The deep love of a bowl of congee

Full Score College Entrance Examination Essay on Mother's Love: The Deep Love of a Bowl of Porridge

Our family loves porridge, especially me.

Congee is uninterrupted throughout the year. In spring, we drink egg and leek flower porridge, in summer there are mung bean porridge and lotus seed porridge, in fall, we cook pumpkin porridge and mushroom porridge, and in winter, we tend to boil bone porridge and radish choux. I love to drink porridge, has reached the point of obsession, if you can not see the shadow of the porridge for a few days, the heart will be frustrated, eat what feel no taste.

In my mother's skillful hands, our simple and ordinary life is sweet porridge moistened with flavor. Even if it's just white porridge with a few pickled beans in the middle, I'll be happy to drink it. Mom always do porridge new tricks, a pot of new products out of the world, will often be my brother and I "mad rush", dense light, mom looked at us with an arched eyebrow porridge sucked "squeaky" sound, the scene, very warm, very beautiful. Even after many years of machine, I can still really remember the warmth in my mom's eyes, as well as the porridge down to the stomach, the lips and teeth of the feeling.

Mom used to not boil porridge. According to her, when she was still at her grandmother's house, she almost never touched the water. I used a spoon to gently stir the steaming porridge in front of me, porcelain spoon and porcelain bowl collision issued a crisp and pleasant sound, my heart is full of moving.

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Imagine when I was a child, my mother frowned at me pouting and refused to eat, and finally could only shake her head, while carefully comparing the recipe, and while scrambling to cope with the pots and pans scene, I scooped up a small spoonful of porridge, gently blowing, and the milky white agar ripples of happiness. Mom must have used all her love to make such thick, cottony congee! During the process of boiling the porridge, she must have looked at the porridge pot with her affectionate eyes and kept the corners of her mouth in an upward curve. Smooth, sticky, fragrant porridge dancing on the tip of the tongue, mom in front of the eyes smiling, everything is beautiful and just right.

I also tried to cook my own porridge. It was a winter, mom had a stomachache, pale face lying in bed, not thinking. I was so distressed that I went into the kitchen and prepared to make a bowl of porridge for my mom. Panning rice, minced lean meat, radish shredded, ginger flattened, and then prepared a handful of green onions. Although my mom's usual porridge steps can be recalled, but the first time to cook my hands are still messy. It was so cold and my fingertips were so sore that I could barely hold the knife. I stared blankly at the big radish and didn't know how to start, and I almost cut my hand when I sliced the ginger. After a desperate effort of recollection and subjective imagination, I was finally ready to start the porridge! I breathed a sigh of relief and lit the fire, only to realize that a thin layer of sweat had seeped from the tip of my nose. I couldn't help but sigh: it's not easy to make fire on earth! Mom, however, with a heart close to pity to guard the fireworks of this etheric sky, guarded for more than ten years!" "Mom is a beauty, age please don't hurt her!" Thinking of these words, I can not help but wet the corners of my eyes, because I know that no one can stop the footsteps of the years.

The porridge in the pot finally waltzed merrily, and I carefully scooped out a bowl, arched my eyebrows like my mom, full of pity like her.

Countless times in the midnight dream, the dream is the white porcelain bowl of hot porridge warm sweet taste, and that busy figure --

Mom, she with a bowl of porridge deep love, carefully placed our time.