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星期六,我早早地起了床,在早餐店里买了一碗红豆粥,找了一个靠窗的位置一个人静静地吃着。初冬的风有些微冷,透过窗缝吹进来,我不由得打了个寒战。我双手紧紧捧着碗,点点温热便透过掌心传了过来,暖遍全身。喝一口,却全然没有当初妈妈做的好吃,红豆还有些硬。我想起了妈妈熬的红豆粥,那粒粒豆子与大米煮得绵软酥烂,化开来,彻底融合在一起。这样的粥有浓稠的香甜。也许吧,买来的红豆粥还是火候不够。这样的想法掠过了我的脑际,我莫名地又想起了妈妈那凝
On Saturday, I got up early, bought a bowl of red bean porridge in the breakfast shop, and found a man by the window where I ate quietly. Early winter, the wind is slightly cold, blowing through the window slit, I could not help but had a chill. My hands tightly holding the bowl, a little bit warm through the palm came over, warm all over the body. Drink, but did not do the original mother delicious, red beans and some hard. I remembered my mother boiled red bean porridge, that grain of beans and rice boiled soft Sulanhua, to open together completely together. This porridge has a thick sweet. Maybe, bought red bean porridge is not enough heat. This idea over my mind, I inexplicably remembered the mother that condensate