Eel pom and fish trap

The cold wind of the northeastern highlands is not only a breeze that blows through the body, but an invisible knife edge, deeply cut into the bone, a fudge completely different from the familiar northern fog vapor, accompanied by an extortion force that awakens all hairs...Back in the summer of that year, the year of the "exile" from the capital of Madson, the sunny moments of the Qula fields scorched the skin of the city's boys, the sunburn that intersected the white skin in the shade, like a crosswalk draped through the body, as evidence of a clash between concrete and red soil.

On Saturday morning, the world was awakened by the monkeys of the fields, the sound of the wood that hung the necks of the buffalo roaring. "..Gub "is the heavy ungulate rhythm that crushes down the bird's blood dirt road. The dust rises as a veil of truth.

"Bug Tin is gone. Wrap your knees to bring."

The shouting of my friend stirred up the excitement of my youth that had been blazing since the morning, and I ran so tight that the wooden house shook, the jar pots on the wall shattering like a disaster, that the grumbling of my grandmother chased her back, the grandmother with the red lips of the betel nut, revealing the scurvy that tucked a small line in the corner of her mouth...I doubted its necessity until I realized it was an ingenious trick.

"Put it on, drunk," said the grandmother, laughing in a good mood, leaving the puzzle of sincere drunkenness for the nephew to think about.

We moved along the "Bugs," a charcoal-skinned friend who left a trail of buffalo droppings as a waypin along Khanna, and the sound continued to give rhythm to the laughter and jokes of the age until it reached "Arguing," a shelter by a small stream where clear water was pouring at just knee level...With the buffalo tie completed, the hunting plan for the abdomen began.

The word "wrapped in rice" in our dictionary means only a sticky rice bump and a bottom of a pug, and the food is what is exchanged for sweat and craftsmanship.

"Wait, Hausikoi, Pom, put on a purple bug," the bug announced the captains.

The body pair of weapons is a slingshot, a bag loaded with dried clay bullets...We wear the spirit of the hunter, go through the wood, like a scene in a documentary of undirected animal life, every step of the way there is a system of order, a decoy, a repeat unit, a collection unit, until we get the "pom" of the unfortunate reptile to the end of the battle.

At Arguing Naan, a kitchen in the middle of the field, the flames scattered the carcass of the pom until the scales were scorched, smelling a strange savory, peeling off the leather, revealing the off-white meat hidden inside, throwing away the innards, leaving only the purity of the minced meat on the wooden chopping board...The sound of a knife hitting a loud chopping board combines the seasoning of life, red cayenne pepper, fragrant roasted rice, fish sauce, MSG, and the gardness of indispensable shredded raw mangoes...It was mixed into the flesh to become "Koi Ka Pom," a raw bootleg menu that the city children never met, and now it was scooped in an old zinc dish.

The middle sticky rice band argued about the ceremony of friendship. This was the first time I tasted the produce of my own hunt. It tasted strange but mellowed with heroic tales. Moments of talk and gestures would be as loud as the village. It helped to feed the meal even more deliciously.

...Here, soil vibes and memories continue to smolder, the story of the eel at dinner on the way home still awaiting the revelation of the next period of this record of roots.

Last night I talked to Pee Pee Pee, and he told me to write about the northeast, which I was pleased with because in my memory, the northeast, the trajectory and the culture, I still remember the roots on both the northeast and the south, and I'll tell you from the northeast first, and then go to Bangkok, and then we'll go south.

- Criticism. -