Heavy love, who has this article by Sun Benzhao?

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Thick love

Article/Sun Benzhao

Yindan

I am looking for a fairy tale about a flower hen. I have been looking for it for more than thirty years.

Is that hen still there? I looked through all the dictionaries at hand, visited Xinhua Bookstore, and even used "Baidu". Although there were words like "hen", none of them was the one I was looking for. Where did it go?

That flower hen has been living in a fence in the countryside. She is very ugly and skinny, just like a chicken stand. Even so, my mother still couldn't bear to kill him. It takes two days to lay an egg, which is why it can continue to sing folk songs. At that time, it was very difficult to feed my two sisters and me with the remaining food at home. In addition, my father was sick, so being able to feed a hen was really a credit to my mother.

Although I am the first boy in the family, my status is still no match for that hen. I did something wrong, and my mother gave me slaps one after another. Even if the flower hen poops on the pot, the mother will not be annoyed. The mother still affectionately calls it "daughter". I hate it from the bottom of my heart, and I just hope that one day a plague will come, and the "girl" will collapse, so that I can eat its meat. Even though my eyes were as big as eggs, the "girl" was still showing off her power in front of me.

The "daughter" is old and lays eggs very slowly every time. My mother said that when she gave birth to me, I was healed in the blink of an eye. It seems that I am a good son to my mother. I was immersed in the pain of my "daughter" laying eggs. At that time, my mother was still pregnant with her younger brother, and her belly was as bulging as if she was holding a big balloon. In the evening, the mother would personally perform a B-ultrasound on her "daughter". My father said it was called "touching joy". It's better to say that it's touching than it's taking out. With a sound of "poof", the mother spat hard on the five fingers of her right hand, rubbed her fingers back and forth a few times, and then ran towards the underside of the "girl's" tail. We all waited quietly, not daring to express our feelings. As long as the wrinkles on my mother's forehead relax and a hint of happy blush comes, I know that my "daughter" is happy.

The whole family is happy when the "daughter" is happy. But I'm not happy. I am young, so the responsibility of laying out eggs and looking after them naturally falls on my shoulders. So, flower hens laying eggs became my business. I want to squat with it. That egg is more valuable than Li Yong's "golden egg". I want to prevent it from being stolen by the neighbor's lazy dog. The "girl" suppressed her face until it turned red, as if she had applied rouge. My little hands were actually sweaty, but no matter how anxious I was, it was useless. My legs were numb and I didn't dare to stand up easily for fear of startling the flower hen. The mother said that when the "girl" is laying eggs, it is the time when it is most engrossed. If I scare my "girl's" eggs back, I won't be able to eat them and walk away.

I held the eggs that were still warm in my hands and ran to find my mother in a flattering manner. My mother was a collector, and she carefully put the eggs of the flower hen into the jar. Use stones to draw a thin line on the jar. Those irregular lines are tied to our family's oil, salt, soy and vinegar, to my father's frail body, and to my pieces of wheat maltose.

I have never understood why there is an egg in the henhouse at night? I just found that on days when there are egg-catching days, flower hens will lay eggs faster and sing more happily. Later, the "daughter" became a "mother", and there were more and more hens in our house. The whole yard was filled with singing, like an egg-laying singing session. My younger brother also came to our house, I went to school, the eggs went into my schoolbag, and my father became healthy. Good days are like bananas, one in a row, soft and sweet.

Now, I seem to understand: putting an egg in the hen's nest can reduce the fear of laying eggs and gain two joys. And mother, she has also put a lot of temptations into our lives. Everything is looking forward, full of happy waiting, and a beautiful tomorrow is actually only one night away from us.

Egg Flower

My father was brought back by my mother tied with two eggs.

When I was seven years old, my father was implicated in the murder of my cousin and got into trouble. My cousin was arrested three days later, and my father was released. My father suddenly fell seriously ill and became thin and haggard day and night. The doctor said that he needed to take good care of himself.

Since then, there has been a bowl of raw frangipani on the dining table at home. My mother said that no matter how difficult life is in the future, my father’s two eggs cannot be missing. My head nods like a chicken pecking at rice.

Spring, summer, autumn and winter are replicated year after year.

This bowl of raw frangipani has always had a mellow aroma in my nose. No matter how busy she was, my mother would personally prepare frangipani for my father and watch him drink it in one sip. Today, my mother is quite skilled at making frangipani: a thin porcelain bowl, two raw eggs, a ladle of warm water, a spoonful of sugar, and a pair of chopsticks. The egg first kissed the edge of the bowl gently, and then cracked an irregular slit. Then gently hold the big head and small tail of the egg with both hands, pick it up, and lift it up. The clear egg white wraps the yellow yolk and drops into the bowl. Then add a spoonful of sugar and stir continuously with chopsticks in a circle. The chopsticks made a rhythmic "dang-dang-dang" sound when they touched the porcelain bowl. Then pour in hot warm water, and the brilliantly colored egg porridge instantly condenses into yellow petals floating in the bowl. Finally, add two or three drops of sesame oil, and a bowl of raw plumeria soaked in love is ready. The fragrance filled the room, and the warmth of love was reflected in the porcelain bowl.

