雾气腾腾，白色的薄雾中若隐若现，若现的，是你慈爱的面孔。

——题记

家乡的冬天总是伴着刺骨的寒风，冻红了脸，冻住了唇，但总有一碗外婆的白菜鸡蛋面，让我在寒气中感到暖意。

生起炉火，外婆站在灶台前。用滚烫的热汤煮着她的拿手好菜——白菜鸡蛋面。

那面香气扑鼻，蛋花像一个顽皮的孩童在白菜上跳动着。用冰冷的手捧起碗，暖意便传遍了全身。轻轻地吸一口汤。慢慢下肚，顿时驱走了寒冬的冰凉，即而是一股暖流涌上心头。儿时的我依恋这口美味，每至寒冬，总会吵着让外婆煮给我吃。那时的外婆还有着挺拔的后背。不见银丝的黑发。在白菜鸡蛋面腾腾的热气中，我总能看见她慈爱的微笑。

品着外婆的白菜鸡蛋面。儿时的冬日，温暖而又安详。

小学后，我离开故乡到城里求学。将外婆和她的白菜鸡蛋面也留在了故乡的小巷中。我在冬日恋着的那份温热，在城市的喧闹中再也寻不到踪影。时隔多年再次遇见它，已是去年寒假了。我又回到了故乡的小院中，一如往日。我嚷着要吃白菜鸡蛋面。

外婆迈着迟缓的步伐，来到了旧灶前。

生火，煮汤，下面，一切都按步进行，但这次，我等了好久才等到外婆的面。

“老了，手脚不灵活了，调味的时候手抖个不停。”外婆坐在我对面，叹息着。透过热气，我望着她，竟发现她的黑发早已布满银丝，岁月的痕迹无情地留在了她的脸上。

顿时，我眼泛泪光。

“快尝尝外婆的手艺。”你笑了笑柔声催促着我。

我慢慢地吸了一口汤，啊，真咸。夕阳的美味被盐味驱散的荡然无存。我的心里一酸，握住了外婆的手。

面，还是吃完了，变得是味道，不变的，是外婆与我的亲情。

今早，我学着她的模样煮了一碗白菜鸡蛋面，希望在腾腾的热气中看到她慈爱的面孔，希望在面香中品味到儿时的温暖与踏实。

我尝了一口，真咸，的确有她的味道啊。

我笑了，心中萦绕着暖意，雾气腾腾中，若隐若现中，我看到你慈爱的面孔。

The mist is rising, looming in the white mist, and what appears is your loving face.

--Inscription

The winter in my hometown is always accompanied by the biting cold wind, and my face is red and my lips are frozen, but there is always a bowl of my grandmother's cabbage and egg noodles, which makes me feel warm in the cold.

The fire was lit, and my grandmother stood in front of the stove. She cooks her specialty dish, cabbage and egg noodles, in a piping hot soup.

It was fragrant, and the frangipani danced like a naughty child on cabbage. Holding the bowl with cold hands, warmth spreads all over the body. Take a light sip of the soup. Slowly eating, immediately drove away the coldness of winter, that is, a warm current rushed to my heart. When I was a child, I was attached to this delicious taste, and every winter, I would always clamor for my grandmother to cook it for me. At that time, my grandmother still had a tall and straight back. Black hair with no silver thread. In the steaming heat of the cabbage and egg noodles, I can always see her loving smile.

Tasting grandma's cabbage and egg noodles. The winter days of childhood were warm and peaceful.

After primary school, I left my hometown to study in the city. I also left my grandmother and her cabbage and egg noodles in the alleys of my hometown. The warmth I fell in love with in winter can no longer be found in the hustle and bustle of the city. It was last winter vacation that I met it again after many years. I returned to the small courtyard of my hometown, as always. I was clamoring for cabbage egg noodles.

Grandma took a slow pace and came to the old stove.

Lighting the fire, cooking the soup, and the following, everything went step by step, but this time, I waited a long time for my grandmother's noodles.

"I'm old, my hands and feet are inflexible, and my hands are shaking when I season it." Grandma sat across from me and sighed. Through the heat, I looked at her and found that her black hair was already covered with silver threads, and the traces of the years were ruthlessly left on her face.

Immediately, my eyes filled with tears.

"Try grandma's craft." You smiled and urged me softly.

I took a slow sip of the soup, ah, so salty. The deliciousness of the sunset was dispelled by the salty taste. My heart was sour, and I held my grandmother's hand.

Noodles, or finished eating, become the taste, the same, is my grandmother and my family.

This morning, I imitated her and cooked a bowl of cabbage and egg noodles, hoping to see her loving face in the steaming heat, and to taste the warmth and steadfastness of my childhood in the fragrance of the noodles.

I tasted it, it was really salty, it did have her taste.

I laughed, with warmth lingering in my heart, and in the mist, looming, I saw your loving face.