58 Oodles of Noodles and the American Dream

John Guss was made oblivious by the whirling blades of Osterizers. In his redoubtable aerie of haute cuisine at, but not of, the heart of Alder Avenue’s and Yolanda Drive’s precious conjunction, the neighborhood of middle class (i.e. great) dreams, there was no inkling of the clash downtown.
“This little gloppy can be marinated venison,” he vamped with a handful of Top Ramen noodles al dente. “This little gloppy can be pone. LSD 41, Florida State 14! We’re . . . Going . . . To . . . A-Go-Go!” He dropped both handfuls into the blender, jammed on the rubber top, and entreated the games to begin.
“Black-eyed peas!” he wailed, scooping more Oodles of Noodles from the bowl. An ecstatic mood depended on the obliterative spinning and crunching and the harmony of reduction, at last, of all ingredients to the consistency of apple sauce. He lifted the Osterizer’s top just enough to push through, and watched this batch of noodles, dubbed peas, merge with the slush representing deer meat and corn. “Ah ha ha ha ha ha!” he laughed madly and wildly. “Soul Food Night in San Anselmo!” He shouted it. He could see the same sign adorn the eaves above his restaurant door. “A Revolution For The Senses!” He predicted such title for Gourmet, then it dawned how the inspiration fit his stainless steel blades atwirl, and he laughed heedless whether it was only coincidence or quite a pun. The televised accompaniments were as easily envisioned, making more shouts: “Good morning, America!” and “Thank you, Larry!” and “Ohmygod, Oprah!” He laughed louder and sang. His eyes stung from glad tears, and he switched off the blender and dialed City Hall.

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One Response to “58 Oodles of Noodles and the American Dream”

  1. Peter Smith Says:

    Reading this my own eyes sting from glad tears! More! More!

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