Memories at the Bottom of a Bowl of Ramen

When I was between the ages of 3 and 5, my family was mostly complete. My 3 siblings on my mom’s side and I all lived in the same house with my mom and step-dad. This was the closest I got to having a “normal” family in my whole life. Probably once a week or so, we would have a “go fend for yourself” night for dinner. Younger me was ecstatic, because that meant I could have ramen noodles for dinner. It was my favorite time of the week. I’d pick from chicken or beef (chicken, obviously,) and one of my older siblings would help me boil the water needed. After the noodles were done cooking, I would drain most of the water, then add an ice cube to my bowl to cool the noodles.

When I was around 9 years old, my mom divorced my step-dad. She and I moved into a trailer, and I became an only child except for the weekends my younger brother would come to visit. My mom was surviving off of the child-support my dad paid. We got around $600 per month for groceries, living expenses, and my mom’s cigarettes. This meant that we often didn’t have much food. We turned to quick and easy meals such as frozen taquitos with sour cream, or ramen noodles. I remember at times being desperate for some protein, I would ask my mom if we could make ramen casserole. It was ramen noodles, corn, and ground beef.

In 2008, my mom met the man who would become her fourth husband. My older sister had recently found out she was pregnant at 17 years old. Her dad’s family (whom she now lived with) didn’t approve of pregnancy out of wedlock, so she was kicked out of their home. She went to live with her boyfriend’s godfather. One night, my mom and I got a call that my sister was in labor. She was being held at the hospital overnight as they tried to stop the contractions, because it was too soon for the baby to be born. This was when my mom met Randy, my sister’s boyfriend’s godfather. They spent the night in the hospital talking and getting to know one another. One thing led to another and about a month later, the two were getting married in a courthouse wedding.

Randy was kind of an awful person, but it wasn’t obvious right away. At first, I kind of actually liked him. It was exciting to have a new person in my life, and even more exciting to have a house that had 4 bedrooms, two bathrooms, a garage, and two living spaces. There was a huge TV with countless DVDs, a PS2 with games like Dance Dance Revolution and Beyond Good and Evil. I was still the only kid in the household, so every few months I would decide to switch rooms. Then, when I got bored of one, I’d move on to the next. The only one off limits was the master bedroom.

When we lived in this house with Randy, we ate out way too much. For nearly every single meal we were either going to a restaurant or ordering take out from one. At first it was exciting, but even as a child I got to a point where it wasn’t sustainable. I started feeling sick to my stomach all the time. I would be constipated and bloated, but I didn’t quite realize it wasn’t normal to feel that way.

Every now and then, I would get a special treat. Randy would make spicy ramen. This was the first time in my life that I was introduced to spices other than chili powder and salt. He’d add in a little cumin, cayenne, paprika, and the ramen spice packet. It was the perfect amount of spicy– enough to make my nose run, but not so much that my lips became red and angry.

In September of 2023, Josh and I went on a trip to Chicago. We were attending Riot Fest, a music festival in Douglass Park. Death Cab for Cutie was there, double featuring with The Postal Service. Each band were celebrating the 20th anniversary of their albums “Transatlanticism” and “Give Up” respectively. We’d already seen Death Cab earlier in the same year, but when I found out they were doing an album play through of probably my favorite album ever, I had to go. We ubered to the venue, intending to Uber back to the hotel afterward. We knew that it would be congested and difficult to find a ride back, but we had no idea just how difficult it would end up being.

Each time we’d request an Uber, it would be pending for 5+ minutes before eventually being canceled. Frustrated, I suggested we walk a couple blocks away to get away from some of the congestion, hoping that would improve our odds of securing a ride. However, as we walked, the neighborhood became more dilapidated. The people around us dissipated and suddenly we were alone. Knowing that not all Chicago neighborhoods are safe, Josh suggested we turn back around. We went to cross the road, and as we did so, a taxi came from out of nowhere and nearly hit us. The horn sounded, and I waved behind me apologetically. The man in the taxi rolled his window down and asked if we needed a ride. I looked to Josh, and we shared a silent agreement. This was likely our best bet.

I told the man the name of our hotel, and he immediately knew the address. “Yes, I can get you there. For you, a very fair price of $100.” We were desperate, and we agreed. The taxi expertly began weaving through traffic, speeding between stops. Eventually, we came to a complete stand still. Surrounding us were cars and trucks in the middle of the road. Mexican flags waved all around, as music blared from each cars’ sound systems.

Little did we know, it was also the weekend of Mexican Independence Day. Having grown up in small towns, we were oblivious to the celebrations that occur each year in cities. Apparently, that was why none of the Uber drivers were accepting our rides. The traffic, however, seemed to be never-ending. We left the festival around 10:30 p.m., yet there we were at 12 a.m., still miles from the hotel. The taxi driver was losing his patience. He and I made eye contact in the rearview mirror as he said, “Uber drivers don’t do this!”

He pulled the car onto the side walk, driving around the stand-still cars. Josh and I shared an incredulous glance, and we couldn’t stop the laughs that escaped us. It felt as if we were in a movie, crazy taxi driver weaving in and out of traffic to get a Very Important Person to a Very Important Place. Except we were just two regular people, trying to get back to our hotel after a long day at a music festival.

When we finally arrived at the hotel, the taxi driver held out his electronic payment system. I tapped my credit card, but it wouldn’t go through. I tried 3 or 4 times, my panic growing with each attempt. I realized that my card company likely put a lock on my card. Thankfully, Josh was able to use one of his cards without incident. We hurried inside the hotel, grateful to have finally made it.

It was around 12:30 a.m. Most restaurants around the hotel were closed, and we really didn’t want to run into a repeat of the taxi situation. We decided to do a quick lap around the block to find something to eat. It was then we found a place called Ramen-San that was open until 1 a.m.

I remember that being the best bowl of ramen I’ve ever had in my whole life. It was the first time either Josh or I had had restaurant-quality ramen, with the soft-boiled egg and toppings. I think I got some sort of spicy chicken ramen, reminiscent of my childhood. I had a shot of saki, and I was warm and content.

It struck me then, how ramen was more than some noodles in a bowl of broth. In some ways, it was a reflection of where I was in life. As a child, it was the freedom to choose my own meal. Later, it became survival, stretched and reimagined to fill our stomachs. Then, ramen acted as a gateway of sorts– a taste of spice, a hint of adventure.

That night in Chicago, sitting across from Josh in the glow of the ramen shop, I saw how the moments of struggles, laughter, and resilience led me there, to that quiet moment of contentment. As corny as it may be, I guess sometimes life resembles those bowls of ramen. Sometimes it’s simple, sometimes it’s thrown together out of necessity, and sometimes it surprises you with depth and richness you never expected. But in the end, it’s always there, waiting to be savored.