走在都市的灯红酒绿里，我时常被间歇性的晕眩缠绕着。在一片恍惚中，眼前交错浮现着那个开满槐花的村庄。朋友笑我像一块土坷拉，被城市的浮华哗啦剥掉一层，里面还是土渣子。我承认，并开始怀疑自己从乡村走进城市的初衷。也许命中注定我应该孤独地享受粗淡吧，请随着我凌乱的思绪，怀念那些村蔬野菜渐行渐远的背影。
● 槐花 ●
有人说，槐也是怀。
仔细想想，确实不错。相伴四纪的老妻罹难，梁实秋悲伤不已，六万多字的《槐园梦忆》一蹴而就。满纸“槐园”都是怀园,阅者无不为其痴情动容。不久之后他另结新欢自当别论，但当时真心总是无疑的。还有四川的那首旧民歌，叫《我望槐花几时开》,歌词：高高山上一树槐，手扶栏杆望郎来，娘问女儿:望啥子么?我望槐花几时开。——“槐”系少女心事，一树槐花就是一树洁白的诗！四句话，传诵了百年，千年，当至于不朽。
事实上，槐树其貌不扬，根不可雕，茎不成材，曲奇的树身和枝杈上还生满尖刺。那些刺儿，我们叫圪针，槐树因此得了个俗名“圪针树”。在我童年的印象中，它却赢取了众多乡亲们的喜爱。小小的心思里能够想到的就是，花草半年粮的时光中，丑陋的槐树开满了一嘟噜一嘟噜生的希望。杜甫有这样的诗句：“青青高槐树，采掇付中厨。”高高一树槐，自唐朝迄于我幼时，一千多年，芬芳了了一代又一代的口腹。
我从小生长在乡下。记忆中，村里人家的屋前屋后、田边地头都凌乱地站满槐树，高高低低的。每到春末夏初的四五月份，不经意之间，槐树就顶满白色的花冠。很少有像槐花那么不遗余力地开放的。花朵小，但百朵千朵攒在一处，把整个村庄都包围了；花香淡，但千缕万缕缠在一起，把每一个角落都充满了。
槐花好吃，但采撷很有些讲究。槐树满身荆棘，自然不宜弃履脱袜（其实也无袜可脱的，小时都要到霜落时才舍得穿鞋子），攀缘而上。一般要备一根长竿，低头站在树下一阵猛扫，花落如飞雪。或者在竿的一端绑上镰刀，把槐花连枝折下。这法子有些残忍，树若如人，白花儿一定血淋淋的了。最简单的是在早上去捡，夜来风过，地上槐花铺了薄薄的一层，归拢来—堆，可是已经不新鲜了。
每次我去采花，总要把粉嫩的花朵先捋下一团，放到口中，慢慢咀嚼。甜哪！真的很甜。但要真正成为美味佳肴，还须经过母亲的巧手加工。水烧开了，倒入槐花，放入调好的面糊，等凉了以后，满厅满院香气扑鼻，吃过后整天觉得花香在口。这是槐花汤。炒着吃也很好，把槐花放进开水里过一遍，抓一小把玉米面中拌在一起，放到锅里炒，加入一点盐和醋，倒进碟子里，像一盘碎玉，放在嘴里，更是余味无穷。吃不了的槐花被人们精心地氽过晾干，用布袋悬于檐下，看它在风里摇荡，嘴里便有津液滋生，有些望梅止渴的意思，实在止不住了就拿出一点。李时珍在《本草纲目》中还记载，用开水浸泡槐叶作为药茶常饮有养生保健的功效。但是村民只想着辘辘饥肠，哪有这份奢侈的心情呢？
不需用花草充饥的时候，村里的那些槐树身价猛跌。它们一棵棵少了起来，应该是一个渐进的过程。但现在想来，却似乎是一夜间的事情。我家屋山西头的那棵槐树也未能幸免，它花开花落了十几年，父亲只用半天的时间就砍倒了。后来不久，在它生长的地方重新顶出一株小苗，慢慢地长成一棵碗口粗细的槐树。它可能是我们村上唯一的一棵了。每到夏初回家的时候，我总要在树下站一站，望着那些开得正盛的槐花，默诵着一个无名诗人的《午夜，一座槐花的城》，心头不由涌上一种异样的滋味。诗是这样写的：风吹过，带走了槐花的梦/我是一朵没有梦的槐花/我躺在槐树的乳房上哭泣/我是一朵哭不出泪的槐花……
● 马马菜 ●
马马菜，一种见证岁月酸涩的野菜。
现在，我端坐在城市灯火的深处想象，这样一种枝叶婆娑的植物，可能会让很多人感到莫名其妙。可是，你如果在乡村度过了童年时光，回忆里怎会少得了马马菜支拉扒叉的影子呢？
