrifty mother still remembers to clean the oil stars on the wall of the pot with rice or noodle soup, or with steamed bread.

At the beginning of the lights, the city is still full of traffic and neon lights. However, when I am alone in a quiet night in a foreign land, I always smoke homesickness in the deepest part of my heart. I know that it was my mother who lit the fireworks of life in front of the stove and warmed the family.

My childhood was spent in my hometown in the countryside, where the old stove kept my happy childhood memories.

When I was a child, I liked to help my grandmother make a fire. Don't underestimate this matter, the old stove is still very particular about burning fire!

The stove has a big chamber, which can hold a lot of firewood, but it can't be piled very closely. But to build it like a "well" with a gap under it. Stuff some dry leaves first, and then light the fire, so it is easy to light the firewood, and the fire will burn vigorously for a long time.

Grandpa said that different firewood can burn different feelings, which is true. When ordinary wood burns, it will make a "whirring" sound and burn red; The firewood just cut is more difficult to burn, and it will emit faint white smoke. While burning, it will "zizi" steam at the other end; The most interesting thing is that when bamboo burns in the hollow, it will sound like firecrackers, which is very scary and gives people the illusion of New Year.

Burning an old stove makes summer different from winter. In summer, you light a fire in front of the stove, and the "whirring" flame burns up the hot energy in summer, and sweat is streaming down your face. But as soon as I left the stove and walked out of the kitchen, I felt cool and comfortable, and it felt like ice and fire. In winter, there are always a group of children around the fireplace We huddled by the fire to keep warm. The red flame keeps us warm and makes us blush. We all stayed there and didn't want to move. A sense of "laziness" ripples in our hearts.

When I leave my hometown to study in the town, I often miss the old stove, especially in winter. I went back to my hometown the year before last and wanted to relive the fun of burning old stoves. Who knows that all the small mountain villages in the country have put on brand-new gas stoves and range hoods, and the old stoves have long been abandoned. I tried to make a fire with an old stove, but it wouldn't burn. My heart is empty.

The old stove is no longer used, and the smoke from the kitchen in the small mountain village can't be seen. The changes of the times have changed many living habits and changed the way of life left by our ancestors, but those beautiful memories have always remained in our hearts.

Where do you want to go back most? If someone asks me this question, I will answer it without thinking: by the fire in my hometown.

Don't feel luxurious. In fact, it is a cement house with a floor space of less than 10 square meter, which is connected to the kitchen. There is a dim lamp hanging on the rough ceiling, which looks rickety. Dry wood is next to the uneven wall. A lighter, a rusty wooden knife and a burnt poker hung on the nail nailed to the wall. There are also many firewood ashes scattered on the only flat floor. This is the kitchen in my hometown.

All my love for it was met briefly at my grandmother's house in winter.

Every evening, I squatted there, lit a mass of waste paper and threw it into the stove, and put some twigs on it with tongs. Several clusters of flames lit by the paper ball hit it and ignited a raging fire! A big flame poked its head out and unfolded her slender body. Her wonderful dance is fascinating, elegant, fashionable and charming. With a few large pieces of firewood on the shelf, she became a tenacious female warrior, mighty and magnificent!

At this time, the enemy of the flame-soot began to cry. The composition is the mole of flame. After a while, the ingredients will absorb the essence of the flame and go to the master to receive the reward. The "master" is me, and the so-called reward is to be eaten by me.

After dinner, I went to the fire again. My soldiers "Flame" are exhausted, but I still want to "make the best use of everything" and let them hunt the last prey-potatoes. I used the poker as a baton, mobilized the soldiers into a pocket array, surrounded the potatoes with charcoal one by one, and the soldiers drowned their prey with an avalanche. After a long time, the result of the battle will be known! My brave soldier died with his prey. I reluctantly sent the flaming soldier away and wolfed down the prey (potatoes). Alas, I am really not a kind master!

After entering the intense study career in junior high school, I seldom go back to my hometown to start a new stove. In the days of queuing in the school canteen, I will inevitably think of the past by the fire, and my heart is full of nostalgia for the good memories of the past.

