The story of a bowl of porridge

The story of a bowl of porridge 1 He can cook porridge and sweet mung bean porridge.

She can't cook porridge. Every time she cooks porridge, it is either dry or burnt. She has a bad stomach and easily gets angry. Drinking mung bean porridge often can warm her stomach and reduce fire. When she knew he could cook porridge, she couldn't help liking him.

When he was in love, he fed her porridge bite by bite. She thinks the porridge he cooked is smooth and delicious, and it also contains deep affection. She felt that there was no more delicious food in the world than the porridge he cooked.

Later, they got married. She is just an insurance salesman, and her income is not stable. He is just a middle school teacher with a fixed salary every month. On the first day of every month, he will give her all his salary, and she will give him some money as pocket money. She knows that he really loves her. Every day when she comes home, he will cook the rice and sometimes cook her favorite mung bean porridge. Although they don't earn much money, they live a sweet life.

Her work has not been smooth, sometimes she can't get an insurance for several months, only a few times she will pick up one or two clients and receive a meager commission, which makes her happy for a long time. He also did not forget to send her a bowl of mung bean porridge, plus a thoughtful sentence: "You are not well, don't be too tired!" "

It was not until she met Zi Quan that her luck changed. Zi Quan is the general manager of a listed company. She rummaged through the yellow pages before finding Ziquan's phone number. She called again and again. Finally, he promised to know about the insurance products she promoted and meet at the coffee shop. Zi Quan's extraordinary speech left a deep impression on her, and her beauty remained in Zi Quan's mind like a beautiful painting. Zi Quan agreed to buy insurance for her, but only if she accompanied him to a business reception in the evening.

The story of a bowl of porridge was cold for two days, and it was winter in a blink of an eye.

It's not clear outside, the moon is still hanging in the gray sky, and the wind is flying into my arms from my collar. I tried my best to tidy up my clothes, but I couldn't help but speed up and go downstairs to pave the way.

The couple have been selling porridge downstairs for some time, and their simple stalls and warm smiles have attracted many customers. Although the weather is not cold, people who can buy porridge are still as usual, and customers are eating their favorite porridge. From time to time, passers-by pass by, look around, stop and join the ranks of eating porridge.

Porridge, very soft, is mixed with different porridge materials, each with its own taste, and it is still steaming when it is filled. Although it is not a gluttonous food, it gives me warmth, brings me a little sweetness and warmth in the cold winter, and makes me feel at home and very comfortable. Guests, either meditating, sighing or being happy ... are not disturbed or disturbed by others. Quietly, eating my beloved porridge, tasting the taste of porridge and tasting my own mood. From time to time, there is the collision of porridge spoons and porridge pots, the boiling sound of water, and the noisy hawking in the street.

I looked up and caught a glimpse of the old man in rags waiting in a corner of the booth. I often come, and he is always there. I don't care on weekdays. Today, my eyes stayed on him for a while, watching him carefully, and his fragile and messy hair was scattered in black and white on his forehead. Under the tattered clothes is a shriveled and wrinkled face, with dark brown skin like mud, two eyes without any luster, a nose covered with age spots, and a dark red lip that has cracked, revealing sparse teeth. The gray beard is scattered on the chin, like the old man in the oil painting "Father". What I see from his eyes is that life is full of sadness and helplessness. He may feel the burning pain in my eyes. Two godless old eyes looked at me half-opened and half-closed, and their mouths trembled slightly, but they didn't speak. He immediately withdrew his eyes and looked around from time to time: he didn't look for anything, nor did he look at the scenery, as if he were avoiding my sharp eyes. There is a little more inferiority and hesitation in his turbid eyes. He arched himself, huddled in the corner and buried his head deeply between his elbows. I am deeply sorry for his fear and anxiety.

The couple may have felt the embarrassment of the old man, and while busy with their work, they smiled and said politely to him, "Old man, please wait a moment, I'll get it for you." "hey." The old man stood up with difficulty, answered and staggered to the couple. The middle-aged man quickly filled the porridge and handed it to the old man. He also told him, "Go slowly, let me know if you need anything, and we will try our best to help." The old man took the porridge bowl, wiped the tears from his eyes and thanked him. Turn around and leave silently. It seems that he has never paid the money.

I was curious to ask. The middle-aged woman sighed and said, "Old people are unlucky, too. They bring up their children, but there is no one to rely on when they are old ... We are also parents. As long as the old man comes, he can't help more. A bowl of porridge is always given to him. " At some point, the woman's face showed a trace of guilt, as if she was ashamed that she could only provide a bowl of porridge. She turned around and continued to be busy. Boil water and porridge. Boil water and porridge.

I noticed that this couple always treat the old people like old customers. Charity is something that many people can do, but not everyone can do it equally.

Later, several stalls selling porridge were opened downstairs, but I always went to that one. Why not? I just like to sit there quietly, in the noisy crowd, watching the couple hand out their kindness and sincerity with rough hands, and give them to an old man who is weaker than them, just like an artist, looking at his sculptures, like a photographer, looking at the scenery in front of him, like a husband, looking at his beautiful wife. The taste in my heart, like newly fermented rice wine, contains various smells.

I have already drunk half of the porridge in my hand and tasted it again. I think this porridge is different from the past, you can see it from here. This porridge has a different taste lingering between the lips and teeth, straight into my heart.