Friday, November 25, 2011


It was a day event. The dough was made then put aside to set for a couple of hours before Mom rolled it out into thin sheets. Mom was making noodles.

I'm pretty sure that if one were to ask any family member who remembers our days on the farm what was the favorite food, Mom's noodles would be the number one pick. Fresh eggs from the hen house and Mom's magic hands made memories.

I can't think of the holidays without thinking of Mom's labors of love in the kitchen. She was a born cook. We sat at the table talking with neighbors, friends and family while Mom cooked. We all knew to stay out of her way. Maybe we migrated to the table drawn there by the aromas and laughter that drew us there.

In later years when I had moved away, Mom would send as part of our Christmas a bag of homemade noodles. The kids would squeal with delight. The perfect gift.

None of us can quite capture the method or the taste involved with Mom's noodles. I no longer get a bag of her noodles in the mail. But as I write this, I find myself smiling at the delight over the years that came when Mom made her noodles.

Hm. Maybe I'm hungry. I think I'll go eat leftovers.

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