The long-lost winter vacation has finally come to this place that reminds me. Make a handful of firewood, listen to the sound of cooking and burning firewood, watch the dancing flames in the stove, and begin to look forward to the scene of baking potatoes after dinner. I can't hear the wind and rain outside, I can't feel the cold, and a feeling of happiness surrounds me. It's good to be home!

Mom and the kitchen stove Composition 4 Students, have you seen the kitchen stove? Have you ever seen cooking on the stove? Did you burn it yourself? If you have seen it, listen to me again. If you haven't seen it, listen to me!

This stove is different from ours. It consists of two cauldrons. Listen, if we want to eat, we must use firewood. The cook will cook in front of the stove for a while, and then he will make a fire behind the stove. Today, my mother and I cooked five dishes with this stove, which is my credit! Because that's where I help my mother make a fire. At first, there was no fire in the stove, so I took dry pine needles, lit them with a lighter and put them in the hole of the stove. To turn a small fire into a big one, you need to put more firewood. Look, a raging fire is coming out! The little flame jumped around and almost burned me. Then, my mother started cooking, which was cooked in a big pot. Mother put rice and water into the pot, and soon white gas came out of the pot. My mother asked me while burning firewood, "Is the meal ready?" I replied, "Well, I don't know." Mother asked, "Is there a crackling sound?" I said, "No! Only the sound of grunting. " "Then you can wait slowly, and the meal will be cooked when you hear the crackling sound!" Mom smiled and said to me.

Students, this big pot of rice is really delicious, and there are many delicious crispy rice! Want to eat? Greedy! Tell me, let my mother and I make you a delicious rice crust. How's it going?

Mother and the stove essay 5 Autumn, rosy clouds and fallen leaves. Far away, the smoke from kitchen chimneys curled up like a blush around the sunset. Several peasant women are still calling out for their frolicking children, and their voices are all melted into autumn, only responding to the chirping of some wild geese on the horizon.

The smoke has started, so it's time to go home.

When I got home, I looked at the desolation over the village, recalled the scene of cooking and smoking together when I was a child, and put away my melancholy. I walked quickly in the familiar direction, and grandma stood at the door watching anxiously as before. I smiled and took grandma's hand, pushed the door, the yard, the first room and the east wall. The old friend who has been away for many years is still here. I stroked his corner. Long time no see, old stove.

At that time, every household had a stove.

According to my grandmother, about fifty years ago, my grandfather picked up a car full of yellow mud from far away. And the dry wheat straw harvested last autumn, built a base, plastered it with ash for a few days, and built a pier for the big iron pot made by the blacksmith Wang in the town. The stove squatted on the east wall of the main room in shock.

Days passed quickly. Decades passed, the stove was renovated several times, and the outer layer was covered with blue bricks, but it still could not stop the erosion of time, mottled surface and inclined body, but stubbornly refused to fall down. He is like a dying old man, sitting in his room trembling, brewing the most mellow food with the last time of his life.

At that time, I kept staring at the old stove, and the firewood was burning, and one section was swallowed hard by the big mouth of the stove. My grandmother's hands are ups and downs, and the blade is stepping on the chopping block with the rhythm of dadada. The beans are still lingering in the evening, and they are cut into squares with fungus and pork belly. The oil in the pan was so hot that even a little beans, red peppers, yellow garlic and chopped green onion were poured into the pan with a bang, and the thick oil burst. Grandma quickly poured the diced vegetables and the oil explosion gradually subsided. She also put the stupid eggs pulled out of the henhouse in a bowl and slammed a pair of bamboo chopsticks. Beans are bright green, fungus is bright black, and eggs are dazzling yellow. Every ingredient comes from my grandmother's yard. This dish is not only a dish, but also a deep attachment to my hometown.

