13 September 2010

Noodle rhymes with schnoodle (whom I miss)

September 7, 2010

When I was seven, my family and I lived in Massachusetts. One morning before preschool and after having built a tent inside the living room, my father called me out of my tunnel constructed of blankets and chairs and pillows for breakfast. He asked me what I wanted. This was the first mistake to give me the option of choosing my own breakfast. Instead of sugary cereals, or eggs or even pancakes, I insisted on ramen noodles. My father insisted right back that my choice was not on the menu. The lady doth protest too much, and won the battle of noodles versus “you should have listened to your father” right then and there. What I recall next is that as soon as my dad placed the steaming bowl of salty noodles in front of me, my stomach flipped. I instantly felt nauseous and regretful. I also couldn’t bring myself to telling my dear old dad that I didn’t want to the noodles that he knew was a bad idea to begin with, but so kindly cooked for me instead. So, I ate them up. Every last one. Just thinking about it today makes me a little queasy.


What happens next is not pretty.


The second we pull up to my preschool, I vomit all over the front seat of my father’s car. It happens instantaneously. I can still see the brown plastic cup holder placed on the hump between the two front seats. It is covered in my speckled, greasy, undigested white squiggly noodles that only seconds before were floating somewhere between my stomach and my burning throat. My dad, ever so calmly, lifts the cup holder out of the car, instructs me to “stay put, kiddo,” and disappears for a second to dispose of the evidence. He runs inside to deliver the message in person that I will not be attending school that day.


I couldn’t even look at ramen noodles for years after this incident. Forget about the smell or the taste. Only in my adult life, with a full time job, and desperate for a quick lunch, have I been able to stomach eating ramen noodles again.


So why am I telling you this story? Because noodles are on the menu for breakfast in Beijing.


I may or may not let you know how this goes.


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