A Bowl of Noodles That Brought Back Memories of Childhood

　　The sun was still hanging on the trees in the west, so my wife started to work in the kitchen. Because I love sweet food, I put sugar and salt in the two tomatoes and two eggs in advance, and they are in the state of tomato sauce after they are out of the pan. The red of the tomato and the yellow of the egg are half-covered and half-revealed inside, showing the shyness of still holding the pipa half-hidden. The leaves of the celery trees given by the neighbor yesterday were pinched with fingers, and the leaves are connected with a small stem. Then blanch it in boiling water, and the original celery leaves lie comfortably on the plate. Taste it, it is a bit tough, but it can be chewed and crunchy. Thinking of sheep eating locust tree leaves or climbing vines, every time I see them, I feel a little greedy, wondering how happy and beautiful they must be when they gnaw and chomp and dye their lips green.
　　The stew is on the table, and I sit at the table. I waited for my wife to wait for the noodles. I thought the noodles were still thin noodles like soft willows and wind. My wife was wearing an apron, and she walked in small steps, “rustling”, and stretched out a hand to put the noodles in front of me. It was indeed a bowl of noodles, not pimple noodles, not knife-shaved noodles, not hand-rolled noodles. It was suspected that the noodles were kneaded by hands. They were rough to different lengths and thicknesses, and then cooked, like big and small loach nests in the bowl.
　　It’s a matter of getting along with each other. The reason of age, the older you are, the closer you are to the fireworks in the world. What my wife does and eats is nothing special, but I like it inexplicably, and I can’t let go of what I like. It has become a habit, and it has become a normal thing of breathing and breathing, but it is about happiness.
　　Seeing this bowl of noodles made me bearable and warm, painful and warm. It actually gave birth to wings, passed through the tunnel of time, flowed backward along the memory, and landed on the textured dining table with mottled paint in the old courtyard, but the white surface turned red. , the wife turned into a mother, and of course my father, brother and sister.
　　That was childhood. The noodles we eat most are noodles, which are a kind of mixture of potato noodles and elm bark noodles, mixed into a paste, poured into a large colander in the mother’s hand, and the firewood is boiled under the colander boiling water. The batter crawled out from under the mother’s shaking colander like an earthworm, and fell into the boiling water ups and downs. When these reddish-brown sticks were hard, the mother fished them out and served them with boiled cabbage or other sloppy vegetables, or even salt water. People sat around together, snoring and snoring for a while. I couldn’t eat it every day, so one day I finally dropped the bowl on the dining table, sighed, and said, “I’ve had enough, I feel like throwing up after eating.”
　　The mother’s eyes were sad, and the father shook his head helplessly. The elder brother and elder sister were well-behaved, holding the bowls and neither eating nor talking. The silence made me very wronged, and I burst into tears. I am so young, I want to eat white dumplings, steamed buns and rice, but why do I always eat broken noodles of this color.
　　What can I do but cry? Tears are like a pond full of water, once a gap is opened, they will rush out. Dad took my hand, took a small cage made of sorghum stalks, and went to catch grasshoppers in the field behind the house. At this time, no matter if I caught them or not, I had long forgotten about eating noodles.
　　Acceptance is a need for the existence of life itself. For example, my mother and father, whether we love it or not, is not up to me since the day we were born. At the beginning, the seeds or roots are hidden, and the reincarnation in the seasons is not for anyone, but once life starts, it cannot stop.
　　This bowl of noodles made by my wife made me unfold the past layer by layer… The
　　childhood time is full of rich colors, buried in the soil of time. I thought that the good times are nothing more than this: on a light rainy morning, listening to the simple birdsong and tapping on the small window; The appearance of dyeing the reeds crimson… Now I finally understand that none of those are. The most beautiful thing is that you are here with peace of mind, and I love with peace of mind. We, because of each other, can love ourselves with peace of mind every moment…