Flowers, bean bread

Hana was raised by my father's house as a child. When my dad had to work at his house at noon, one or two bowls of food with bad eyes were always salty or tasteless, and when I left school at noon, I used to pick up a few straws (when I grew up and my parents were out of school and cooking their own stoves) and when I went to school in the afternoon, my family always took some molecular money out of the inside of a poacher's bag and gave me a cent and a cent to buy bread. That's my favorite snack ever to be my most memorable pastry, with four or five blades cut around a circle, and in my eyes it's a flower, because it's covered in red bean sand and I call it a bean-bread. They're in the counter at the sales counter. I can only look through the glass. And the sales agency is the way I have to go to school. What a joy it was at the beginning of the 1980s to smell sweet red bean sand in the smell of bread fermented. Even after all these years, my family always told others that my granddaughter and her poor girl were always poor enough to make me pickles. I didn't know I grew up in a honey can when I had my father's family shelter. It's been over 20 years since we've seen each other like yesterday