It’s just a bowl of noodles. A stockpot, in my case, because I don’t have the basketball-sized Tupperware bowl my grandma uses, but it’s still just a bowl of noodles, coated with the most stereotypically American of ingredients—Miracle Whip, mayo, a little pickle relish. It’s a bowl of noodles, but now it’s something more. It’s my deliverance, my emancipation from heartbreak.
Despite being a food writer, up until four years ago, I had never cooked. Like really, truly never. My husband enjoyed making dinner each night—a culinary curtain that separated his work life from our (formerly) happy home life—and I was happy to let him. I’d gush over his pastas when we first started dating; swung my legs from my perch on the kitchen island as he made coconut rice in what we thought was our forever home; fed the babies while he baked bread and attempted Peking duck on paternity leave; and gnawed on countless homemade pizzas as our relationship disintegrated over the years and I went through the stages of grief—denial, intense pain, and then, finally, numb acceptance.
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