Steam dumplings

I'll go around half the cities and buy Napoleon, and I'll go down the alley and smell the scent, and I'll go down to the alley, and I'll pick up a bowl of roasted meat, and I'll be in a row for hours just to eat a couple of strings, and even the kettle helmets, which are in my heart, are similar in age and family. I've never eaten anything, either on a street stand or on a high level, and I've been eating all these dumplings, and only my dad does it, and it's a song in my heart. My father was a true northerner, with a stubborn insistence on dumplings. To eat dumplings is to bring good harvests, to eat dumplings in the winter, or they will freeze their ears, and to eat dumplings for the spring because they are round and round. My dad used to say, "I don't know. I mean, my dad used to say, "I don't know. When the skin is squeezed, boiled in the water, and put on the table, Dad always picks up the first dumpling in my bowl and says, "Eat, eat the dumplings, think of the house." I'm telling you, eat my dumplings, go out and think about me. It used to sound so grumpy, I thought Dad was too hot, and the older he was, the more he was. But then they left their homes, went to school and worked, and countless homesick days became, naturally, a flash of light in a bowl of dumplings. And that's why I'm so determined to eat dumplings today, even though I don't know where to get some pickles at night, so I've got three or four celery, and a small section, and I don't have a taste. When I was thinking about a lot of old things, about myself in winter nights, and my dad riding with me, I said that I was not cold in the back, that I was always sitting in front of you, and that I would never say anything like this when I saw him on TV; that I had been away from work for a while and my dad had been sending me songs to sing about my parents, like he'd text me who was good and you'd listen and think about my family; that when Dad was sick, his friends came to see me, and my dad comforted her with her loss of love, and when he left, he said that your father was very good at guiding people, and if I understood that, I wouldn't be like that; that my father would say, when he left his parents, he didn't want his son to be real, and his son wasn't real; and that every time he came home, he didn't have a few people to eat, he must have a big table full of food for me, and that was the midday without rice, and Twiss would certainly be happy. It's been too busy for a while to come home, and my dad says, "Look at the orchid I planted the last time you left, it's been so many years and 30 nights now that our family will look at spring and night and wrap their dumplings at zero o'clock, and the dumpling soup will roll out, and it will float like a full-blown moontooth, like I didn't think I'd make such a big noise in front of the table today, and suddenly it's felt sacred to me. Perhaps this is the case of intimacy. Unreserved trust and dependence are both plain truths and the precious value of giving up. Today, the shape of dumplings is no longer just like the moon, but they still carry a reunification and a desire to eat。