Soy sauce

I've been a good baby since I was a child who loves to eat breakfast on time and does not choose to eat much, except in one case — that is, in the morning when there is a white boiled egg — when I see a white boiled egg in a breakfast plate that is as bright as a monk's head, and I start to look around and say to him, trying to make my family forget whether I ate or not. Unfortunately, the least missing of my intellectual family is the memory parent who, after countless laps of Tai Chi, has to frown his eyebrow and swallow the normal white boiled eggs. It's fine, especially the yolk, and it's written "no" all the time. But after all, my arm couldn't get to my thighs, and I ended up swallowing that tedious omelette that choked. I then offered to trade eggs for eggs, soft, soft, soft and watery eggs, salty eggs, and sour and sandy eggs, but the chemist's father strictly prohibited me from eating too many eggs, and never tolerated my attempts to throw salty eggs out of the ground. In the end, my breakfast is all over the place. Egg fried. Egg rolls and egg peels, depending on what pot Dad wants to work on today until I meet a bowl of amazing noodles - the eggs of the heart. The protein is soft and smooth, the salt is perfect, the top floor of the yolk is condensed, and there's juice in it. I think it's a little bumpy to say, "I'll try to be successful after that," but it's really time to say it