离家住校,我最留恋的莫过于父亲做的菜,每当吃饭时,舌尖上就萦绕着父亲做的菜的余香。在我的记忆中,父亲憨厚寡言,很少对我有亲昵的举动。母亲则不同,每逢我回家,母亲总会兴高采烈地跑出来,“在学校过得好不好啊?”搂着我问个不停。父亲则默默地在厨房里忙碌,刀起刀落,传来在砧板上切菜的咚咚声。饭桌上,母亲总会挑我爱吃的花菜放在我的碗中,父亲却不,他不由分说地夹给我一直不喜欢吃的青椒。正当我皱着眉想夹回去时,他板起脸,眉头一挑,又伸出筷子夹住青椒,往 Staying home from school, I am most nostalgic than his father’s dishes, whenever the meal, the tip of the tongue haunted by the fragrance of the dishes made by his father. In my memory, my father, a simple and honest man, seldom acts intimacy with me. Mother is different, every time I go home, my mother always ran out happily, “I am good at school?” My father was quietly busy in the kitchen, knife knife, came chopping pizzas on the cutting board. At the dinner table, the mother always picks my favorite cauliflower in my bowl, but my father does not. He is not afraid to pinch the green pepper I have always disliked. Just as I frowned and tried to get it back, he slapped his face and brow, picked up his chopsticks and peppered green pepper