Ramen

Ramen intrigues me.
Nothing is cooler in my mind than being a ramen chef, what I’d call a ramen master. It’s the type of thing that has gurus, not professionals.
I want to whip up ramen and wolf it down. It comes with its own set of verbs.

Whip.

Wolf.

Slurp.

Sweat.

Viscosity made for sick days to beat chicken soup. Umami. Umami. Umami. That’s what the fancy shmancy chefs call it. Shmancy must be added because ramen laughs at itself a little – probably as a result of its instant noodle child, the brunt of all jokes about slummy college dorm rooms.

Ramen’s other relative, udon, gives me a feeling in my mouth that’s contagious to my gut. Say it big and grinning now, with vowels deep: U-DON. Like UMAMI. Or my friend’s dog DUKE. It’s the sound of the long u that does it for me. Makes me feel like I’m talking to a bear or a whale.
Ramen is similar, but it makes me feel like I am the bear.
It feels like a breathy breath out, when you exhale from the back of your throat to mimic the sound of a crowd in a stadium. Thousands of people cheering.

I picture chopsticks scooping, stuffing, folding. Fat dissolved and noodles flowing. Ruggedness, companionship, wiliness.
The discipline of a monk and the callousness of a dog. Dogged. But it sounds like BEAR.

I’m going to be a ramen guru.

Ramen intrigues me.