Memories sit like grains of fried rice on a plate, tossed and mixed into a whole from which constituents may still be distinguished. The rice is first left overnight in working memory. Each grain is seasoned with the condiments of feeling, and each chef imparts the flavour of his individuality through his unique recipe. Frying imbues it with colour. Some grains may become charred, while others shine golden, or attain a nostalgic sepia. At last it is served, its wafting aroma drawing you in. Some grains are buried deep, where they simmer, while others lie at the surface, which you can see vividly. But all are part of the dish.
I must have been eating fried rice since before I could remember. I remember my mother's fried rice, onion, egg and garlic and all. Once in lower primary she made it instead with cauliflower and egg for me to eat during recess. My memory of its taste is so faint I am likely reconstructing it with my imagination instead, but it didn't taste special. Still I remember it.
In a restaurant in China, on a school trip. The waiter placed the fried rice on the table. The person on my left started, and so it went, clockwise. Someone said, let's all take more so there's none left for him. When it was my turn there was indeed none left. I cried. The teacher got the waiter to serve another plate.
How many meals of my teenage years consisted of nasi goreng and chicken drumstick from Kampung Istimewa in the RI canteen? It is hopeless to count. There were days full of life, when we would race to the canteen during recess to beat the crazy queues. There were also languid afternoons, some lit gold by the sun, some grey and pensive beneath thick clouds. I would stay back, mostly to avoid going home, but also to spend time with my schoolmates, all of whom I felt a sense of kinship towards. Some of whom were best friends, like Trowa and Vague. There were afternoons of eager palaver, and others of dolce far niente. But there was fried rice in both kinds.
In JC, I ate much less fried rice. There were still days when I would eat fried rice from the canteen stall no. 2, particularly in the late afternoon when craving something hot. Still those were days with less fried rice, and less sunlight. Was it the architecture and location of the school that let less light in? Or was it my heart over which curtains were drawn? I may never know.
During NS, fried rice once more entered my diet with regularity. I was in the SAF Bands, and ate a lot at that stage of my life. On days without morning deployments we would have breakfast in the canteen. One of my breakfast staples was the fried rice, eaten with the popcorn chicken and the addictively sweet iced Milo. At lunchtime or later the fried rice was different. I usually had mine done slightly spicy, and preferred it to free cookhouse food. And on evenings when I stayed in camp rather than go home, I discovered that the fried rice and Kung Pao Chicken from the ADF mess go pretty well together.
There are also other incidents, like eating Yangzhou Fried Rice at the end of Chinese banquets. There was the Fried Rice with Pork Chop at Din Tai Fung, which was sometimes sublime but other times so-so. Suppers were a guilty pleasure, when I eat nasi goreng at some Indian Muslim restaurant, or when my father occasionally dabaos fried rice home. It may one day be my turn to do that for my children, or to fry it for them. There may also be undiscovered places serving awesome fried rice – places both ulu and outré, well-kept secrets waiting to be found and kept in confidence by a group of friends, serving as our secret hideout. In any case, there will be many more memories associated with fried rice before this metaphorical fried rice is done.
But for now, it is winter. I am studying for the exams. I sit down at my table, and all I want is a hot plate of fried rice in front of me. Which style of fried rice it is doesn't matter. Nor does the place, nor even its provenance. What does matter is that it is shared with the right people, who can flavour it with love and garnish it with earnest conversation, thus producing the consummate dish that would make a worthy addition to the ghosts of fried rice past.
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