When I was a child, I was most looking forward to playing dates. Whenever the dates are harvested and dried, I will hug my grandmother's arm and clamor for rice cakes. Grandma criticized "but what kind of rice cake to eat in the New Year" and went to pick the reddest and sweetest dates for me. Noodles are ground from the newly paved millet this year, and they are golden and smell of sunshine. Knead two spoonfuls of flour, a basin and half a spoonful of water into a small pile. Hiding in the flour, grandma is very skilled in making dough, and the dough is ready. There is only a round dough left in the basin, and the basin and hands are clean without a trace of flour. Grandma tore off a piece of mixed noodles, turned her hands over a few times, and the dough turned into small round piers, arranged one by one on the bamboo grates set up in the pot, with bright yellow dotted with brilliant red, which was very lovely.

Grandma sat on the bench in front of the stove, pulling the bellows in her left hand and adding firewood in her right hand. The handle of the bellows has been worn out, I can't see the color clearly, and I squeaked and twisted hard, but I still blew out the fire. I don't know which firewood didn't dry thoroughly, but it burst with a bang, and sparks splashed on the broken stove mouth, a terrible martyr. The lid of the pot was opened in my expectant eyes, steam roared out, and the fragrance of corn and jujube My Sweetie overflowed the room. I couldn't wait to bite a small piece, so hot that I dared not close my mouth. The smell of corn, the sweetness of jujube, the smell of firewood and grandma's love only filled my young heart in an instant.

Time slipped away, I grew up quietly, left my grandmother and went to school in the city. But every night, grandma's busy figure in front of the stove will appear in her dream. This autumn, I returned to that long-lost village, the starting point of that dream.

I caressed the stove curled up in the corner, and next to it, a rice cooker fell on the table. Grandma said that people are useless when they are old. Your mother bought me an electric one because she was afraid of my fire. Even if it is cooked in a big pot, it won't have that taste. ...

I caressed him, and his newly built appearance suddenly appeared in front of me. When I was young, my grandparents were busy in the kitchen, talking and laughing. When I went to Qiu Lai in spring, the sun rose and set, and the kitchen stove became old. When I was a child, my mother and uncle played by the kitchen fire, and people came and went in a hurry. The kitchen stove began to collapse, grandpa left, grandma bent over, and I was a toddler holding the kitchen stove like a movie.

Perhaps, these stereotypes can't keep up with our growth, and we can only let time flow away in a hurry, so we have no choice but to look outside. Their gray-black style has been unable to adapt to the contemporary fancy, and they can only feel dejected at the corner of the times. However, the yearning for home in my heart is real, and what lingers in my mind is the attachment to the food there. Even if everyone is desperate to run to the front, I am willing to stop and look back, look at my grandmother, look at the yard, look at the kitchen smoke and look at the old stove. ...

Don't forget that the old stove is delicious ...

Mother and Kitchen Stove Essay 6 Returning to the countryside, the kitchen stove in my hometown is the one with the deepest feelings in the countryside.

This stove should be very old, about seventy years old. Not as bright and clean as the stoves in the city. It's just made of a brown adobe, with a big piece of firewood left under it, and a big iron pot and a board as the cover. So rough and simple.

Grandma said that in their time, besides the joy of harvest, the kitchen stove was their favorite place to go. There is always a pile of firewood by the stove. They felt rough, but they were neatly folded by grandma. Sometimes, her children stand on the firewood pile collecting water after school, hoping that their sister will lift the lid and the fragrance will float out from it. I looked at the faint fruit juice on the long table next to the stove and imagined that when she opened the lid, she soaked a rag with cold water, wrapped it around the bowl, quickly placed it on the long table next to her, and shouted happily to her playful siblings, "Dinner is ready." Everyone has a bowl of rice in front of them, and they eat well with a bowl of wild vegetables. After eating, my sister poured a ladle of water into the pot, brushed it with a brush and poured it into the pool. She took out the unburned firewood and put it in that pile. How methodical and orderly she did all this.

Now I go back to my hometown and use this kind of stove. Although the chopping board is made of wood, the firewood rice is unique and can't be compared with the fire and gas stoves eaten in the city. Old people sit around a table and talk about their families and children. There seems to be no better way to kill time.

The warm sunshine faded silently under everyone's gaze. What remains unchanged is feelings!