未踏進家門，貓咪已在大閘後的玄關等着，我插進鑰匙，一扭再扭，拉開大閘，貓咪叫了一聲，然後搖着尾巴走回屋裡去。我脫去皮鞋放下書包，牠把臉在我穿上灰色羊毛襪的小腿上磨蹭，半跑半走的領我去牠在廚房外的食物小碗，並不時回頭看我有沒有好好跟着。貓咪吃飯時，喜歡我陪伴牠。我蹲着搔摸地的後頸和背，牠吃個滿滋味的。
才不過4、5 時吧，天色已黑，家裡的光管燈開個燈火通明。冬天總是餓得快，我抬頭說肚子餓了，有甚麼可以吃嗎？外婆在廚房忙着，我手還在摸着貓咪，眼看着外婆的背影，她穿了米白色的羊毛背心，裡面襯了花樣斑斕的襯衣，衣䄂摺起，在鋅盤裡洗着甚麼。「等一下吧。」她說，然後是一連串的鏗鏘叮咚聲，是鐵鑊與鑊鏟的聲音。不消一會，她端來一碗蒸氣騰騰的蛋炒飯。我雙手接下碗筷，未及換去校服，便坐在那不甚舒適的酸枝椅上吃着蛋炒飯。明明只是蛋和飯，那香氣卻叫人無法扺抗。米飯吃個一點不剩，我把碗筷放到那裝滿肥皂水的紅色塑膠盤裡。
這曾經是我對蛋炒飯的唯一回憶。
後來，在餐廳吃過很多不同炒飯，美味的、充滿矜貴食材的，我卻無法建立起相關的味蕾回憶。一碗平凡的蛋炒飯，大概沒有人曾為此而寫過食譜吧。大學畢業後離家生活，雪櫃裡常有冷飯和雞蛋，與其說是貪求方便做蛋炒飯，我大概是執念想吃初中那下午吃過的蛋炒飯。
那夜清涼，為着趕回家我得半跑半走，走到小斜路盡頭的家時，鼻子已冒汗。你忽爾說一起吃晚飯吧，吃甚麼都可以，只要是我煮的。原本打算吃掉昨天的烤羊肉和做個簡單沙律作晚餐，霎時間要做二人份的晚餐，只好找找雪櫃還有甚麼可以吃的。
你來了，接力幫忙把烤羊肉的肉汁加麵糊煮成濃稠的 umami bomb，我把翻熱過的烤羊肩拆成肉絲，然後從雪櫃拿出冷飯和雞蛋，在灶下拿出好久沒用的生鐵鑊，燒熱、澆油、下飯，把冷飯炒鬆後，在米飯中央撥開一個洞，敲下兩顆雞蛋。雞蛋下鑊後，把米飯撥往中央，與蛋混合，接着以木鑊鏟翻炒鑊中物 — 外婆是用鐵鑊鏟的。濕糯的蛋漿與飯以小火炒不乾，高火雞蛋則容易變焦，得掌握自家的爐火與鐵鑊，以及鑊中食物的狀態，知道何時翻、何時搗，聽見鑊裡的節奏，才能炒出粒粒分明、油亮亮的蛋炒飯。炒好了，你接過我的鑊鏟，在關了火的爐頭上翻炒着我的蛋炒飯，裝作大廚。「啊，炒得很不錯，誰的功夫？」「我的上一手。」我們笑了笑。
餐桌上是烤羊肉配濃厚肉汁、一個被遺忘並藏在雪櫃深處的酸種貝果、一盤沒有油醋的沙律生菜，以及一大碗不搭調的蛋炒飯，我們有點不知該從何吃起。我先吃炒飯，外婆說進餐第一口應該先吃飯，而你從貝果撕下一片，看着肉汁，應該是想貪心地點肉汁卻不好意思，忖量要不要直接把麵包在碗中蘸點肉汁。我說你點吧，在家裡沒所謂。我吃了半碗炒飯，把餘下半碗遞給你。你吃了一口，說很好吃，似是餐廳的質素，我說應該比餐廳的好吃吧，蛋炒飯賣不了多少錢，卻要在爐灶佔上10分鐘，廚子才沒心機給你做蛋炒飯。飯後，我問你最喜歡哪道菜，「蛋炒飯。」你認真想了想後回答。
胡亂拼湊的晚餐，結果由最平凡的蛋炒飯讓我們吃得最快樂。人總在忙着追求不平凡的事或希望自己就是那個不平凡，卻請別忘記感受平凡的小時刻所給你的微小卻深刻的快樂。
Before I stepped into home, the cat was already waiting at the doorway behind the gate. I inserted the key, twisted twice and pulled open the gate. The cat gave me a meow, and then dashed into the flat with her tail swinging. I took off my brogues and unloaded my school bag. She came over and rubbed her furry face against my calves in grey woollen socks. In a tempo of sprint and skip, she led me to her bowl placed outside of the kitchen, while constantly looking back to make sure I did keep up with her. The cat liked my company when she ate. I squatted to scratch her nape and back. She looked really enjoying the moment of food and massage.
