Russian fruit

My home is in the Pineflower River, and how I envy the Russians on the central street, wearing mink collars, long barrel boots, and a hot Russian giant. When I was six years old, my mother took me to buy a bread, which was eight cents a day, black face, and the waiter was wrong about both of hers, and she went back, and I was angry with her on the way home, and I saw the bread like a tiger puff, and I didn't care about virtue, trust, and I was just a six-year-old. My mother's innocence, kindness and sincerity have benefited me throughout my life, and I have reached the age of retirement, and I will continue to pass on the beauty of that trust to my daughter for generations to come. Forty years later, I'll make Russian bread with my own hands, and that's what I wanted when I was a kid. Russian bread is fermented through beer, baked in ovens, and is supplied daily in long queues on Central Street, until it is sold. My old face fermented after three days and baked bread with a little bit of sour smell, which, despite the day, was quite satisfying。