Wandering through the mountain villages in southern Anhui, Cuizhu flicked the tiles on the wall of Ma Tau, and the ginkgo leaves in the trough last fall escaped the entire winter, safely forgetting the season. There are plump birdsongs hanging in the leaves of Wu Tiao, full of ambition and unrestrained. The lazy flower cat curled up in the mottled sunlight, sleeping soundly on the woodpile, a pair of indifferent people who didn’t care about personnel, let the wicker beard of the loofah climb up the beard, and the yellow flower bloomed under the nose.
The firewood stack under the lazy cat was originally a wild child who grew up on the mountain. It was picked up by the man in the village and trimmed with unruly willfulness, except for the impetuous branches. According to the family law, the wildness was cut off . After a period of practice, Chai Salary became quiet and became part of this family. The image of the clover and forsythia climbing over the fence spread densely where the hatchet walked. The thicker firewood, a face-to-face saw saw, bursting into the ripples of the years. It was a smoke ring, it was Chai Xinnian’s poetry and distance.
“Chaimen’s silent rice cakes and the fireworks in the mountains are sunny and sunny.” The idyllic paintings of rice and fragrant rice in the silent mountain village depicted by the five generations of poets and monks in the late Tang Dynasty have been cooking smoke for thousands of years, as if it were the true portrayal of this village. Bai Juyi invited friends to drink at home in the wind and snow in the evening, and talked about the heartfelt love and poems. “Red clay small stove” I don’t know how much the face and soul of the literati samurai. The life of the common people is nothing more than “seven things to open the door, chai rice, oil, salt, sauce and vinegar tea”. In the first place, the firewood used for cooking and cooking, that is, grass, also known as salary.
Before coal and liquefied gas were used, city people also needed firewood to cook raw rice. Today, there are still many villages in remote mountainous areas that use firewood to light the cooking smoke in their memories, attracting guests from far away. In the village, every household, behind and in front of the house, piles of neat stacks of firewood, like a low wall blocking the spring breeze and sunlight. It looks like a fence of petunias, see Nanshan, you can pick chrysanthemum.
Fire is the word, smoke is the poem, firework is the day. Women day by day yards of firewood into the courtyard wall, a little bit to the kitchen to light up the day, men day by day to make up fresh. Chai Duo, like a soothing musical notation, slowly swayed the song of the country, never ending. The best firewood is closely related to the texture of the wood, oak oak and mountain cherry wood, but now this kind of wood is rare. In fact, all the trees and shrubs can become fuel for three meals a day, and even the pruned tea leaves are also a good choice. Chai Xin followed the rhythm of the spatula in the hands of the woman in the pot stove, and with the cries of the child coughing, Beep was born again. Chai Xin turned into the flame of the festival, burst into a hot spark, warmed up the cold iron, and then returned to the woods, waiting for the spring of next year. Cooking smoke is a ritual after trees complete a reincarnation. The smoke is a standing tree, endless.
What I was thinking about was nothing more than the firewood and the smoke in the mountain village.