I am about to take my life in my hands.
By which I mean: I am about to cook and eat a package of Ramen noodles.
I realize that such an action isn’t ordinarily considered life-threatening, and it’s possible that I’m indulging in hyperbole, but I am still so traumatized after my last experience with Ramen noodles that I feel I must be very, very careful.
Last time I had Ramen noodles, I was visiting my aunt in Los Angeles. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I wanted a snack but not something too filling, because for dinner we were planning to go to a restaurant so posh it didn’t have a name. A brief search of the pantry revealed just the thing, and I put the water in the microwave.
As the microwave performed the task for which it had been invented, I opened up the package of Ramen noodles. My eye fell upon the directions, and I started thinking. “Hmm,” I thought. “It says to put half the flavor packet in. But I really like the flavor. I’ll just use the whole thing.”
The microwave beeped, and I poured the water into the bowl in which I had placed the noodles and all the contents of the flavor packet. I stirred and let sit for three minutes. Then I picked up my fork and, delighting in the anticipation of pleasure, took a bite.
I will spare you the description of the convulsions that racked my innards as they had never been racked before. There’s no need for you to visualize how quickly I ran to the sink and spat out the noodles. I needn’t enumerate for you the minutes I spent trying to rid my mouth of the hideous taste that filled it.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening watching television and eating ice cream. We rescheduled dinner at the restaurant so posh it didn’t have a name. And Ramen noodles began to frighten me.
This happened twenty years ago.
Wish me luck.
Update: I couldn’t do it. I made pasta instead.