Some meals are so comforting, they bring back memories that we can never forget, and some bring back bonds and how we see life, real meals create everlasting memories, they may not be necessarily expensive but because of the moment they entered your life, they remind you of love, home, and the joy of trying something new for the first time. For me, that meal is fried rice.
Growing up, fried rice was like a mystery. We never had it not even once. In our house, we are used to eating jollof rice. Whether it was Sunday lunch or Christmas Day, it was always the same. Jollof rice, stew, and fried chicken that was our tradition. And honestly, I didn’t know I was missing anything until someone told me otherwise.
That someone was a friend in school. Her mother was a caterer, and she talked about food the way people talk about treasure. One day during break, she went on and on about fried rice. If you’ve never eaten fried rice, she said, you haven’t lived, It’s the best thing your mouth will ever taste. We all laughed, but something about the way she said it struck me. I started wondering what fried rice tastes like.
She made it sound so special. In my young mind, it became something magical. A food for rich people. Food for weddings. Food for people who had arrived. It was never something I thought I would taste anytime soon. But I hoped.
When the Christmas season came around that year, everything felt the same, the harmattan breeze, cleaning the house, buying rice, and that one chicken tied beside the kitchen. My mother was already making her cooking plans when I quietly walked up to her one evening. Mummy, can we try fried rice this Christmas?
She paused and looked at me. Fried rice ke? Where did you hear that one? she asked, laughing. I told her about my friend and how I just wanted to know what it tasted like. She shook her head and smiled. Fried rice is not beans o. It’s not easy. But okay we’ll try. Just don’t complain if it doesn’t taste like your friend’s own. That was how my dream started to come true.
On Christmas morning, I woke up earlier than usual, I was so happy because I was going to try something new, I was all over my mother, helping her in the kitchen, everyone knew it was because of the fried rice. I helped my mother chop the carrots, green beans, onions, and green peppers, I didn't see any of it as stressful at all. The smell from the pot was already different from the jollof rice we were used to. She showed me how to parboil the rice, season the chicken stock, and mix the vegetables in at the right time. She added curry powder, thyme, and other spices I had never paid attention to before.
When the rice was finally ready, it looked so colorful. Green, orange, yellow so many colors dancing in one pot. My heart was dancing too. My mother served it with a piece of fried chicken and salad on the side. I held my spoon with shaky hands and took the first bite. I will never forget that moment.
The taste was different from my usual jollof rice. It was so yummy, colorful, and full of flavor. The rice was soft and shining because she added butter as part of her ingredients, the vegetables were crunchy, and everything just came out perfectly. My mother watched me and asked, So, is it what you expected? I smiled and said, “Even better.”
Since that day, fried rice has had a special place in my heart. It’s not just food to me. It’s the memory of that Christmas. The joy of asking and being heard. The love of a mother who went the extra mile to make her child happy. It reminds me that even simple things can become magical when shared with love.
Now, whenever I eat fried rice, I remember that day. I remember the smell of the kitchen, the laughter in the air, and the happiness on my face. It’s more than a meal it’s a piece of my childhood, a gift wrapped in warmth and comfort. That was the day fried rice became more than just a dish to me. It became a memory I will never forget.
Fried rice is one of the best foods I learned from my mother, the way she fried the veggies and the way the rice always came out perfectly without being stuck together, the memory of Christmas and how my siblings were making jest of me was a top-notch memory that I can never forget.
NOTE:- ALL THE PICTURES ARE MINE
This is my response to this episode of #hiveghana community prompt.