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Smack
Go on east of ginger trees,
go soft and silent like the breeze.…
7-18
- Somewhere amidst
the email alerts and the database updates that filled my
Monday morning, I detected a smell that I could not
exactly place. Thick and heady; tinged with salt; it was
as if someone had walked past my cubicle carrying a plate
of sizzling fajitas.
-
- After a moment of
trying unsuccessfully to ferret out what it was -- I got
up and took a quick stroll around the cloth walls,
peering in to see if I could figure out where the aroma
was coming from.
-
- It was like fresh
bread, but not as robust. There was a yellowness
to it, if that makes any sense at all...
-
- The nearby cubes
were either empty or foodless. My camera eye panned
quickly past each clothwall portal, scanning the
countertops beside the people facing away from me. Lots
of coffee cups, diet cokes, bottled water, tootsie rolls,
and red and white striped peppermints in plastic
cellophane wrappers.
-
- I sat down at my
desk again, beginning to suspect that my mind was playing
tricks on me. Still, the hint in the air had been enough
to get my appetite going, and without anything concrete
to attribute it to, my mind defaulted to the closest
thing that it could come up with. A very specific craving
appeared in my mind.
-
- Ramen Noodles.
-
- I don't know where
it came from. I wasn't really sure what the aroma that
was floating in the air was, but I was pretty sure that
it wasn't instant noodles. Regardless, the seed had been
planted, and my mouth began to water, absently longing
for the salty flavor of quick fix food.
-
- Like most people,
my introduction to Ramen Noodles was born more out of
financial hardship than any desire to sample exotic
foreign cuisine. Forever priced at the bachelor friendly
rate of five for a dollar - there were times in my life
when it was impossible to pass up that sort of bargain.
-
- I'm sure you've
been there, and I'm sure you have had similar
experiences. But before we go and pinkie shake on our
eternal noodle soup brotherhood, there's something you
should know about me...
-
- I've always
made Ramen noodles wrong.
-
- Many people who
have seen me prepare them seem to feel a need to comment
on my Ramen stylings. As if five for a dollar food was
subject to specific rules or something. I enjoy cooking.
I like messing around with simple things and seeing what
I can do with them. But every time I start working on a
package of smack ramen it's like Takeshi
Kaga is
standing over my shoulder...
-
- Besides, it's just
ramen noodles. Ready in three minutes. Five for a
dollar...
-
- Several
years gone, sitting on a stiff-backed wooden chair in
the kitchen at her house. The sun crawls slowly over
the hills, slicing light through the radio tower
standing near her home.
She has always favored heavy sweaters, no matter the
temperature outside. Today it's dark olive, with thick
patterns crawling their way up the sides of her body.
I watch her silently as she searches through a
cupboard. The sweater reveals curves, but then it
doesn't. Like water stroking the shore, the sweater
moves with her, creating outlines, shadows. I
remembered wishing I had a sweater just like that.
-
- The
sun is warm against the window. I put my hand against
the glass and let the heat sink into me. There is a
certian
yellowness
to
the feeling, if that makes any sense..
-
- Somehow
being here at this time and in the bask of this star
feels more right than anything else in the world. She
turns back to me, smiling.
Do
I want something to
eat?
-
- I
shrug, not sure what to expect. She is suddenly a
flurry of motion, searching for something next to the
oven. I get the impression that she is overdoing
things, perhaps because I am there. I want to go to
her, put my hands on her shoulder and hip, kiss her
neck -- but I want so many things, and I'm not sure
which ones are right anymore.
-
- She
finds a pot, fills it with water. Her stove is natural
gas, and there is a quiet whoosh as she lights the
pilot. Soft circle of blue flame. Warm, cozy. Sweater.
-
- The
water warms, and she sits in front of me. The neck of
the sweater seems an enormous fold of cloth, somehow
bigger than the actual garment itself. Long, blonde
hair falls around the turtleneck, falls in front of
her eyes, gets lost in itself. He chin seems cradled
in the cloth of the sweater.
-
- We
talk about sunshine; we talk about classmates, music.
I make her laugh. Smiles are easy. She gets up to
check the water.
-
- Before
she sits back down, she retrieves a book that she
wants to show me. It's a picture book of paintings
inspired by the music of the Talking Heads. She says
that their music is very important to her. I decide on
the spot that it is important to me as well. She
stares into my eyes, uses her teeth to pull the sleeve
of her sweater over her hand a bit. She leans her chin
on her sleeve-covered palm, sighs and smiles.
-
- I
decide that this is important to me, as well.
-
- Moments
later she is at the counter, working something I
cannot see. She turns and offers me a tall ceramic
bowl, like a coffee mug, but with a wider mouth and no
handle. Inside the bowl tiny ramen noodle bits float
in light brown broth dotted with bits of green spice.
-
- She
is smiling, proud of herself.
-
- I'm
lost in her pride, yet quietly unsure of how to tell
her that I don't like my noodles this way. For once in
my life, I don't ruin the moment with technicality.
-
- I've
always drained the noodles, sprinkled them with the
powder, and mixed well. Sometimes you can add
different things like diced chicken, parsley, or
sesame seeds. I try to enjoy the soup. She holds the
mug close to her mouth, and works a spoon deftly
inside the bowl. Still looking for the best way to
attack this meal, I mimic her.
-
- The
technique is surprisingly harder than it looks.
-
- Soup
gets on my chin, dribbles down my shirt and onto my
chest. I can feel droplets rolling down my frontside,
slowing down as they run out of fluid. She hasn't seen
me drooling, so I try to play it cool. But the soup
trail is already sticky, tacky with salt. It's hard
not to fidget a bit in the chair.
-
- Suddenly
she puts the bowl down, rushes to the fridge.
-
- She
returns with her hands cupped together. She holds them
over my bowl and sprinkles alfalfa sprouts into my
soup. "It's
better this way,"
she says.
-
- I
smile back, not knowing that she would be saying those
words again to me later, when we weren't talking about
soup...
-
- It's lunchtime
now. I have errands to run, have to get out of the office
for a while. I'm hungry.
-
- Really
hungry.
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