The 49th day of my father's death. Feng Xue tried to recreate it for the 13th time according to the vague notes. The process is extremely delicate, but the taste peak always breaks at the "almost melted" point. The kitchen is like a laboratory and an altar. Hearing the cry of a neighbor's child, he was distracted for a moment, and the heat subsided slightly. Looking at the tiny hole, he suddenly remembered his mother's only clear voice message: "Fengxue, come to mom, summer is coming." The city outside the window, in the humidity of late spring, really began to resemble a slowly heating, huge stew pot. He took out his mobile phone and booked a ticket with free cancellation a week later.
