A boiled casserole

The true love of the cuisine is that mother leaves the tenderest point of the leaf when she picks it up, and the last time she washes it, she rubs it like a dress. The oil is hot, the garlic petals are shredded, the ginger slices and the peppers are fragrance, and the proper amount of water is poured into the water; the rinse is evenly covered with a half-minute cap and the salt is put in the pot. So, the sauerkraut, or rather, saline. With a pair of chopsticks and a few drops of soy sauce on a hot meal, I swallowed a bowl of rice for the first time, probably the fastest meal I remember, and finished it in a few minutes, with the word "weak". It's like a peach blossom, the smell of garlic mixed with the smell of raisins, just smelling, and then getting drunk. What's more important is that a bowl of food is red and beautiful! It's the smell of fragrance, the smell of stench that's been spreading into my dreams and making me sleep so sweet. And I miss it all my life, because everything about veggies is so close to mother and so close to mother's love; it's a little tenderness; it's warm, it's a wonderful smell -- mother's smell! Mothers made their own foods in the past, and they made curds, which is the smell of my most precious love; it's called home