Cream eggs and pie

I now know more about being a mother because of the taste, and because it contains strong affection and love. My mom doesn't eat meat and doesn't like meat, even the pies of buns and pies are pretentious, and she's the pretzel of eggs and shrimps, and she's called it three fresh, so I've loved it since I was a kid, and my mom's pies are too thin and soft to eat. Mom's been sick for years, but I've learned to cook. Then I got married and I ate this pie made by my mother-in-law, which tasted so much less, and then fell in second place, and the key was that it was thick and hard, and it seemed to me that it was a little bit of a “baby-skin” and that the mother-in-law's food was generally out of reach, the most striking features being hard, rice and rice, buns and cakes. One time, when Pao wasn't home, she gave me ten pies for eggs with her children, and I sincerely thanked her for caring about me and feeling warm, but once she ate the pie felt thick and hard like a tire, which was really bad, and then threw all the skins away, sneaking around, and didn't tell anyone. A little early after work yesterday, his father went to Xinjiang and said he would be back before dinner, and I used his grandmother's house to live with him, to clean up the herbs, to fire four eggs, to put on a bagel, to fix two pancakes, eight, plus the greasy rice, and to cook two dishes. When the child's father went out in cold, he got sick and went to the door looking for medicine, saying I had to kill eight pies on my own, and I couldn't help it. It's not the first time I've thought about it. It's been hard to stop, six times, seven times, eight times。