Ever since my father got COVID he’s been obsessed with ramen. Not the kind you buy at a restaurant, or Ippudo, but the instant type. Curly waxed yellow noodles, the kind that comes with a seasoning package. The shrimpy kind evaporating after you boil it long enough.
Ma forbade it after reading an article about MSG from the Taiwanese Mom Line group chat. She squinted down at the nutrition-labeled plastic in her left hand, trashing the emptied wrapper. Not that the MSG mattered that much, though. She likes to call all carbs “empty calories” (except rice). Despite this, he started to sneak into the house with paper bags—instant noodles stuffed beneath produce—and slipped shiny wrapped noodles into the empty shoe boxes, crammed into his closet. It was almost laughable. My father who was glued to his computer, an obsessive workaholic, and a certified smooth talker was risking it all for some noodles.
We’ve never been exceptionally close, my father and I, his frequent business trips and café visits used to flood his schedule. When I was younger, this distance made our time together sweeter, rarer—after he returned from trips I would squeal, jump into his arms, laugh. He was something like my God. But he was always chasing the next promotion, hacking at one task after the other. I went through this phase where I would act really dumb to get a response. Anything: smile, scolding, whatever to fill the awkward gaps of silence at dinner. I rambled about forks, the function of plates, impossible “what-if’s.” I remember splaying my arms across my primary school counselor’s leather chair, lashes damp when she asked about him. The distance between us felt too far to jump.
But we’re always the latest up, the most vulnerable when hungry. I’ve inherited a lot of his bad traits: the messy sleep schedule, deteriorating teeth, and hunger. I spread out my math homework to get back at him, petty. But when he cooks, he always offers. I always say yes. In the past, it was badly scrambled fried rice with too-big pieces of spam, but now it’s ramen.
Under the cracking lamp lights, Elton John’s warped voice in the background. We nursed thick green ceramic bowls, greasy chopsticks, reaching for chili oil coated bamboo shoots. Steam prodding at our chins, cloaked in silence besides the chews, rhythmic breathing. I think I saw him most clearly in these moments: his thick framed smudged glasses, the unguarded slump of his shoulders, and the way broth would drip onto his t-shirt. How he picked apart an egg, mixed the yolk into soup. The way his stubble glistened with droplets and reflected half-gray.
One night I asked him why ramen—he said the warmth. I understood at that moment—because I clutched onto it too, the lingering warmth in my throat, our pink ears under moonlight.
