Once upon a time (tonight) I had lofty plans to make a zesty Asian baked salmon fillet over a bed of creamy, Asian-peanuty-saucy soba noodles.
Soba noodles are beautiful. They are thin and smooth, supple when boiled, and have the distinct, chocolate milk color of a Weimerainer puppy dog. And they are delicious.
But back to the dinner: so I was making the sauce, chopping some veggies, sautéing rainbow chard in my little cast-iron skillet, pre-heating the oven and juicing some lemons when it occurred to me that it was time to drain the noodles. They had boiled for a sufficient time, the delicate tendrils dancing in the water like some giant anemone. Off went the burner, and to the sink I went with my hot pot of water and noodles. The colander was set and everything drained the way it was supposed to — into the drain.
And then…AND THEN…the colander tipped. It tipped into the drain. But not just any drain. The GARBAGE DISPOSAL drain. And, like a mudslide, but as light as a leaf falling from a tree branch, the collective noodle-tangle slid into the tunnel of darkness with a distinctive slurp.
It all went down the drain, and I, like the adult that I am, banged my fists on the sink and yelled into my empty apartment.
Then I refilled the pot, set it on the burner to boil, and cooked the remaining dry soba noodles left in the package.
Dinner was good – the salmon tangy with a slow burn from ground ginger, the chard wilted with champagne vinegar, and the creamy peanut sauce coated every elusive good. Yet, it was only after nearly half a bottle of Crispin that I have come to terms with the noodles that almost were.