Fried Rice


Divide 3 tablespoons butter

2 whisked eggs

2 medium carrots, peeled and cut into small cubes

1 small white onion,cut into small cubes

A half cup frozen peas

3 cloves garlic, chopped up

salt and pepper

4 cups cooked and chilled rice

3 green onions, thin slices

3-4 tablespoons soy sauce

A half teaspoons toasted sesame oil


  1. Scramble the eggs
  2. Fry quickly in a little hot fat to your veggies & garlic
  3. Mix fry rice
  4. Remove pan from heat. And mix green onions, sesame oil,& scrambled eggs.
  5. Serve

The Importance of Eating Fried Rice

I was eight years old when I met my uncle. He had a typical American cliche lifestyle – white picket fence, a two story house and three dogs. I was immediately annoyed when he spoke to me, because all he talked about was the kitchen. Though I must agree that the foods he mentions are delicious, he couldn’t play video games, he couldn’t roleplay Barbie with me like my friends could, or talk about all the girly things I was interested in. Evidently, he did not notice my annoyance, and he always continued his chatter about fried rice or garlic bread and whatnot. So, I played with his dogs, entirely dismissive of what he ever said.

The second time I met him was on Chinese New Years Day, when he actually showed me how he makes his food. I’m instantly astonished how well he serves the Kung Pao Chicken– or the Wantons he makes for fun and just for his wife. I completely forgot about the dogs while in the process of helping him make Chao Fan, or fried rice in this case, a Chinese dish served by frying rice in a pan, mixing it with eggs, vegetables, seafood or meat.

I inhale the cooking smells contentedly. The vegetables are fresh, and smell is just like a stroll in a spring day park. As I’m helping him chop the carrots, I ask. “Where’d you learn all this stuff?” The carrots feel smooth, stiff and are bright orange.

He only smiles and says, “From my father. And he learned it from his own father, who learned it from his own father, and well – the list goes on. It’s a family tradition. I learned how to prepare all the recipes in the kitchen.”

    “Ah,” I respond in awe. “I wish I could eat this everyday.”

     My uncle merely scoffs. “Kid, this dish is only reserved for holidays. You would be breaking the tradition if you eat it everyday.”

     “Wow!” I don’t ask any more questions, The kitchen is now filled with the constant chop of the vegetables, loud but soothing.

Next year on the first Lunar day, fried rice is served and everyone is ecstatic. We’re instantly met with the smells of vegetables, meat and eggs – and immediately begin feasting upon the meal. The table is filled with sounds of laughter and joy. The fried rice is a light golden-brown,with a hint of white on it. The vegetables have a crispy and smooth-like texture, and holding my bowl I could feel the heat of the food. Chomping on my first bite, I moan in delight. The rice was delicious, and I begin to binge eat more. When the feast is done, my family prepares to leave. I say goodbye to my uncle, hoping to have more adventures with him in the kitchen.

It is Chinese New Year and I am 13 when my uncle dies. I am on my bed, watching the rain as it descends upon the sky, collapsing upon the ground in the blink of an eye. It’s a gloomy day. I am in a trance, my eyes are heavy as I rest my gaze upon the window. There is silence in the air, and I do not utter a word. I do not want to think. I do not want to eat. I don’t want to do anything.

     The click of a doorknob snaps me back to reality. It is my grandmother in her apron, holding a large bowl of fried rice. She does not say anything, as she is well familiar with how my temper is when I am upset. She then calmly places the bowl on my desk. Turning away, she shuts the door with a snap.

     I walk idly to my table. There is steam rising upon the bowl, indicating it is hot. When the smell fills my nostrils, I am instantly hit with a flood of memories. Memories of my uncle and I making fried rice together and nostalgia kicks in like a truck. Memories flash through my mind – my uncle teaching me how to chop food, and how’d everyone would smile brightly when it was served at the dining table. Just the sight of it makes me choke out a sob. I try to hold back my tears but it is unsuccessful. Placing my hands on the bowl, the familiar heat of it comes in contact with my skin. The fried rice looks just the same: the contents of it are smooth, the vegetables slightly crunchy as usual. I inhale the steam as it brings in even more memories. As I take my first bite, I could hear the crunch of the vegetables. The rice is a little too salty this time, but I don’t care. I manage to finish the meal and leave my room for the first time in days.

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