据说，马马菜的学名叫马齿苋。提及这个名字，是想让很多和那段历史隔膜的人，若有兴趣到植物学之类的书籍上按图索骥，不至于闹出把麦苗错认作韭菜的笑话。村野之人不管什么学名不学名的，马马菜，不知几千年来祖祖辈辈一直这么叫着，爽利，贴心贴肺。不少钱不欠粟的，没什么理由“改了姓、更了名唤作汉高祖”！何况在乡下，苋菜是另外一种高挑的宽叶植物，只在春风里娇嫩地招摇，烈日一晒就老了？哪像马马菜泼实，从春二月里沿着夏季直生长到霜浓如雪的时候。
马马菜，这么一种低微而顽强的野生植物，是趴在地上的螃蟹。它横着生，竖着长，有时一株就霸占了老大一片地方。你看它茎分枝，浑圆，常带紫红色，似三五个月婴儿肉嘟嘟的小胳膊；叶子小小碎碎的，肉质却肥厚，外面裹着一层薄薄的翠膜，泛着油亮的光，簇拥在一起颇为丰润；枝倾斜向上，挑着五瓣的黄色花；一花结十籽，籽熟何离离，横裂后四散飘去，无论什么地方，只要留下一颗，二月的春风一吹，它就鼓着圆叶，胖实得贴着地皮，张牙舞爪地扩张开去。小的时候，我常常薅草，最喜欢的就是马马菜。因为它叶脉发达，容易出“战果”。拨起它圆圆的肥肥的茎叶，把小镰刀往根下一割，然后一把一把地放到篮子里，很快便能装满了。
马马菜是可以食用的。三十岁以上的人，应该还记得它们脆生生的味道，让那些清汤寡水的日子多少有些油光潋滟吧？夏初的乡村，在暮霭弥漫里，家家户户搬出矮桌，或者直接把腊条筐倒卡于地，上面摆的三两样青色菜蔬必有一盘是凉拌马马菜。一家人围在一处，蒲扇轻摇，咯吱咯吱的声音似乎要响遍半个村子。有人经过，顺口问一句：吃得么？这有味哩！这边爽爽地应着：你嫂拌的马马菜哟！
马马菜的吃法可谓多矣，可以烧一锅原生态的汤，可以烙马马菜合子，俗称菜煎饼，最常见的还是凉拌。摘净根叶，把茎在滚烫的开水里焯一焯，再用凉开水浸透，捞出来拌些作料即可。不知在哪里看到的了，印象中有这么性感的一句诗：那，那一溜雪白的膀子……某些联想丰富的人看了，想来脑子里会立时跳出肤若凝脂一类的词儿。我看过后却想到马齿苋的口感问题，那东西自滚水中捞出来时，滑溜溜的实在是清凉爽口。
偶然看到医书，书上介绍马马菜具有清热解毒、消炎利尿的功效，还可治肠胃病、糖尿病。于是禁不住想，我这么干干瘦瘦的一副身板骨，自个儿在城市里打拼，多年来饥一顿饱一顿，冷热不均，却一直没病没殃，该不是幼年饱食了马马菜、七七芽、灰灰菜之类野菜的缘故吧？
某日在菜场上看到鲜嫩的马马菜，带着水珠码在摊子上。粉红色的茎，水灵灵的叶子，浅黄的花蕾，勾得我心七上八下的。忍不住伸出手去抚摸，亲切的感觉油然而起，从指尖直抵心里。买了来，欢欢喜喜地调了，再辅以精盐、味精和蒜末，滴些香油，却不复当年清爽爽、滋润润的味道了。
可能是我不得其法吧？打电话给母亲。母亲说，味道还是当年的味道，变化了的是舌头。我默然。
Walk in the city where I was often scene of debauchery, intermittent dizziness around. In a trance, the emergence of the front of the village full of Sophora japonica. Friends laugh at me like a lump of earth, and is the city's flashy crash off one layer, inside the soil or sediment. I admit, and begin to doubt my original intention of going from the countryside to the city. Maybe I should be lonely to enjoy the rough, please with my messy thoughts, miss those vegetables and wild vegetables gradually drifting back.
