Ramen

"...I've got plans today, so I'll wrap it up here. Thank you so much for watching!"

The match ended, and I forced a bright, cheerful tone into my closing remarks.

"Uh... tomorrow?"

Honestly, I had to wonder whether I should even keep streaming. It had been a short broadcast — not even two hours — and only a single viewer had stayed until the end. A few people had wandered in midway, but they lost interest almost immediately and filtered back out. By the time I signed off, just one person remained.

I really didn't have a talent for this, did I?

It was a sad fact, and not one I could deny. The second viewer in particular had come in with such a cutting tone that it had half-shattered my nerves; I'd spent the rest of the stream with my mental state hanging by a thread. Originally, I'd planned to hang it up after today.

"Um, Lucia... do you think I have any talent for this...?"

It might have been empty encouragement. Even so, I decided to trust the one viewer who had stayed with me until the very end. And the Information Window wouldn't have handed me a completely absurd quest... right?

"Wakarimashita! I'll go live tomorrow too!"

"Hehe. Then that's all for today! Sayonara!"

I waved with everything I had and hit the end-stream button. Ah — no camera, so nobody could see it. Still, I was sure the feeling had gotten through. That was enough.

It had been a no-name stream with a single viewer, but a quiet pride welled up all the same. I had finished my first broadcast in one piece.

By the time I signed off, the clock was already pointing at noon. Sea would be done with lunch soon and would message me, which meant I needed to throw something together for myself as well.

A regrettable truth: I had never been particularly interested in cooking. People always said living alone would make you good in the kitchen, but in practice I ordered delivery or bought side dishes from the store more often than not. Today I meant to do the same. I opened the delivery app.

"......"

I shoved my phone away and glared at the Information Window. Same as earlier — the more I looked at it, the fishier it seemed. I couldn't shake the suspicion that it was picking these quests on purpose, aiming straight at me.

"...Does the menu not matter?"

In other words: cook it badly, and it would cheap out on the reward. "Quality" was a little vague, but I took it to mean that how good the food tasted mattered more than what I chose to make. Which meant I had to present the one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dish I was most confident in.

"I suppose I'll have to show you watashi's ultimate dish..."

I muttered it like an anime line, and at last I settled on the menu.

"Ramen!!"

Ramen. The greatest food any Korean has ever loved. Cheap, simple, and the undisputed number-one staple of anyone living alone.

I pulled a packet from the kitchen cupboard. If I was going to cook for the first time in ages, why not treat it like a stream? Steady practice was going to be essential if I wanted to make it as a streamer.

"And with that in mind — today's lunch cooking stream, desu!"

Talking to myself like that sent a little wave of secondhand embarrassment through me, but I told myself it would only feel weird at first. I'd get used to it. I kept the bit going.

"First, when you boil ramen, you fill a pot with water."

I set the pot under the water purifier and let it fill. Honestly, since you were going to boil it anyway, tap water was fine. Do whatever's convenient!

"If you've got ingredients at home, minced garlic or green onion is supposed to make it even better!"

Sadly, my kitchen had neither. I didn't cook. Why would I have those lying around? Bean sprouts were good too, though. Especially for a hangover.

"Next, you tear open the packet and put the soup powder in the pot first!"

When people cook ramen, they tend to split into two camps: noodles first, or soup first. The short version is that it doesn't really matter either way. I used to believe, with religious conviction, an old internet claim that adding the powder first raised the boiling point and made it taste better. Then a ramen researcher came on TV and said it had no effect on the flavor whatsoever. The shock was real — but by then it was already a habit, so I still put the soup in first.

"Eh... atchoo!"

The sharp tickle of the powder caught my nose and I sneezed. Sniffling, I moved calmly on to the next line.

"Then, once the water is bubbling, you add the noodles. If you can't be bothered, you can throw the noodles and the soup in together. That's fine too, apparently."

As long as you got the water right, it was almost impossible to make ramen taste bad, no matter how you cooked it. That was what made it so magnificent — king-god-champion ramen, so forgiving even a complete beginner like me could pull it off.

Noodles in, lid on, wait.

"Ah! Tamago!"

Tamago meant egg. I took one from the fridge. Why did I have eggs? Because a fried egg was one of the few dishes, besides ramen, whose quality I could actually guarantee — and the side-dish shop didn't sell fried eggs. So I had no choice but to make them myself.

