There is a flavor called Wheat flavor

  It was early summer again, and I stood on the ridge of the field and looked into the distance. The snow-capped mountains receded into the distance, and white clouds hurried across the sky. The once verdant wheat fields seemed to be covered with gold overnight. A gust of wind came, rustling, golden waves of wheat undulating, rushing towards me. The fields are filled with the scorching heat of the sun, the smell of soil, and a smell that belongs to my hometown-the smell of wheat that I have not seen for a long time.
  When I was young, every summer harvest season, the wheat that was ripened by the cuckoo’s call was golden in color, and the day of the sickle was just around the corner. My father was sitting on a low stool, sharpening the crescent-like sickle to a sharp silver light, and my mother was still busy at the stove, preparing meals for harvesting wheat, baking bean cakes, boiled eggs, picking pickles, and boiling mung beans Soup, put it into an enamel basin, and put it in a water tank to chill in advance.
  In the early morning, when the sky was twilight, my parents woke me up, who was still wandering in my sleep, and I got into the rickety carriage, and together with the farm workers, I rushed to the agricultural team to harvest wheat.
  The endless wheat fields, under the reflection of the morning glow, are shining with the color of bronze, the waves of wheat are surging in the wind, and the fragrance of wheat is wafting. I imitated my father by pinching a handful of ears of wheat and putting them in my palms, rubbing them gently with both hands, then gently blowing off the husks, and putting the grains of wheat in my mouth to chew. Moisten to the heart.
  The sickle waved at the root of the wheat, and there was a happy sound of swishing in the wheat clumps. The fallen wheat never knew how to cry out in pain. The bundled wheat sheaves stand in the field again, neatly lined up, extending from the ground to the distance.
  Harvesting wheat is a hard job. It was the first time I did this farm work, and I was still a bit novel. I followed my parents, holding a small sickle specially customized by my father, and bowed my head to cut the wheat. Unexpectedly, after cutting for more than an hour, the sun above my head lost its previous warmth, like a blazing flame, surrounding and baking my whole body, my eyes were narrowed with sweat, and the wheat awns rubbed against my face. It stings hotly. When I managed to mow the ground, I was sweating profusely and out of breath, so I lay on my back in the shade of the trees by the edge of the field.
  My father tied a bundle of wheat, walked over with a sickle in his hand, and watched me silently. The mother glanced at the father and said, he is only a little over ten years old, he is still a child! She poured out a bowl of cold mung bean soup from the thermos, added some sugar, and handed it to me. I sat up, gulped down my drink, my waist was sore and my legs hurt, I was too tired to say a word, and I lay down on my back again.
  After a while, my father came to urge me to get up and work again. I muttered and followed behind him. He turned around and saw me with the sickle on my waist, and scolded me for taking it off, otherwise I would cut my waist. I said angrily, didn’t you say that children don’t have waists, and they still suffer from back pain while working?
  Holding the sickle, I walked down the ridge, looked at the boundless wheat fields, and thought to myself, this work is really not done by humans. Gritting my teeth bitterly, I plunged headfirst into the wheat field and was submerged in a row of wheat clumps. The wheat fell down one after another in front of me, and then tied into sheaves and stood upright in the field, waiting for the bundles to be put on the carriage.
  In the evening, the setting sun slowly descended the horizon like an old cow. With the last of my strength I climbed into the wagon full of sheaves, and slept all the way home. I didn’t bother to eat dinner, so I fell asleep on the bed. I dreamed of the fat white steamed buns steamed from new wheat, each exuding a tempting aroma of wheat. I reached out and grabbed one, but I couldn’t eat it anyway. mouth.
  The harvested wheat will be threshed, raised in the field, dried in the sun by the farm, and then returned to the warehouse. Those are all technical jobs, so naturally we children have nothing to do. I took my younger sister and a group of children with cloth bags into the stubble field after harvesting. The sun shone dazzlingly white. When we were picking ears of wheat in the field, when we saw a handful of ears of wheat, we cheered and ran over, like little birds bouncing around.
  The sky was getting dark little by little, and we dragged our tired body and bags full of wheat ears home. My father pounded the wheat ears with a Populus euphratica mortar to get out the grains, and then turned the hand-cranked stone mill to grind out thick wheat. pulp. My mother is from northern Jiangsu, and she is an expert at making pancakes. She spreads thin new wheat pancakes on the griddle three times, and a fresh smell of wheat comes out. Spicy, crispy and chewy, it is a joy to eat.
  The farm later introduced Combine, and the wheat began to be harvested mechanized. The sickle in my house was also quietly hanging on the wall, lost its usefulness, and was covered with rust in boredom. After the autumn harvest, those behemoths also had nothing to do, waiting in the machine farming team for maintenance. There is a temporary grain storage warehouse in Combine, and it is too late to clean up the wheat after harvesting, so some wheat will remain to some extent.
  On a cloudy, dark and windy night, while my father was working overtime at the power station to repair equipment and my mother was on duty in the infirmary, I stepped a little better during the day, and at night I carried a cloth bag and a broom and walked around the team He sneaked into Combine’s granary, gathered the wheat together with a broom, put it in his pocket and carried it home. After a successful crime, I became more and more courageous. I went home and unloaded the wheat, and then quietly returned to get into the Combine. After a while, most of my sacks were filled with wheat. I was not greedy enough, so I swept a small pile of wheat again. There was a burst of dust, and I couldn’t help coughing a few times. A flashlight came in directly. There was nowhere to hide in the small space in the warehouse, so I had to crawl out.
