27/05/2025
**妈妈的粽子
文 / Polly
端午未至,粽香已悄悄浮上心头,
记忆里,妈妈又忙碌在厨房的光影中。
糯米如玉,经她双手细细拣挑,
花生炒香、冬瓜切丝、麻绳成束,
粽叶洗净,一切井然有序,
是她为我们写下的节令序章。
清晨五点,她已点起炭火,
手不停歇,裹粽、捆扎、入锅,
香气从锅沿溢出,缓缓爬满屋角,
像她的爱,无声无息,却从未缺席。
我们围在一旁,
默默祈祷有颗“脱绑”的幸运粽,
只为先尝一口她的味道。
可惜她的手艺太好了,
连失误,都舍不得给我们。
肉粽刚煮好,碱水粽又接力登场,
晶莹剔透,软糯香滑,
配上她亲熬的黑糖椰浆酱——
是童年最甜最温柔的一口回忆。
粽子包好,她不为售卖,
只叫我们一一送往亲朋家中,
按人口分配,一份不少,
那是她悄悄包裹的关怀与祝福。
当然,也有留给我们,
祭祖过后,足够全家吃上一星期,
吃的是粽子,嚼的却是她的心意。
年年粽香仍在,
而妈妈的味道,
如今只留存在记忆深处。
那是家的味道,
更是一张慢慢褪色的糖纸。
#童年记忆
#童年的樂趣
#母亲节
#端午节
#端午节粽子
Mother’s Rice Dumplings
By Polly
Before the Dragon Boat Festival arrives,
the scent of dumplings quietly rises in my heart.
In memory, Mother bustles once more
in the soft play of light and shadow in the kitchen.
Glutinous rice, white as jade,
patiently sorted by her careful hands;
peanuts roasted to rich aroma, winter melon sliced fine,
twine bundled neatly,
leaves washed and soaked—
all in perfect order,
a seasonal ritual she wrote with love.
By five in the morning, the fire is lit.
She never stops—wrapping, tying, boiling—
as the fragrance lifts from the pot,
drifting through every corner of the house,
like her love: quiet, unseen, but ever-present.
We gather round,
hoping for a lucky “unbound” dumpling,
just for a chance to taste her flavor early.
But her craft is flawless—
even mistakes are too precious to exist.
As the savory ones finish, the sweet take the stage.
Golden and translucent, tender and warm,
paired with her homemade palm sugar coconut sauce—
a taste of childhood,
soft, sweet, and endlessly tender.
Once the dumplings are wrapped,
she sells none.
Instead, she sends us out to deliver them,
to family and friends,
carefully portioned by headcount,
each bundle a quiet offering
of care and remembrance.
Of course, some are left for us.
After honoring our ancestors,
we feast for a week—
not just on dumplings,
but on the heart she folded into each one.
The scent still returns every year,
but her flavor—
now lives only in memory.
It is the taste of home,
and the faded wrapping of a sweet long gone.