时光晕开的甜,圈染如歌童年。一个冬日的夜晚,父亲下班回家,神神秘秘地从包里掏出一卷晚报,油渍渗透到外面,像一朵又一朵透明的花。报纸终于被摊开了,里面有十几只油乎乎的小笼汤包。尽管因为用晚报包着,小笼汤包略有些纸味儿,但我跟姐姐还是吃得不亦乐乎,恨不得把报纸上的汤汁也舔一遍。从那以后,几乎每天,父亲都会用报纸包一团好吃的回来,有时候是半只猪蹄,有时候是残缺的卤羊肝。日复一日,年复一年,我们的夜宵 Time dizzy sweet, stained song childhood. A winter night, my father came home from get off work, mysteriously pulled out a roll of evening paper from the bag, the oil infiltrated outside, like one after another transparent flowers. Newspapers have finally been spread out, there are more than a dozen oily little dumplings. Although the dumpling was slightly papery because it was wrapped in evening paper, I still had a bad time with my sister, and I could not wait to lick the soup in the newspaper again. Since then, almost every day, my father will come back with a pack of delicious newspapers, sometimes half trotters, and sometimes broken liver and liver. Day after day, year after year, our supper