It was only 4 or 5 o’clock in the afternoon but the world was already enveloped in the dark and our room filled with overly bright fluorescent lights. It’s easy to get hungry in wintertime. I looked up and said that I was starving, is there anything to eat? I was stroking the cat all the time, while grandma was in the kitchen getting chores done – she was wearing a cream colour woollen vest, with a colourful patterned blouse underneath. Sleeves rolled up, she was washing something in the sink. “Just a moment.” she replied, followed by an unending train of cling-clang, the medley from a wok and a metal spatula. In minutes, she brought over a steamy bowl of egg fried rice. Taking the bowl of rice and chopsticks with both of my hands, I took a seat on that not-so-comfortable rosewood armchair to enjoy the food. It was just rice and eggs, yet the smell of it was irresistible. Without a speck left, I put the bowl and chopsticks into a red plastic tub filled with soap water.
It was once my only memory of egg fried rice.
I had a lot of fried rice at restaurants later on in life; they were delicious or adorned with fancy ingredients, yet I couldn’t build a memory of it connecting to my sense of taste. A bowl of ordinary egg fried rice – I guess no one has ever written a recipe for it. During the days I left home after graduating from university, leftover rice and eggs were the staple in my fridge. Making egg fried rice out of convenience wasn’t entirely true; I was probably making that for the reminiscence of the bowl of egg fried rice I had in that afternoon in junior high.
The night was chilly, but there were dots of sweat across my nose when I had to dash, charging up the slope to home. Let’s have dinner together, anything, as long as you are the cook, you suddenly said. I had planned to eat the roasted lamb from last night with a simple salad for dinner. Now that I had to make it for two, let’s see what we had in the fridge.
You came. Taking over the pan, you blended the roux with the juice from the lamb roast, turning it into a gravy of umami bomb. I shredded the re-heated lamb shoulder, and then took the leftover rice and eggs out of the fridge, and a cast iron wok, which I hadn’t used for long, from the cabinet under the stove. Heat up the wok, added a generous drizzle of oil and scooped the cold rice in. After fluffing up the rice, I dug a hole in the middle of the rice and cracked in two eggs. Once the eggs were in, I shoved the rice over them and started stir frying with a wooden spatula. Gran always used a metal one though. With low heat, the wet mixture of rice and eggs couldn’t be dried, while eggs would get burnt easily over high heat. Understanding your stove, wok and the status of the food in the wok, knowing when to toss and when to press, listening to the rhythm over the stove that one could have a bowl of glossy egg fried rice without the grains sticking into a lump. Voilà, and you took over my spatula, stir-frying the rice over a heatless gas stove like a chef. “Looking good. Whose cooking was that?” “The one who last occupied the wok.” We chuckled.
On the table, we had roasted lamb with deep and creamy gravy on side, a long-forgotten sourdough bagel buried in the fridge, a lettuce salad without dressing and a bowl of egg fried rice which was out of tune with the dinner spread. We were kind of at a loss to start the meal. I started with the fried rice – grandma said the first bite in a meal should be rice. You tore a piece of bagel, pondering over the bowl of gravy, probably thinking to dunk or not to dunk. Go ahead, it’s alright to dunk as you like when at home, I said. Half of the egg fried rice went into my belly and I handed you another half. You had a bite and said the rice was good like a restaurant serving. No, it should be better, I said. You couldn’t sell a plate of egg fried rice at a good price but the dish would take up the stove for solid 10 minutes. So, no chefs would have the patience making it. I asked, after the dinner, which was your favourite dish. “Egg fried rice” you gave it a thought and said.
At the dinner we randomly pulled together, a bowl of mundane egg fried rice unexpectedly brought us the deepest joy. People often chase after extraordinary moments or wish to be extraordinary, let’s try not to forget the minute moments that also bring us small yet lasting joy.
外婆的蛋炒飯
材料：
冷飯 兩碗
雞蛋 兩隻
蒜頭 半瓣
薑 半個姆指大小
海鹽 適量
油 適量
做法：
- 蒜頭及薑各磨成蓉，各取半茶匙分量。
- 中高火燒熱鐵鑊至冒煙，下油後調至中火，倒入冷飯，以鑊鏟翻炒直至米飯較鬆散。
- 在米飯中央撥出一個洞，在洞中加油後敲入雞蛋，並加入蒜蓉和薑蓉。
- 調至中高火，把飯撥在蛋上，開始快速拌勻翻炒。
- 把濕及黏作一團的飯以鑊鏟稍稍壓平及壓散，繼續翻炒。
- 炒至9成乾身後加鹽調味，再翻炒至粒粒分明即可。
Grandma’s Egg Fried Rice
Ingredients:
Leftover rice 2 bowls
Eggs 2 pieces
Garlic ½ clove
Ginger the size of half a thumb
Sea salt to taste
Oil as needed
Steps:
- Mince the garlic and ginger, yield ½ teaspoon of each.
- Heat the wok over medium-high heat till it is smoking hot. Add oil and then turn the heat down to medium heat. Add rice into the wok and loose it up with a spatula.
- Dig a hole in the middle of the rice, add some oil in the hole, crack in the eggs and then add the minced garlic and ginger.
- Turn the heat up to medium high, shove the rice over the eggs. Mix well and start stir-frying them in quick moves.
- Lightly press and loose up the wet lumps of rice with your spatula, continue stir-frying.
- When the rice body is mostly dried, add sea salt and continue to stir fry it until the grains are dry and no more lumps.
Jo Liu
It’s raining outside, crisp and bleak. Three chubby sparrows took shelter on my balcony and I gave them the baguette bits left on my breakfast plate but they flew away. I stayed in, played Damien Rice on vinyl and made apple crumble. Repeat.
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