The Apartment Drama: Wreckin’ Ramen

I was making supper. The idea for the evening meal was to cook fish, Halibut fillets to be more specific, along with vegetables and a salad to go along with left over rice from the night before.  Gene had previously suggested I cook up some noodles to go along with the rice.  He wasn’t sure if there would be enough for the both of us.  I was pretty sure there would be enough, but I cooked it anyway.  Aside from a small oven burner fire, which I handled just fine, everything worked according to plan.  Or so I thought.

I hear the sound of fumbling, followed by the insertion of a key in the door.  Gene has returned.  Where was he?  I’m not exactly sure, I didn’t ask.  He enters the kitchen to examine the results of what I’ve been up to for the last hour.

“What happened to these noodles?” He asked me.

“What do you mean?” I reply.

“We can’t eat these, there’s no water in them.  They’re ruined.” Gene stated matter-of-factly.  (That should totally be a word.)

I could not figure out what I had possibly done wrong.  I explained to him that I did everything on the back of the package.  The same way that I had cooked them that one other time.

“I’ve never seen Ramen noodles cooked the way you did them.  There must be something wrong,”  Gene said.  He then explained to me how I should have cooked them as his method was superior and used much more water.  “I’ve never seen them without water in them after they’re done.”  Gene gasped.  On the other hand I had never seen them with water when they were done.

Everything else I cooked came out just fine, in spite of the other brief situation I dealt with.  I didn’t tell him about that because he would have freaked out.  How could I have screwed up Ramen noodles?  They’re the easiest thing in the world to make.  I figure Gene is the expert here, he makes them all the time.  As for me, I hardly ever make them as I had quickly moved on to learning how to cook more complicated things.  There was more of a chance that he was right in this situation.

We eat supper.  There was indeed enough rice for the both of us.  I was right about that.  I didn’t even need to make the noodles.  After supper I return to the pot which contained my failure.  I taste them, just to see how bad they were.  Gene is not a terribly picky eater, If he wouldn’t eat them, they must be horrible.

To my happiness, the noodles tasted just the same as any other time I ever had them.  This means my method worked fine.  I stopped worrying about my perceived inability to cook simple things and moved on with my life.

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