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Published 1982
This is not the fried rice I ate ravenously as a kid in New Jersey—that exotic mound of dark brown stuff shaped with an ice-cream scoop and dotted with wisps of canned bean sprouts and cubes of roast pork (I thought it superb). This is real fried rice, left white, as the Chinese insist on (seasoned therefore with salt, not soy), and tossed to a fluffy mound with colorful, stir-fried bits of fresh meat and vegetables. It is altogether light and delicious, a pleasure to my adult