西北风起,爆米花香。每年此时,做爆米花的老师傅就会准时来到我们村。在破旧的礼堂,避风的墙角,他裹紧沾满锅灰的军大衣,撑开老旧的折叠凳,摆好爆米花机和一堆零碎的家什。无需吆喝,我们这帮小屁孩都是他的活广告。不用多久,男女老少端着畚斗,捧着竹匾,拎着布袋,带着晒透了的老玉米,纷纷从村子的各个角落赶来。爆玉米,最是豪放。师傅麻利地用竹片和枯枝生火,在火炉中加入木炭或玉米芯,拉动风箱,蓝色的火苗“呼啦啦”地起来了。“砰”地打开爆米 Northwest wind, popcorn incense. At this time of year, the old master who makes popcorn will come to our village on time. In the dilapidated auditorium, sheltered from the corner, he wore a tarried army coat, opened the old folding stool, put popcorn machine and a pile of pieces of home Shishuang. No need to shout, our gang kids are his live ads. It does not take long for men, women and children carrying scapegoats, bamboo plaques, cloth bags, and sun-dried old corn, all coming from all corners of the village. Pop corn, the most bold. Master swiftly burned with bamboo chips and dead branches, adding charcoal or corn cob in the stove, pulling the bellows, the blue flame “Hula!” “Bang ” to open the popcorn