just for a moment, I burst into tears. Or see the kind aunt cooking, or the familiar soft local accent, or simply the sound of bowls and chopsticks colliding.

because the sound of bowls and chopsticks colliding is the taste of home.

Picking vegetables, washing vegetables, making a fire and cooking are all the responsibilities of my mother. Every unusual day, my mother is busy, running before and after, busy outside.

She is the brew of delicious food, and also bears the bitter burden.

Usually she is alone, busy all morning, cooking sweet and delicious food, waiting for dad to come back from the field and us naughty children to play.

plumes of smoke are floating in the chimney, which are shaken from side to side by the wind; The pot is steaming hot, and the kitchen is overflowing with rich fragrance; The child lay eagerly by the stove, with a growl in his stomach.

If there is meat in that pot, we are even more greedy. On holidays, we simply don't go out to play, and we have been waiting by the stove since morning.

"We can't turn on the stove yet, we have to wait for Dad to come back".

finally, my mother looked at us greedy drooling children and shook her head helplessly. Take a small piece of meat from the pot to satisfy our hunger and secretly open a small stove.

we make our mouths shiny to show the delicious food. In fact, our careful mother knows that we want to eat another piece.

before noon, the sun has not completely warmed the earth, and the dew has not completely subsided, we children are scrambling to go to the fields and ask dad to go home for dinner, and we have worked tirelessly.

at this time, mom asked us to do some housework, and we were all very happy. Sweep the floor, clean the house, take out the garbage, and drive the lambs to eat grass ...

Looking forward to the stars and the moon, it's finally noon, and it's time to boil. We washed our little hands in advance and sat at the table with a pious face and full of expectations.

As soon as the lid was lifted, a sweet meal came into our nose, like a soft feather, tickling our hearts.

Mom began to scoop rice. At this time, the sound of the spoon rubbing against the pot, the sound of the bowl colliding with the stove, and the sound of the spoon colliding with the bowl came in an endless stream, like a beautiful country folk music.

And this music is different for every household, with different tastes and melodies, and each family has its own unique tune. Some are tactful, some are passionate, and some are dull.

After the meal was served, it was a crackling action movie. We wolfed down the success of our mother's work all morning and enjoyed the delicious food heartily.

Chopsticks keep bumping against the bowl, making a crisp sound, one after another. Sometimes the teeth will knock on the edge of the bowl, and there will be a bang, and everyone will laugh.

Sometimes, two people will reach for the same piece of meat at the same time. You stare at me, and I stare at you. No one will give up, only look at this piece, and there is nothing else in their eyes.

the end result is that in the mutual tearing between the two people, the proud meat rolled straight to the ground in a rage, and none of us ate it.

There are many people, and everyone has different tastes. Some people like to add cloves of garlic, some people like to add Chili sauce, some people like to eat root onions, and some people like to add parsley. As for me, I like to eat the spinal cord in my spine best.

people say that different families have different tastes for the same food. And I think, maybe they will have the same taste, that is, the taste of love.

how many times, a person was eating cold fast food in a foreign land, and suddenly he was homesick. I think of the happy scene of the family at the dinner table, the meat that is in dispute, the sound of the collision of bowls and chopsticks, and the food cooked by my mother.

when I was a child, many times, when my parents called me home for dinner, my friends and I lingered, holding hands and looking at each other with tears in our eyes. I was reluctant to go home, and I urged my parents to go back to eat first. I will go back later.

Now, I wish I could hear my parents' impatient urging: Ruguo, hurry home for dinner! If you don't eat, we'll get rid of it, and you'll be hungry.

but there is no more, no one around to be caring and attentive, and no one cares whether I eat on time. Probably growing up means drifting away from the people who love me.

When I was young, at home, no matter what we were busy with, as long as we heard the collision of bowls and chopsticks, we would think of the taste of food.

Now that we have grown up, wherever we go, we will think of the smell of home as long as we hear the collision of bowls and chopsticks.