A Ramen-less life

by

I walked through the doorway at the office this morning with a woman from another department whose arms were laden with big grocery bags full of all sorts of odds and ends.  Figuring she was stocking up on Halloween goodies for our building’s trick-or-treat madness tomorrow, I commented that I didn’t think we’d ever get through all that nougat.

She laughed (to my surprise) and said the items in the bag were not, in fact, candy, but different items she’d collected to send over to Iraq as part of an “adopt-a-unit” scheme our student employees are involved in.  She reeled off a list of the things in the bags, one of which was ramen noodles.

And of all the other things she named, the ramen was the only one that stuck in my mind.  I’ve never tasted ramen.  I’m not sure how I feel about that.  I’ve had lots and lots of Litpon chicken noodle Cup o’ Soup, which in my estimation must be very similar to ramen.  And as long as I have Navin Johnson on the brain, I’ve never had pizza in a cup.

I lived with a guy in college who ate ramen noodles — as I understand lots of students do — for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day of the week for months on end.  We had cupboards stocked to overflowing with the little plastic bricks of the stuff.  And in all those months I never broke down and asked for a taste.  I’m not sure why this seems so odd to me, but it does.  Why didn’t I ever try ramen?  It was all around me, the warm, moist, salty aroma wafting through the activated charcoal filter on our countertop microwave oven.

Ramen.  Huh.  Go figure.  I hope the troops like it. 

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