Memories and Fried Rice

I like how the world smells after rain.  How after a busy day at the office I can come home to peace and quiet.

When I was little I would watch for my mother's car to pull into the drive way.  The sun would start to set.  By that time I had already finished eating, finished playing with the neighbor kids on our block.  Grandma would already have me bathed and dusted with baby powder.  Gradually the street lights and house lights would grow brighter as the sunset dipped lower.  Soon her headlights would illuminate the gate and glare into the window as she pulled up to the house.

My mother smelled of perfume and air conditioned office.  She would gather me into her arms and kiss me as I hugged her neck.  Grandma would serve dinner for the adults, and I would sit on my mother's lap while she ate.

Sometimes my mother reminisce.  Sometimes I think back at our old life in the old country.  Sometimes memories are kinder than reality.  

Growing up with my brother in America we would wait for Dad to get home before eating dinner.  Then we would ease into the evening.

Tonight, dinner consisted of staples that were already on hand.  Rice.  String beans.  Snow peas.  Red curry paste.  Tofu.  

I made friend rice by heating oil in a skillet with red curry paste.  Then I added two eggs and stirred in cooked rice with a dash of fish sauce.

Next I stir-fried the string beans and snow peas with a little oil and red curry paste.  Since I discovered the versatility of red curry paste about a year ago, I've used it in almost all of my rice dishes. 

Fried rice with stir-fried string beans and snow peas and
tofu marinated in soy sauce and sesame oil, coated with black pepper.

The fragrant smell reminded me of Grandma's cooking.  Her culinary skills put mine to shame.  She could cook authentic ethnic cuisine using an open flame in a clay cooking pot outside on the back porch.  Stove and ovens?  She didn't need them.  It's a shame she didn't record her recipes.  None of her children took interest in learning how she cooked.  

Here's to memories.  And here's to my mother: I love you.