Flower pagoda
Some people say that Huai is also huai.
Think about it, it's nice. Accompanied by the four century old wife died, Liang Shiqiu sad, more than 60000 words of "Huai" Dream Park overnight. Full paper "Huai garden" are Huai garden, readers are all moved for their infatuation. Soon after he lingjiexinhuan was different, but it was always really no doubt. And the old folk song in Sichuan, called "when I hope to see the pagoda", lyrics: a tree on the high mountain, standing on the railing looking at Lang, the mother asked her daughter: "look what?" I hope when the flower bud opens. "Huai" is a girl's worry, a tree of Sophora japonica is a tree of white poetry! Four words, read for a hundred years, thousands of years, when the immortal.
In fact, tree roots can not be carved, ugly in appearance, stem timber, trunk and branches are cookies with thorns. The thorn tree, we www.aabbbj.com/category/jbsz called Gezhen it got a name, "Ge Zhen tree". In my childhood impression, it has won the love of many villagers. Small mind can think of is, and half a grain of time, the ugly tree covered with a bunch of a bunch of hope. Du Fu has such a poem: "green high tree, gather in the kitchen to pay." A tall tree tree, since the Tang Dynasty until in my childhood, one thousand years, the fragrance of the generations of soul.
I grew up in the country. Remember, the village people in front of the house, the side of the field are messy full tree, and. Every late spring and early summer of April and May, inadvertently, tree on the top with white corolla. Very few, like http://www.aabbbj.com/category/hwyqz Sophora japonica, have spared no effort to open up. Flowers are small, but hundreds of thousand flowers are gathered in one place, surrounded the whole village; flowers are faint, but thousands of strands are wrapped around, and every corner is filled with.
Huaihua pick very delicious, but some attention. The locust tree is covered with thorns, so it is not natural to discard the socks. To prepare a long pole down, standing under the tree suddenly swept, the flower falls as snow. Or tie a sickle on one end of the rod, fold the pagoda. The way is cruel. If the tree is like a man, the white flower must be bloody. The simplest is to pick up in the morning, the wind, the ground covered with a thin layer of Huaihua, and to a heap, but is not fresh.
Every time I go to pick flowers, always put the pink flowers first down the next regiment, into the mouth, chewing slowly. Sweet! It's really sweet. But to really become a delicacy, but also through the processing of mother's hand. The water boiled, poured into Sophora japonica, into the batter, after the cool, full hall full of fragrant smell, after eating all day feel the fragrance of flowers in the mouth. This is Sophora japonica soup. Fried haowu.660v.com food is also very good, the flower put in the boiling water over a small handful of corn flour in the mix together into the pot fry, add a little salt and vinegar poured into the dish, like a broken jade, put in the mouth, it is endless aftertaste. Eat the Huaihua people carefully fry dry, with a bag hanging from the eaves, see it swaying in the wind, the mouth has fluid breeding, only some meaning, it can't stop it out a little. Li Shizhen also recorded in the "Compendium of Materia Medica", soaked in boiling water as often drink tea leaves have the effect of health care. But the villagers thought only of hunger, which has the luxury of feeling?
The horse - dish
Mama dishes, a witness years sour wild herbs.
Now, I sat in the depths of the city lights of the imagination, such a whirling foliage plants, may let many people feel lin044100.cn/mai f rather baffling. However, if you spent in the countryside of childhood memories, how can less shadow horse dish support pull grilled fork?
It is said that the horse dish called purslane. Mention the name, is to let a lot of people and the history of the diaphragm, if you are interested in what you want to botany books, not create the wheat misperceiving leek joke. No matter what the name of the scientific name is Murano Yukihito, I do not know the horse food, for thousands of years for generations has been so called, crisp, sweet paste
Don't need time to eat those flowers, trees worth plunged in the village. They are a little up, should be a gradual process. But now, it seems like a night thing. The tree of my house in Shanxi head was not spared, it blossom for a dozen years, father only half the time it cut down. Soon afterwards, in the place where it grows to the top a young plant, slowly grow into a thick tree. It could be the only one for us Haruki. Every time the summer home, I always stand under a tree, looking at those open Masamori Huaihua, silently in a nameless poet "at midnight, a Huaihua City", not by heart welled up in a strange taste. The poem is written in this way: the wind blew, took away the dream of Sophora japonica / I am a flower without a dream / I lie on the breast of the locust tree crying / I am a weeping flower of tears......
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