My grandma is a very loving and caring person. Whenever we need something, she is one we can count on. Something that always expresses her hospitality and love is her famous fried rice. Whenever I eat her fried rice, I can feel the dedication and love that went into making it.
Our family doesn't really have much tradition to uphold. But as far as I can remember, my grandma has always made this fried rice. Every time I ate the dish, it always brought back memories of my childhood years. I remember me at my grandma's house always begging her to cook it for me. Her sarcastic face and rolling of eyes didn't stop me. I kept begging and begging until I was satisfied. Just thinking about it now makes my mouth water and my stomach growl. I can start to picture her cooking it. The aromas of eggs and different breakfast meats filled the air. The hot, moist steam brushing on my face. As she cut the first package of Portuguese sausage open, I could see her enter a deep concentration, nothing could break it. She moved as swift as a professional chef, cutting the oily sausage into bits and bits. Then, she moved on to the spam. She plopped open the can of spam and jerked out a thick soggy piece of meat. As gross as that sounds, my grandma's cooking would always make it savory. Like the sausage, she cut the hunk of meat into bits and bits until it was like a jigsaw puzzle. Putting each type of meat into a separate bowl, she then broke six eggs. She jabbed each egg against the side of a bowl, and cracked it in half until a gooey, thick liquid came out. Then she stirred up the yolk. She had everything ready, except the main part, the rice! She pulled the steaming, sticky rice out of the rice pot, and set heated metal bowl on the counter. Ready to start putting everything together, she first dumped the rice into a second pot. Then she added oyster sauce while she stirred. As she added pepper and garlic seasoning, the smell of bland, plain rice soon turned more appetizing.
Each time she did something, she explained to me what she did and how she did.“You don’t have to cook the eggs all the way, because they will be cooked more in the fried rice….. Always add two teaspoons of garlic to the spam beforehand, so that the spam will have more flavor… Portuguese sausage doesn’t need oil because its already packed with it.” She would say.
Every time she said something, I listened intently to her instructing voice, knowing that she wanted me to learn the recipe and keep the tradition going. Anxious to know about the recipe, I started asking her questions like… “Where did you learn how to make this? Why don’t you cook the rice all the way? How do you always make it taste the same?” Trying to make out a story, I could see her a slightly smirk every time I asked a question. I could tell she thought each question was “goofy”… but that was just my grandma.She told me that when she was in her early twenties, her dad taught her his way of making the fried rice. Then over the years, she modified it, making it unique to our family, learning things from her friends and family. Now that my great grandpa is gone, she says that every time she cooks this dish, it reminds her of his love and hospitality.
Listening to her story distracted me from what she was doing. She slowly stirred in the Portuguese sausage, then the spam, and lastly, the eggs. Each time she put an ingredient into the rice, the aroma grew more delectable and made my empty stomach growled more and more. As she finished, she put a shiny glass cover over the pot, and yelled “It’s ready!” to my family lounging in the living room. My excited family immediately rushed and grabbed a plastic bowl from the counter. They walked up to the pot and shoveled scoops and scoops of rice into the bowl. As it was my turn, I knew that there would probably be no seconds, so I took the rigid plastic rice paddle and put as much rice as I could and then sat at the table. A plastic bowl lying right in front of me. In it, a steaming mountain of sticky mushy grain. Its color was a light brown, as if it was died with soy sauce. In the big mountain, lay boulders of meat and eggs, lodged all around it. As I dug my spoon into the top of the mountain, I pulled out a bite size heap of rice, and shoveled it into my mouth. It tasted wonderful! A fusion of different meats and flavors collided in my mouth. I couldn't get enough of it. As I ate more and more, I began to feel my empty stomach gradually fill. And then, I stopped to the point where I could not eat anymore. As my dad looked at my half empty bowl, he excitedly asked me, “Are you finished?” for I knew he wanted it. I gave a disappointing “Yes” and handed him my bowl.
Although my family isn’t very traditional, this recipe has always ran in the family. And now, I know a deeper meaning to it than just being Grandma’s fried rice. For me, seeing my grandma cook it this reminds me about my heritage. The rice, white and bland, would be me. And as different foods and seasonings were added, which would be the different cultures and customs, the end result would be a delicious unique dish, or a unique and talented Lennon. This being one of the only customs I have, I will always try to uphold this unique recipe.
