蒸笼腾起白雾的刹那，面团拧成的麻花辫上，椒盐如细雪落进敦煌壁画的金沙。

每一道螺旋纹里都藏着花椒炸裂的星火，盐粒在麦香褶皱间闪烁，像月光碾碎在老青石碾盘上。

撕开时蓬松的肌理如云絮剥落，舌尖先触到四川丘陵的麻，再品出渤海湾的咸，最后回荡的麦甜，是揉面师傅手背上随青筋起伏的温柔月光。

At the moment of white fog rising from the steamer, on the Fried Dough Twists braid of dough, salt and pepper fell into the golden sand of Dunhuang frescoes like fine snow.

Each spiral pattern hides the spark of Sichuan pepper explosion, and salt grains twinkle between the folds of wheat fragrance, like moonlight crushing on an old bluestone grinding plate. When torn open, the fluffy texture peels off like cloud fluff, and the tip of the tongue first touches the hemp of Sichuan hills, then tastes the saltiness of Bohai Bay, and finally echoes with the sweetness of wheat. It is the gentle moonlight on the back of the kneading master's hand that undulates with the veins.