Soaring Through Blue

of noodles, lovingly






Awhile ago, I sent the book into the publisher.

Then, I was hoping to get on to the couch for some serious lounging for a few weeks, at least. However, our publisher (adorable, nitpicking man) sent it back just THREE DAYS later! Ay god, did he not realize how weary I'd grown over the two weeks, previously? Hunched at my computer, tapping away, fingers a-clatter, biting my lip as I carefully crafted sentence upon sentence, stopping only to eat, look at the baby, sleep, check my twelve favorite blogs, wave hi to PapaChef as he fed, changed and bathed the baby, eat, check Twitter and make sure the celebrity bloggers am aware that I am there, eat, sleep, check Facebook and my twelve most favorite blogs, sleep, and eat.

And that's before I even have lunch.

Astonishingly.

My head bent low, I called out, beseechingly, to PapaChef.

"Honey, my love? Can you put down Midget Peanut for just a minute and come here?" Tears welled up in my eyes, threateningly, nearly spilling over, almost making tiny saltwater rivulets down the plains of my face.

He came running.

"What is it, my love, my only? Are there more vile comments on the blog again? Did you ingest gluten, inadvertantly? Do you need a snack?"

Oh, I love him so.

"Darling, no, it is far worse than any of that. Well, not as bad as being hungry. No, but almost. You see, our darling editor has sent the manuscript back, already! I thought it must be a mistake, but no. Look at the edits."

I pointed to sentence after sentence that needed to be re-crafted. And this, after all my hunching and clattering of keys.

"Oh, honey, I know you needed a few weeks off after working so hard for the past few weeks. Tell you what, I'll make roast pork tenderloins seared in bacon fat and basted with duck fat for dinner! Your favorite! And zucchini draped with cheese, would that make you feel better?"

Goodness, I love this man.

I sniffled. "Could we have the rest of the foie gras, too? I don't think I can go on if I don't have just a smoodge of it on my tongue..."

"Of course, love."

Oh my goodness lordy me, how I adore this man.

So back to work I went, after twatting at Martha Stewart and a few other people, whom couldn't be put off any longer. My dream, you see, is to spread knowledge of celiac to humanity through the wonder of technology, and grins.

I was in the middle of a twat to Bittmann when I looked up to find a steaming pile of sweet potatoe-rice-amaranth-teff noodles, steamingly fragrant, beseeching me to eat them.

"Just a little something to tide you over until the roast is done, my sweet pie," murmured PapaChef, close to my ear. His breath felt like tiny flickles of tenderness upon my earlobe.

I didn't have a moment to waste, so I started, immediately, to whorl the noodles onto my fork and slurp them onto my waiting tongue.

Heaven.

It's hard to take yourself too seriously with noodles slipping and sliding inside your mouth, over the bumpy tastebuds of your tongue and down your throat past your larynx and down your esophagus and into your stomach. Noodles are so silly! I'd love to hear what you do with noodles. I know most people do not have a PapaChef in residence, but I'll be more than happy to hear your noodle ideas anyway.