The "cooker" here is much more petty bourgeois than the northeast farmhouse. It can be seen that the people's desktop and wood in the stove are lit with a flame jet, and the smoke is gone along the underground exhaust system, which meets the grand feelings of eating fish around the stove and drinking fish soup in the city. Uncovering the lid, I couldn't wait to take down the golden tortillas that were sticking along the edge of the pot. A bite, thick and fine, and a tenacity in the delicate, not only chewy but durable; no sugar, but naturally a sweet fragrance; pure farmhouse taste, pure corn fragrance. It is a wild fish, chewy, smooth, tender and tight meat, and the loose, weak river fish we usually eat are two situations.