Since No One Asked
There are two things that have been a constant in my life, and both are so inextricably linked that I can’t bear to tear them apart: food and language. I say language rather than words, because although words are what I deal in everyday, it’s language that we’re really talking about. And isn’t food a language in and of itself? When you go to another country where you are the outsider, do you not communicate through food? Do we not grin whilst spooning yoghurt into our mouths coated with honey as we sit outside in the Greek heat? Have you never cried because the homemade pasta in the tiny trattoria made by nonnas was so good? (Just me?) Or had your eyes water through spice-spiked dumplings in a Chinese restaurant filled with locals, but in a great way? How about biting into the perfect croque madame in a Parisian bistro after your heart was broken and looking up at your waitress and realising she’s gone through the same soul-searing pain too?
Perhaps what I really mean to say is that food is language. It’s the ultimate voice of the heart, the soul and yes, the stomach. It’s why I love cooking (and eating) so much. And writing about it all. I started a newsletter in lockdown like every other writer in the world, under the assumption that no one would care about the ramblings of an unmeasured cook who thinks about food in the same breath as lust, heartbreak and friendships. Perhaps that’s why I called it Since No One Asked. Literally no one asked me to do this. Yet here I am, almost exactly a year later. Nearly 1000 subscribers. And a community of readers who take the time to not only read what is basically the inside of my head, but also to reply with mirrored experiences.
It feels good to know that I’m not the only one who relates to the perfect last bite (TLB, in case you missed it) or finds solace in pasta (always and forever). Now that our food experiences have been limited to our homes – or local parks, waterways or in alternative set-ups on friends’ doorsteps – we’re collectively experiencing a new language through food. Sewing up the social distance. Repairing broken relationships with cooking. Reimagining childhood meals. Sending food deliveries to friends. Enjoying family meals over Zoom.
This is a recipe that’s taken from one of my favourite newsletters. One which spoke to a time in my life when food punctuated my biggest (and longest) heartbreak. This is the dish I crave when the sun is hot and I remember that I got through it all. And I’m better for it. Thanks to noods – and good friends, of course.
Solitude Noods
While you don’t need the heat of a heartbreak to make these, it’s useful to think of this dish as restoring balance.
This recipe obviously makes one portion (see title), so you’ll need: noods (not nudes) – I like using udon or soba or rice noodles because they slurp real good, but go with whatever you can get (my motto for life and love).
Then you’ll need about 2 tbsp tahini that’s been whisked with the juice of ½ lime, a little warm water to loosen and salt (set half of this aside).
1 tbsp white miso paste; 2 tsp soy sauce; 1 tbsp sesame oil; the juice of the other ½ lime; ½ tbsp honey; 1 tsp Asian chilli oil; 1 spring onion thinly sliced (I do mine at an angle); ¼ cucumber thinly sliced into half moons; toasted sesame seeds and peanuts.
Whisk half of the tahini mixture with the rest of the wet ingredients (basically everything but the spring onions, cucumbers, nuts and seeds) in a bowl, then place in the fridge. Bring a pan of water to the boil and drop in your noods. When they're soft and slippery, drain them in a sieve then run under cold water until they’ve dropped in temperature. Grab the bowl from the fridge, add the noodles and mix thoroughly with your hands. Add the spring onions, cukes and nuts. Finish with a sprinkle of sesame seeds and drizzle the rest of the tahini dressing on top.
Serve with an ice cold beer, remembering those hot, spicy summers of the past.
Cat Sarsfield