Noodles

Even though I was born and raised in Los Angeles, California, I believe I have lived in Indiana long enough (since 1951) to come to some conclusions about Hoosiers.  Therefore, I am absolutely convinced that a person must be born in Indiana to make a good, traditional meal of Chicken and Noodles.  Now I can understand cooking a chicken; it’s the noodles that require a Hoosier DNA to be made successfully.  They must be home made.

My mother was an excellent cook; however, if she planned to include noodles in any of her meal preparations, she would buy them.  Thus to me, a noodle was white, brittle and  thin, but it could be up to a quarter of an inch wide and about two inches long.  I soon learned an Indiana noodle was a scrawny, little piece of something that had been left out in the open to dry for 24 hours.  This convinced me that these little bits of something were probably spoiled before even being used.

Of course, I only had to eat one helping of Hoosier Chicken and Noodles to change my mind completely.  Combined with green beans and mashed potatoes, Chicken and Noodles are absolutely delicious.  So I determined I would learn how to make noodles.  My husband encouraged me to the point that he asked the best noodle maker in our church to teach me.  She agreed.

It was her lesson that convinced me one had to be born in Indiana to make noodles.  She had a green, Pyrex bowl with a white interior that she called her “noodle bowl.”  Into this bowl she poured flour until it reached an invisible level that only she could see.  When I asked her how much flour she used, she replied, “Oh, I don’t measure the flour; I just know how much to fill this bowl.”  Then she doubled up her right hand into a fist and pushed a hole into the center of the flour.  Next she filled the hole with egg yolks and a dab of water from her kitchen faucet.  “Sometimes, I have to use more egg yolks because I want them to come to the brim of this hole,” she said.  After that, she begin to work the flour, water and egg yolks between her thumb and fingers s, mixing, “until the dough feels right,.” she said.

The next step involved rolling this dough out flat until it was paper thin.  Then using a sharp knife, she cut the dough into thin strips and carried them into a back bedroom where she had a long table on which she placed the stripes of dough to dry for 24 hours.

Well, there was no way this city–girl could follow those directions.  I was raised with measuring cups and spoons, and I had no idea how dough “feels right.”  So I went home, pulled out my reliable Betty Crocker Cook Book and made the noodle recipe.  It was nothing short of a disaster:  the noodles looked like dumplings and tasted like cardboard.  I have never tried to made noodles since.  My husband was patient and kind about it, but I always noticed that whenever we attended a church supper that included Chicken and Noodles, his plate would be piled high.

Now whenever our church has a Chicken and Noodle meal, I make it a point to buy extra helpings and bring them home to freeze.  Then whenever I begin to hunger for good Chicken and Noodles, I thaw out a meal for myself knowing they will taste wonderful.  After all, I know the noodles have been made in Indiana by people born in Indiana, and they taste so good.