When I was about twelve years old I was helping my dad cook. My siblings and I really wanted fried rice, so dad decided this was something he could probably make. We were using his Coleman camping stove and I was in charge of running back and forth from the shop, twenty feet from the house, to gather the ingredients my mom had prepared. The only reason we were cooking it outside was because my mom didn't want to, "stink up the house." So I carried out the chicken we wanted to put into the rice as well as the onion, peas, water chestnuts, of course rice and whatever else we thought went into fried rice.
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