Thursday, November 08, 2007


Cold Noodles.

There are not many foods which I can eat in common with Pat, as he is quite particular. There is even a name for his style of peculiarity, but it escapes me at the moment. Something like Rogaine, although you and I both know that Rogaine is a gentleman's hair recovery salve. Anyhow. My point is, Pat and I both enjoy noodle meals.

We also enjoy my home-crafted "tater tots," but that is not on topic. Heh. I guess I just say it to brag. Oh how I love that old recipe.

Tonight's noodle meal was to be divine. Pat cooks some special Oriental spaghetti-type pasta and then coats it with "organic" peanut butter. The idea, the combination, is lunacy, but oh how delicious it is. It is amazing food. He often sprinkles it with coriander leaf and sesame "bushotto." Oh how it is filling. Oh how it sates. When he makes it lately, we even refer to the dish as "lunatic noodles." It is a joke among men. It is good.

I was very late getting home after my trip to the secret redwood patch (one of the roads had gone out after the first rain and I needed to shore up a section with a fill wall — even added a French drain for good measure) so my noodles had gone cold. I was polite and said I was sorry I had been late, but Pat continued to watch his television show about dancing. I put the noodles in the microwave cooker but this caused the peanut butter to separate into oil and an unpleasant mealy paste, and the noodles went clumpy. To honor Pat's commitment I ate it, but it was horrid. Every bite was an eternity. Every swallow was to vomit oil and glue into my own stomach. At the end of the meal I was ill, mad at Pat (although I honored him), and there was no fun in the house. I sat alongside the car in the dark garage for a few hours until my body had processed the terrible nutrition, and then went to the corner store for a pickled chorizo and a box of Saltines.

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