"There are all kinds of ways to put an egg in ramen!"

The most inoffensive, crowd-pleasing method was to crack it straight into the pot and leave it alone until the white set and the yolk stayed soft. You could also scramble it into the broth, or fry it separately in a pan and drop it on as a topping. I went with the first. There was no resisting that rich, half-set yolk.

"Now there's only one thing left!"

Waiting for it to finish. Even that had its camps — people who liked it a little underdone and springy, and people who liked it cooked down until it was almost porridge. In a recipe this simple, a thousand little choices still waited. Life, they say, is the C that sits between B and D. The point ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was to cook it however you liked. Who on earth was going to lecture you over how you ate a bowl of ramen?

"Ta-da! Ramen complete!"

Ramen always looked its most delicious still sitting in the pot it was cooked in, so I didn't bother transferring it to a bowl. I carried the pot straight to the table. For a side, a single helping of kimchi was plenty.

At last every preparation for lunch was finished — and the Information Window, apparently overcome with admiration, saw fit to bestow a reward befitting my labor.

"Sonna! That's so stingy!"

My masterpiece — my ramen — was only worth three hours? Of every Sub Quest reward I had received so far, this was the shortest.

"Hmph. Mister Information Window wouldn't understand. The greatness of my ramen is beyond you!"

I would eat it myself and prove it. The taste of food ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠didn't live in fancy ingredients or technique. It lived in care, and in heart...!

"Itadakimasu!"

With a look of grim resolve, I gazed down at the ramen steaming gently in the pot. I took up my chopsticks like a weapon, gave the noodles a searching stir through the broth, and — timing it for the perfect moment — lifted a clump of them high into the air!

"Aah! Atsui! It splashed!"

Hot! I had yanked the noodles up so hard that a little broth flicked onto my face. It didn't burn, thankfully, but I immediately lost my nerve and all will to fight. Even so, I did not drop the noodles caught in my chopsticks.

If I had one creed when it came to eating ramen, it was this: you did not portion the noodles out into a separate bowl, and you did not break them. Ramen was meant to be eaten as it was — blowing on it, feeling the heat against the roof of your mouth, slurping and smacking with real pleasure. That was my unshakable ramen doctrine.

I filled my cheeks with air until they puffed out and blew.

"Hoo~ hoo~"

My breath-attack sent the pale steam sailing away. Once I was sure the noodles had cooled enough, I put them in my mouth without a second's hesitation.

"...Oishii!!"

It was good! This — this was ramen. Certified by a Japanese person, from the country that invented it. Well. Not an original Japanese person, and even "honorary Japanese" was a stretch, but still.

I liked Japanese ramen too, of course. But to my tongue, punchy Korean instant ramen was far and away the better bowl. The moment I took that first bite, there was no going back. As if possessed, I kept eating, stacking carbohydrates and sodium into my body in neat, devoted layers. And beside it, the crunchy, sour snap of kimchi. A soulmate. A true partner of the spirit.

"Kimuchi is the best!"

It might not suit a foreigner's palate, but for a Korean, it had to be kimchi. My body might have been Japanese, but the soul that met kimchi was still Korean through and through.

I swapped my weapon for a spoon and split the perfectly soft-set egg in half. The yolk that seeped out hadn't fully cooked; it sat in that gorgeous half-solid state that made your mouth water just to look at it. I couldn't hold back. I scooped up half the egg and let it rest on my tongue.

"Oh... oishii... "

Thank you, chicken, for laying something this delicious. Of course, the chicken was probably locked in a cramped wire cage somewhere, cursing my name. A sad thought — to be sacrificed for human appetite. I offered a brief moment of mourning to every chicken in the world, and then I went back to my ramen.

"...I'm — I'm ippai. I'm so full."

It had been so good I'd finished the whole thing in ten minutes. And then I had no choice but to repent. The most important part of eating ramen was supposed to come after the noodles: you put rice in the leftover broth. I was too full to even consider it. Before, I would have done it without thinking. But since turning into a woman, my portions had shrunk; anything more and this pleasant fullness would tip over into a heavy, bloated mess.

I rubbed my slightly rounded stomach and murmured,

"Gochisousama deshita."

Right on cue, my phone rang.

"Hai. Moshi moshi?"

"Watashi finished too."

It was time to go meet Sea.