My mother’s show never ended. I really like watching it. There are always a few old hens to feed at home. As long as I hear the singing of "clack", I will go straight to the chicken coop, where I will definitely find one or two eggs. The eggs just rolled out from under the chicken's butt are warm. Holding them in your hands in winter is like holding the whole spring. Once, I watched helplessly as two eggs that had just emerged from the chicken's butt were smashed into a bowl by my mother. My father drank it all. What fun! At that time, I thought: My father and the hen must have made an appointment, and he hid all the plumeria laid by the hen in his belly. One day, my father will definitely lay more eggs for us. Every time I see my father's bowl of raw egg yolk flowers placed on the table, my throat will rumble, my eyes fixed on the bubbling egg yolk flowers, and I swallow my saliva. It’s not that my father can’t see how greedy I am. Once, while my mother was away, I happily tasted the taste of raw frangipani. Just when I was pouting my mouth, closing my eyes, extending my tongue and pursing my lips, my mother had already come to me. My little head was hit hard by my mother's little finger: "Little greedy cat! Didn't I tell you? Only dad can drink this bowl of plumeria." I was obviously frightened by my mother, and I told her the ban Throw it out of the sky. I lowered my head in embarrassment. My little face must have looked like a monkey’s little butt. The father said: "Don't beat the child, he is young. What's the point if I drink less." "He will drink from now on. You don't care about yourself, I have to take care of you. From now on, you can't drink daddy's frangipani anymore! Do you hear me?" The mother was angry. , the voice was also a little choked. I knew I had made a mistake this time, so I secretly hid in the corner and wiped my tears. When I went to school, there was a chubby guy in my schoolbag. I took it out and saw that it was a hard-boiled egg. I have no idea when my mother put it in.

It was this bowl of raw frangipani that made my father’s face gradually brighten, and the laughter in the family returned to his ears. The father once again shouldered the burden of the family. Now I finally understand my mother’s painstaking efforts. The fragrance of eggs accumulated in my stomach, but my mother suffered from high blood pressure and had never eaten an egg. She regarded eggs as her "enemy". This dear enemy is the most grateful memory for our family.

Kneel down

Now, both mother and father are faltering, with wrinkles on their foreheads. In the season when their dead leaves are flying, my mother still repeats her most classic performance. Every morning, when the smoke is curling up from the kitchen, the bowl of raw plumeria filled with family affection and love will be placed on the dining table on time. I think that as long as my father is here and my mother is here, that bowl of raw frangipani that is warm every day will never get cold.

My mother is sometimes nagging, and money is wasted by her taking medicine. After she finished speaking, she always shook her head habitually and her mouth clicked. Her nagging is only for herself. We are like a gust of wind. With that look, it was obvious that she had brought trouble to the family. Many times, when she felt she was feeling better, she would be smart enough to reduce her dosage. As a result, abnormalities may occur in the body. Either the blood pressure is high or the blood sugar is rising. I criticized her for not listening to the doctor. She lowered her head like a child who had done something wrong. At this time, the mother is the most sad and helpless.

As people get older, they naturally become smaller. Mother is running out of ideas. Life is very simple. She went to the streets to cook for her father, and she was only busy talking about the farm work in the fields. Go to church on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. My mother had been studying for several years, and her little notebook neatly recorded the Christian songs she learned to sing each time. Occasionally, my mother will hum a few words, which is a kind of happiness.

I don’t know when, every time after eating and everything was put away, my mother would move a small bench, kneel respectfully on the bench, bend towards the south of the gate, and kowtow many times. , then straightened his waist, clasped his hands on his chest, lowered his head, and muttered something. Mother's way of kneeling is so natural and her movements are quite skillful. I don’t know what my mother was saying, but I can understand that my mother at that time must have been very pious in her heart, and all the beauty of life was present in her heart. Praying for the future is the biggest thing a mother does every day. My mother must not have been able to find herself at that time.

Mother's kneeling is her pain. An old man does not need to bend to life in his later years. What else can't be done calmly and calmly? But, mother can't. Her kneeling down was a punishment for herself. She felt like she had no power left. For her family, she needs a kind of proof. Perhaps, she thought that only in this way could she express her strength, confirm her existence, and release all her energy.

We are no longer young. But in front of my mother, my mother is always my mother. Our small changes will be infinitely magnified in mother's eyes. Our little injuries are like huge cracks in my mother's heart. Mother seems to have no happiness of her own. When we are happy, mother will laugh.

My mother’s prayers calmed her mind and made her grounded. The mother's kneeling posture is a sculpture. For me, when I feel at peace, I think of my mother. She repeatedly knocks her head to the earth, her bent knees, and her folded hands. Which of these actions is not the most profound love given to us? Mother's kneeling will be an eternal memory. This kind of memory is speechless, heavy, desolate, and far-reaching.