Lo mein days were usually good days. Lu always noted that the ratio of seasonings was "just right." The little boy around the corner always returned the noodle bowl, empty, by the time I got back from my check-ups with Lu. The hobo in the tunnel would always smile at me, teeth showing. He smiled at me every Sunday, and I couldn't blame him. That absurd segway had the power to force a smile on anyone's face. However, the smiles on non-lo mein days were closed-mouth smiles. For some inexplicable reason, it was only on lo mein days that I would get a glimpse of those yellow-with-a-hint-of-brown teeth.
I had a theory for why lo mein days were good days. Living in an apartment by myself in this town has given me a lot of time to ponder fatuous matters such as this. Lo mein undoubtedly had the most calories of all my recipes. I have put a lot of thought into this, and I have come to the conclusion that calories are true happiness in food form. Each calorie represents a degree of happiness; the more calories there are in a dish, the happier the person eating the dish is. This statement my seem contradictory coming from a woman 60 inches in height and 100 pounds in weight, but in my life I have found no satisfaction more true than that of eating good meal, filled with calories.
After I finished cleaning the dishes that night, removing the remenents of the noodles, but never the smell, I began another one of my Sunday routines. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, put my pajamas on, and placed myself in front of my 12-inch Sony TV. At 8 o'clock ABC's "Wipeout" promptly came on. American television is not quite as ludicrous as my native Chinese is, but it sure was getting there.
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