Magical udon

I’ll admit that I was skeptical. Mark’s kitchen is the size of my left arm. How was he to cook a delicious meal for two in that tissue box? But, somehow, magically, he pulled it off.

I squeezed myself against the doorway of his kitchen, trying not to take up too much space, as he pivoted from stove to sink. “A clean kitchen is a safe kitchen,” he kept repeating, as he washed each dish and utensil immediately after its use. I felt a bond in our slight OCD, maniacal kitchen cleanliness.

He was making udon, a warm treat on a rainy evening. I watched him slice through a pink half cylinder of fish cake, place chicken breasts on the George Foreman, chop scallions, and boil noodles all within a two square feet area of space. Somehow, in that tiny space, we lost count of the magical phases of noodle soup making.

With chicken and noodles cooked, Mark ladled the warmth into bowls and added the finishing touches—a drizzle of mirin and a dash of Japanese seasoning. I eyed him dubiously, slightly disapproving of his method, and he handed me my steaming bowl. I slurped those thick white noodles, sipped the warm soup, and poked the spongy fish cake with the point of my chopstick. They were good. It really was like Mark pulled off some magic trick, making two hot bowls of udon appear from almost nothing. How am I ever to beat that?