“砰——”小巷深处悠悠炸炒米的声浪,撩开沿街一扇扇木窗。有的挤出一群娃娃笑脸,有的探出妇人肥硕的上半截身子,手中挥着装了浅浅半盆米的盆子,高声呼唤,喂,炸米的,不要走噢,我来了——小巷里,弥漫的米花香,是浓浓的年味儿。在儿时的记忆里,炸炒米只撩开年味儿的序幕,接下来各家各户的煎炸烹炒声,才是过年的交响。煎鱼的,炸狮子头的,炒十香菜……主妇们忙得不可开交,小炮子子挤在腿边,不时搛上一筷偷嘴。屁股头上便敲一记,死一边 “Bang - ” alley deep fried fried rice sound waves, opened up a fan along the street wooden window. Some crowded out a group of dolls smiley, and some probing the woman plump upper half of the body, the hands of waving shallow pots of half basin, call out, feed, fried rice, do not go Oh, I came - - alley, filled with rice floral, is a thick year-old children. In my childhood memories, fried rice only lifted the curtain of the year-end children. Next, the frying and frying of the various households turned out to be the new year’s symphony. Fried fish, fried lion’s head, fried ten coriander ... ... housewives are busy, small cannon child crowded in the leg, occasionally stabbed a chopsticks mouth. Butt head knock on the record, dead side