Egg fried rice

This kind of egg fried rice is the smell of memory, the chicken soup of the heart that I spent my long years growing up with. It may not be as good as gold, candour, or even "deeply dark" rice, but it is a taste that we can't forget when we were kids. Have you ever tried something that, no matter how the food changes, your favorite is the smell of it in your head. The first meal was made by my second uncle, who used to be a handman for the pan helmet, and the sound of the scrawny stick hitting the face of the case was so soft, and the carbon fire of the bear seemed so tender in the moment he was put in the face. He's very busy, he'll make us this egg fried rice one morning, once upon a time on a break, and he'll have a lot of egg fried rice, but it'll taste so good. It's like a sound in the ear, a picture of a family eating fried rice around a wood table in the eyebrows with deep memories. This rice is the smell of memory, the story of me and this meal, the warmth of my loved ones, the beauty of the trust that time brings to us forever