Sunday, February 21, 2010
He would pound a head of garlic, remove the skins and press the garlic cloves flat with the side of a knife and toss this in some heated oil (or butter) He would scrounge around for leftover meat or vegetables to add to the mix. My favorite was when he would put peas in it. Having previously separated the sticky rice, using his fingers, he would then toss this into the wok and keep tossing it around, so that the rice would fry in just a little bit of oil.
Last he would fry up an egg. Sunny-side up and flawless. He never liked the eggs burned, even slightly at the edges. He also would instruct the maids never to break the cooked egg.
Breakfast with him was usually a quiet affair, as he was a quiet man. But one practise I remember is how he would first put the egg on his plate, pile on the rice, then slice up the egg through the rice so the yolk would permeate. He would then add salt and pepper and eat this with meat or fish.
Years later, I would cook breakfast for my own kids and teach them to eat the egg with fried rice. Since I would prefer to live a little longer, I use vegetable oil in frying rice and instead of frying, I poach the eggs. But breakfast with at least one of my kids is a tradition of precious moments.