物微有深意，情浓唯自知

一碗无足轻重的馄饨，曾经的老味道，吃到嘴里，变成留恋，落在笔端，变成回忆，只是因为强烈的感情。

顺着青瓦房，白泥墙，顺着桑葚和太阳，榆树和柳树的线条，顺着记忆中的芬芳，每一幅画面都像幻灯片一样，慢慢展现在眼前:有一股晨风吹在脸上。来，傍晚有一只黑鸟落在树上，还有几碗馄饨，映着奶奶的笑容，映着我稚嫩的脸庞。

小时候，我寄居在外婆家。在我无忧无虑的童年，即使在寒冷的日子里，我也会大汗淋漓。晚上开门的时候，奶奶的眼睛笑成了月牙。她用像天上白云一样慈爱的眼神，用温暖的手擦去我脸上的汗水。然后她走进厨房，不一会儿就端上了一个碗。热气腾腾的馄饨，白色的香气四溢。我愉快地坐在餐桌旁大吃大喝，常常一口汤也没剩。

大一点的时候，我回城里上小学。放学后，我常常饿着肚子匆匆赶回家，看着静静矗立的建筑，穿着闪闪发光的衣服。心里流淌的是奶奶的笑容和热气腾腾的馄饨。

初中学业越来越重，只有假期才能回去短暂呆两天。那天，我终于回到了外婆家。奶奶慢慢地走出来，看到我，她乌黑的眼睛里突然闪出明亮清澈的光，像黑色窗帘上的明亮水晶，我看到她的头上好像盖了一层雪。

简单说了几句后，外婆执意要给我做馄饨。我无法抗拒那个老人。从剁肉到擀皮，每一道工序都是她一个人完成的。厨房里的小身影在烟雾缭绕的火炉前忙碌着。她一手拿着薄如蝉翼的皮，一手舀着鲜红的馅。当她把它塞住，捏紧，翻过来，抬起手腕，放下来的时候，案板上出现了一个又肥又白的馄饨。就像行云流水一样容易。看着看着，我的眼泪很容易就被拉了出来，小时候的画面突然活了过来，仿佛时间从来没有走远...

馄饨端上来，黄姜、白蒜、大葱、乳白色的汤，一个个胖乎乎的馄饨上下浮动，咬一口，熟悉的味道在味蕾上绽放。无数次点了一碗上下学路上偶尔路过的馄饨店，却找不到那种熟悉的味道。

现在，我突然明白，在这碗普普通通的馄饨里，是奶奶不可分割的爱。这份爱，吃不到的时候担心，吃到了就疼。

小事有深意，深感只有自知之明。

A bowl of insignificant wontons, once the old taste, eat into the mouth, become nostalgia, fall on the pen, become a memory, just because of strong feelings.

  Follow the blue tile house, the white mud wall, follow the mulberry and the sun, the elms and willows line, follow the fragrance in the memory, each picture is like a slideshow, slowly showing in the eyes: there is a morning breeze blowing on the face. Come, there is a black bird falling on the tree in the evening, and there are bowls of wontons, reflecting my grandmother's smile and my immature face.

  When I was a child, I was sojourned at my grandmother's house. During my carefree childhood, even on a cold day, I would sweat profusely. When I opened the door in the evening, my grandmother's eyes turned into crescents with a smile. She used her loving eyes like the white clouds in the sky, and wiped the sweat from my face with her warm hands. Then she walked into the kitchen and brought a bowl in a short while. The steaming ravioli, the white aroma wafts. I sat happily at the dining table and feasted, often without a sip of soup left.

  When I was a little older, I went back to the city to go to elementary school. Often, I hurried home hungry after school, looking at the building standing quietly, dressed in a gleaming glow. What flows in my heart is the smile of my grandmother and the steaming wontons.

  Junior high school studies are getting more and more heavy, and only during the holidays can I go back for a short stay for two days. That day, I finally returned to my grandmother's house. Grandma walked out slowly and saw me, her dark eyes suddenly showed a bright and clear light, like bright crystals on a black curtain, and I saw that her head seemed to be covered with snow.

  After a few simple words, my grandmother insisted on making wontons for me. I couldn’t resist the old man. From chopping the meat to rolling the skin, she completed every process by herself. The small figure in the kitchen was busy in front of the smoke-filled stove. She held the skin as thin as a cicada's wings in one hand, and scooped the bright red stuffing in the other hand. When she stuffed it, pinched it, turned it over, lifted her wrist, and dropped it, there was a fat white wonton on the chopping board. It's as easy as running clouds and flowing water. Looking at it, my tears were easily pulled out, and the pictures from my childhood suddenly came alive, as if time had never gone far...

  When the wontons are served, yellow ginger, white garlic, green onions, and milky white soup, one by one, the chubby wontons float up and down, take a bite, and the familiar taste blooms on the taste buds. I have ordered a bowl of wonton shops that I occasionally pass by on my way to and from school countless times, but I can't find that familiar taste.

  Now, I suddenly understand that in this ordinary bowl of wontons, it is my grandmother's inseparable love. This love, when you can't eat it, worry about it, and when you eat it, it hurts.

  Small things have deep meanings, and deep feelings are only self-knowledge.