Ramen and The Other Pros to Poverty
It was grueling today at my bakery job. The phrase “time is an illusion” is especially true for those who never sit. Hours turn to minutes, minutes turn to seconds, one cannot call this “making a living” as there’s no possibility of doing just that. Sore and hungry I make my way to the door to my house. With the last of my reserved energy, I open it by gracefully slamming my shoulder into it and make my way into the kitchen. These are the real fruits of your labor they never talk about… Intoxicated with fatigue, I somehow recall my boss’s encouraging words at work:“No no you’re doing it wrong, here let me show you.” She repeats the same process in the exact manner I used for icing danishes. Realizing her stupid wrist flick is the same as my stupid wrist flick, she just stares at our pastries for an extended time, creating a tense awkward energy in the room. Most days go like this. Work is as repetitive and pointless throughout the day as any minimum wage job: ‘living the dream’ of having no sleep, working your life away, and barely anything to show for it.
I ponder how my boss can sleep at night, and my stomach twists and pinches until I can feel the sensation of bile slowly start to come up the very back of my throat. While I was living the American Dream, I forgot to eat today. The familiar sensation of acid reflux gives me a sweet reminder that I am human. Panicked at the time, my eyes dart around the kitchen. All that I can find is a few cloves of garlic, half an onion, and some sauces in the fridge. It has been a while since I’ve done any grocery shopping. I check the broken oven being used as an impromptu cabinet. Instant Ramen, my saving grace. Knowing the origin of it being a solution to famine reminds me to be grateful that we have these things. However, growing quite accustomed to these noodles has turned them from the salty beefy goodness I had known to plastic-flavored strands of mush. Nonetheless, this is exactly what I needed right now.
The steps to cooking instant noodles are as ingrained in my subconscious as flight would be for a bird. I slip into my bitter thoughts as little autopilot cooks for me. “Will it always be this way?” Grab the pot in the cabinet under the stove. “It can’t stay like this forever. I need a new job.” Place it on the stove and add some butter. “Does my boss, Alex, feel the same?” Chop the onion and throw it in the pot once the butter is hot. “If so, then why does she make my life even more hellish than it needs to be?” Stir the onion and butter then add some minced garlic once the onions are transparent. “I feel like I’m watching a zombie live my life…” Add in the seasoning packets with a light sprinkle of powdered ginger. “When do the ‘most fun years’ of my life start, because this is not what I had pictured. Sitting in my kitchen at eleven o’clock at night making noodles while half asleep so I can go back to work at five in the morning with the most abrasive woman I’ve ever known.” While mixing the ingredients I find some soy sauce and notice it’s two weeks from being out of date. “She may be old, but she’s a fine wine.” Adding two tablespoons of the “fine wine” to the pot the smell of salty beef, onion, and ginger floods my nostrils. The dish’s way of telling me it’s time to add the dried noodles. I add enough water to cover the noodles and turn the heat up for the concoction to come to a boil. Placing a lid on I turn down the heat a bit. I can hear my bottle of my homemade ‘teriyaki’ calling from the fridge. “Did you forget about me?”
It is nowhere near authentic teriyaki but to my American tongue, it’s a sweet and savory heaven. A blend of my very own making: It’s two parts soy sauce, one part brown sugar, and a bit of beef bouillon heated gently into a thicker sauce that I keep for emergencies like this. It is a weapon to fight off the hunger. “This is my weapon, there are many like it but this one is mine. Wait, did I use the same soy sauce to make this?… You know what? Screw it, we’re living on the side of danger tonight.” I wait for the noodles to cook a little longer before I add my beloved secret ingredient generously. The noodles finish cooking and I kill the heat. Gazing happily at my creation I wonder if this is how Momofuku Ando felt after inventing instant noodles.
The smell of the salty sweet beef had permeated the house. Seeing my little sister round the kitchen corner rubbing her eyes, I can tell I’m not the only one who is starving tonight. Living with a big family will make you have a tendency to cook bigger portions; thankfully my autopilot did exactly that.
She sleepily walks up to me and says in a meek voice, “What did you make? It smells really good…”
“Ramen,” I respond.
She rubs her eyes hard again. Did she wake up from a dead sleep from the smell? “Can I have some?” she asks as if anyone could say no to that innocent face.
“Of course, here.” Grabbing some bowls from the shelf I serve her and myself some decent-sized portions of tonight’s culinary masterpiece. We make our way to the dinner table and start eating. There is no time for conversation because we start to slurp noodles as fast as we possibly can without burning our mouths. Seeing her happy face from eating good food, I feel much better about my position in life.
Despite it being cheap, it’s good, it’s food, and it’s here. My sister and I slow our slurping and she talks to me about her day with the neighbor boy. They had found a snake in the yard and he began to chase her around with it. She laughed as she told me how she found a spider and chased him with it on a stick until he began to cry and beg for forgiveness. Some millionaires couldn’t buy such happiness from a simple bowl of ramen. The community that food brings is wholesome and fulfilling, something you couldn’t simply find in wealth. It’s a wealth of its own kind. My sister finishes her food and slowly waddles back to bed, her stomach full of noodles, leaving me to do the same. As my tired feet slug up the stairs, I gleam with contentment. “You know, it’s not so bad. Maybe Alex will get into an accident before we have work tomorrow so I can have time to cook something nice tomorrow.” With this newfound hope in my heart, I retreat to my bedroom for a night of peaceful slumber.
Brianna Kuempel is a freshman at Northern Michigan University in Marquette, MI, working towards her major in Social Work. She is from a small town and has always had a passion for writing as a form of self-expression. Her focus for her degree is Human Behavior, and she hopes to become a counselor and assist families with their mental health needs. She loves experimenting with food and has a great appreciation for both art and cuisine alike.
The Albion Review 