  The man who was on duty to take care of the machinery grabbed my ears and pulled me over. Only then did I realize that the bright moon was in the sky, and the dark clouds had long since dispersed. The man shone the flashlight on my face again, and I quickly covered it with my hands. Seeing that I looked like a monkey all over my body, he couldn’t help laughing. Isn’t this Master Yang’s son? You boy is not small in courage! I recognized the man as my father’s friend, and I was so frightened that I begged for mercy. The man waved his hand and told me to go home with the booty, and warned me to catch it next time and break my dog ​​legs.
  After a few days, my mother suddenly found that there was more wheat in the house, and she was wondering. Holding a whip in his hand, my father angrily dragged me into the yard like a chick. He whipped me a few times on my buttocks and drew a circle on the ground. I stood in the circle and basked in the sun for an hour. The scorching sun made my head greasy and sweaty, and a whole layer of skin peeled off. My father hung the whip on my bed again as a warning.
  I knew it must have been my father’s friend who tipped him off, but luckily he didn’t tell the farm about it afterwards. One day that person came to my house to chat, eat and drink again. I secretly put a spoonful of salt in his milk tea bowl, and then rushed out without a trace.
  At that time, the farm implemented a supply system, and most of the grain and oil were self-produced and sold. We could still eat delicious white flour steamed buns and pancakes, and the home was often filled with the warm and familiar smell of wheat.
  In the late 1970s, after I moved to Wusu City with my parents, the monthly grain and oil supply was rationed according to the number of people in the family, gender structure, and age. Eighty, meat and cloth are also provided by ticket. Although life is also very difficult, the days are barely passable.
  My parents were hospitable and hospitable, the family came and went, fine grains and meat were used to entertain guests, and we could only eat coarse grains. My parents tried their best to change the tricks, making steamed buns, steaming cakes, making dough, pancakes, spreading pancakes, making batter, and pressing noodles, but until now, when I see such corn pasta, my stomach is full of sour water. Occasionally, my father would use flour mixed with thick and fine flour to make a meal of egg soup noodles, even if it improved the food. As for those snow-white steamed buns, I can only hope to eat them in my dreams.

  In order to subsidize the life of the family, the mother takes care of the children and sees the doctor. Some family members of the patients will send some eggs, soybeans, etc. to express their gratitude. I remember one time, my father’s friend sent half a bag of old West Lake rice. This was the first time I saw rice. When I opened the bag of rice, I grabbed a handful in my hand. The precious pearls and jade slipped and scattered in the palm of his hand, making a pleasant rustling sound.
  At night, my mother stewed the rice in an iron pot. The aroma was overflowing, moist and delicious, and there was a magical red line on the rice grains. Before the food was on the table, I pulled a large bowl into my belly. Later, I was transferred to West Lake to work, and after many inquiries, I found out that this kind of soil rice is commonly known as long mango rice or red thread rice by local people. Translucent, oily in color, rich in rice aroma, sweet and glutinous in taste, it is cooked by a family in the village. This kind of rice is suitable for fields with fertile soil and sufficient water, but the yield is low and the requirements for field management are high. Later, the planting area gradually shrank. Today this rice variety has long since ceased to exist.
  At the beginning, there were more than a dozen water mills in the area of ​​Shuimogou in the north of Wusu City. At that time, there were only a few left, which were later acquired by the County Grain Bureau and used for flour processing. During the day, my father went to relatives in the village to buy several sacks of wheat privately. At night, he pushed a broken bicycle and took me to exchange flour.
  The entire mill is a wooden house built on the stream. The turbulent water drives the huge wooden water wheel, which drives the millstone to rotate rapidly, and the grain leaked from the tapered wooden square bucket falls into the mill eye accurately. In the wooden trough next to the millstone, wheat flour falls continuously, and after repeated grinding and sieving, it becomes white flour like snow. The smell of wheat and the choking smell of dust filled the mill. In the dim light, the noodle grinders turned into snowmen shaking back and forth. The rumbling sound of the stone mill, the rushing sound of running water, the clanging sound of the sieve, these noisy sounds were mixed together, and the two of them could not hear their voices when they were facing each other.
  At that time, the flour processed by state-owned mills could only be supplied to grain stores, and it was not allowed to be exchanged for flour processed by private individuals. Father gestured to a familiar master, pulled him outside the mill, and handed him two packs of cigarettes. I know my father is very frugal, and he only smokes cheap Mohe cigarettes on weekdays. The man smiled and gave way before stuffing it into his pocket. He asked his father to unload the wheat, weigh it and pour it into an open sack, and weighed out two sacks of flour for us. It was already midnight when my father and I got home. I was excited for a long time before I fell asleep, and dreamed of the snow-white steamed buns, filled with the fragrant wheat fragrance. When I woke up, the clear saliva drenched a large area of ​​the pillow.
  Many years later, the era of lack of clothing and food is gone forever. Every year during the summer harvest, I would go back to my hometown, walk into the wheat field, bend down, and the waves of wheat coming from a distance would hug me, and I would hold a handful of wheat with my hands. The golden-colored grains of wheat stood on my shoulders. Gently shaking in my palm, I greedily suck the fresh, sweet aroma of wheat. This is a familiar taste of my hometown, an indelible thought, which often brings me back to my distant teenage years, those hard days, those painful memories, and those years worth remembering and remembering for a lifetime.
  A grain of wheat is a drop of sweat, a seed is a hope. A grain of wheat reincarnates in the four seasons of its own life, germination, turning green, tillering, filling, and maturity; a seed can become a handful, a pile, and a warehouse after going through wind, frost, rain and snow, and become the gift of life for us. Food, the food that feeds us.
  Everything in the world and the weight of a human heart can be weighed by a grain of wheat or a grain of rice. Respecting and cherishing food is actually admiration and respect for life. I hope that people who have enough food and clothing today can be more grateful for food, cherish food more, and have more respect for food.