My grandmother lived to ninety-two years and was left with a wrinkled snow leaf, saying, “in march, without chewing a twilight root, it's a white spring”. I didn't believe that until last year, when the rain was coughing for more than 20 days, with its cuddled throats, its eyes so dry, its eyes so white, and its night, the village's old barefoot doctor brought a bowl of greenly bloated snow herbs to boil, grunting three times, and the next day the tongue was thin, the first day was lightened, and the seventh day looked in the mirror, and the eyes came out of blue and white。
This grass is really not blowing. In the days before and after qing ming, by the hills, on the fields, on the walls of the old walls, the sprouts of snowgrass just appeared, the leaves were round, like a little copper. On the wet soil, the leaves are also beaded with the morning dew, and when they strangle, they seeth out the bitterness of the water, and they taste of mint. It's called "ray root" in our house, not because it's long after the thunder -- it's where lui gung broke up, and it's the first to get out. There were other grass in the field, and it was brushed and painted。
It's really cool. It's not the cold of ice-cooled watermelons, it's the cold along the plumb well, it's the cold of the stream running over the back of the foot, it's the dark side of the bed of bamboo at noon in the summer. The old people said, "eat it for a while: after the spring break, before the rain, it was the best; after the summer, the leaves grew old, the bitterness of the throats spread out to most of the coolness." if you catch it in the rain, come back and hang it in the bamboo table, you can't tan the sun, you're dry, you're in the middle of it。
The practice is rather random. My mother-in-law likes to cook directly with a porcelain cask: grab a small wash of fresh grass, throw it into cold water, burn it up and turn it down for 20 minutes, throw two little smelts of ice sugar before it closes, melts the sweetness of that sweetness, just to hold down the bitterness and drink his tongue. My kid doesn't like to drink soup medicine, she squeezes it -- it's hard to grind it with stone, it's hard enough to squeeze it out with a rag, it's green like emerald, it's honey, it's a straw, it's a fruit tea. Last month, i tried to clear the hot pot with a fragrance of garlic, and the grass fell down in it, and it came out in 30 seconds, and in an extra second, it was yellow, it was raw, it was a little soy sauce, it was porridge, and it suddenly came out of the salt。
There are two soups. My mother-in-law says, "ray's root is a soup that shines on the bones." one of them is black bean pig soup, which has to be made one night ahead of schedule, and the pig's bone has to be smouldered, and it has to be full of snow herbs with its roots on it, and a couple of gingers have to be roasted for an hour and a half - the soup is bright and green, the beans are rotting, the bones soft, a drink, and the fire in the throat goes down. The other is thin meat soup, which is cut thin as paper, cold water boils, slows the fire for 20 minutes and lasts for two minutes. Don't cook it for long, or the grass will be scattered, and there'll be only one slag。
The market saw a young mother crouching in front of a picnic stand two days ago: "is it bitter? Will the baby drink?" and the boss doesn't lift his head either: "it's made sense." she stunned, laughed, bought a little bundle. I quietly grabbed one more in her bag. After all, who hasn't had that moist, dark-eyed, sleepless spring
