Sichuan and Chongqing Small Rivers and Lakes

When I was a child, every weekend, my grandma would take out the cast iron pot from the kitchen, and the first wisp of smoke rising in the yard must be the aroma of fried pork ribs. She always said: "The pork ribs must be stir-fried slowly on a wood stove, and the spicy oil will be forced out to make them fragrant." I squatted by the stove and watched her sprinkle a handful of red peppers into the oil pan, and it made a sizzling sound. Even the big yellow dog next door was scratching the crack of the door and wagging its tail. When I grew up and left home to study and work, what I missed most was the plate of pork ribs covered in chili peppers. Now I have learned my mother's skills and recreated the "spicy soul" in the kitchen - pick up a piece, the outside is crispy, the inside is soft and juicy, and even the bones are full of delicious fragrance. A plate of pork ribs was served to the table. The whole family sat around and ate with sweat on their foreheads. The familiar taste made my eyes red. It was not only delicious, but also a symbol of family and the warmest companion in my growing years.