Letters by Kenny Mah

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Cantonese fried rice

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September 16, 2013

Hey you,

With little to do, we head to the airport hours ahead of schedule. Luggage checked in. Immigration. Time for lunch. Cantonese fried rice at the noodle bar, the sort with the words “peach”, “blossom” and “garden” in the name.

“How ever do they get every grain to be separate from each other?” I ask, sort of knowing the answer already.

“Maybe they soak the rice in oil overnight,” you say, a mischievous grin on your face.

“That’s not it,” I say. “The rice would be greasy if that’s the case.”

“Maybe they use olive oil,” you say, not making much sense on purpose.

“The fried rice would smell too strong then,” I reply, following your cue.

“Maybe they use olive oil that doesn’t smell.”

“Deodorised olive oil?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re probably right.”

Airports are perfect for conversations like these.

Yours always and always,

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