Dawn seeps through kitchen curtains as sixty shrimps glimmer like pearls in a glass bowl. I imagine their shells as amber gifts from the sea god, each peeling motion releasing miniature waves at my fingertips. Flesh curling into crescent moons, they pile into a jade-white mountain on the porcelain plate. The silver knife dances, mincing moonlight into cloud floss.
White mist rises from the steamer as I watch shrimp balls turn translucent. My nine-month-old conqueror practices world domination in the living room, his feet drumming the floor like bamboo shoots breaking spring soil. The pulverized shrimp paste solidifies under heat, mirroring how maternal love, tempered through endless trials, becomes the most digestible tenderness.
The spoon's metallic scrape against the bowl reminds me of his tiny fist clutching my finger in sleep last night, eyelashes casting butterfly-wing shadows. Now he toddles along the sofa like a fawn testing morning dew, each wobble plucking the finest strings in my heart. As shrimp fragrance permeates the air, I envision discarded shells transforming into silver scales, swimming through time as guardians.
Six minutes rearrange proteins yet can't measure a mother's gaze. When steam droplets cascade down the glass lid, I understand all mundane labor weaves an invisible cradle—food fortresses and nutrient roots destined to uplift that determined, wobbling silhouette marching forward.
晨光漫过厨房纱帘时，六十只青虾正在玻璃碗里泛着珍珠色。我总疑心虾壳是海神馈赠的琥珀，指腹剥开半透明甲胄的瞬间，总有小朵浪花在指尖绽放。虾肉蜷成弯月跌进瓷盘，渐渐堆砌成粉白的雪山，案板上的银刀起起落落，将月色剁成细碎的云絮。
蒸锅吐出的白雾里，我数着时间看虾球变得莹润。九个月的婴孩正在客厅练习征服世界，他的小脚丫叩击地板，像初春的竹笋顶开冻土。那些被剁碎的虾泥在高温中凝结，恰似母亲的爱意经过千锤百炼，终究化作最易吞咽的温柔。
钢勺刮过碗壁发出清响，我忽然想起昨夜他攥着我的食指酣睡，睫毛投下的阴影宛如新生的蝶翼。此刻他正扶着沙发蹒跚学步，如同幼鹿试探着触碰晨露，每次摇晃都牵动我胸腔里最纤细的弦。虾糕蒸腾的鲜香漫过房间，恍惚看见那些剥落的虾壳正化作鳞片，在光阴里游成守护幼崽的银鱼。
六分钟的等待足以让蛋白质重新排列组合，却不够丈量母亲凝视的分秒。当蒸汽在玻璃锅盖上凝成水珠坠落，我忽然懂得所有琐碎的劳作，原是在编织看不见的襁褓——用食物构筑的堡垒，以营养浇灌的根系，终将托起那个摇摇晃晃却执着向前的背影。
