Emerging from a Tryptophan Coma

It always amazes me that we prepare for Thanksgiving for days, and toil over hot oven and stove for hours....and it's over in a matter of minutes. Oh, I know Thanksgiving is more about family and the chance to relax and be in each others' company.... but the swiftness with which we devour is always mind-boggling.

We had a great meal at my sister-in-law's house. I brought the afore mentioned Bourbon Orange Pecan Pie...and people seemed to think it was ok. All the usual Thanksgiving suspects were present.....except for Grandma's noodles. I could have made them...but did not take the time to do so this year.

In my family Grandma's noodles have always been a staple at any family holiday affair. When Grandma was alive she and Grandpa used to sweep into the house with a bit silver pot of the eggy mixture. Usually it was carefully handed off to another adult while they took off their coats and got settled. Invariably, you would hear one of the kids shout "The noodles are here!" We always looked forward to ladling out a serving (or 2) of noodles onto our plates. The adults poured them over their mashed potatoes...but I could never bring myself to do that. The two dishes are perfect on their own. No reason to mix.

I know that Grandma's noodles were born of the Depression and the need to feed 5 children on little to no money. This didn't occur to me until I was an adult myself. When I realized the part that this no-frills side dish played in my heritage, I set out to learn how to make them. My sister had already learned, and so combined with my Grandma's recipe and my sister's guidance, I became a noodler.

I suppose to anyone outside my family these aren't anything special. They are a simple combination of egg, flour, salt, milk and yellow food coloring. You mix it all up, roll the dough out paper thin, and let it sit overnight, or until they have dried. Then you cut them into strips. Next, you boil them in chicken stock. That's it. They do not have much flavor, not much to look at....but no matter. They are home. They are family. They are my heritage.

It was either an aunt or my mother who always said that the way to tell who would be good husband material was to see if he likes Grandma's noodles. Thankfully, Dave does seem to like them....if not just tolerate them because they mean so much to me.

When my Grandma died, I inherited something that will stay with me until I die. I inherited the rolling pin she used to roll out her noodles. Now, every time I use that rolling pin...be it for pie crust or crushing up crackers, or for noodles....I think of Grandma - and she is with me.

I think that's why I'm so melancholy that there were no noodles today. I'm thinking about you any Grandma....wherever you are.