Singapore noodles have been an integral part of our Chinese takeout orders for years. Along with hot and sour soup and Kung Pao chicken, they form a perfect trifecta of Chinese goodness that we crave regularly. Those delicious rice noodles—loaded with chicken, shrimp, and vegetables, coated in that oily, deep yellow turmeric-curry goodness—are our favorite for very good reason!
That day, it was my turn to reheat leftovers from Eastern Dragon for lunch. Uma was upstairs working. I pulled the big bowl of the aforementioned noodles out of the microwave, while mentally juggling multiple thoughts—an upcoming work meeting, whether I should have heated the soup first (because that’s clearly the proper sequence for a Chinese meal, right?), or perhaps even how to bring peace to the Middle East.
And then… it happened.
The bowl slipped.
There was a loud crash.
Singapore noodles—everywhere.
The bowl shattered into a million sharp pieces. The kitchen floor was instantly transformed into an unholy yellow disaster zone.
“Oh no… what did I just do?”
Uma yelled, “What happened?” and came running downstairs. I braced myself for some serious yelling—which, to be fair, would have been entirely justified if you had seen the scene.
This, however, was not my first rodeo.
Growing up in Hyderabad, India, one of my regular chores as a 10–12-year-old was to walk a few hundred yards to a poultry farm and bring back eggs. There was no nice paved road—just rocky terrain. Over the years, there were at least 3–4 occasions when I dropped the entire box and came home crying.
The crying was strategic.
After all, what parent would scold a child who is already crying?
Then there was the summer at my grandmother’s village. She used to milk buffaloes and sell the excess to the village dairy cooperative. One day, she entrusted me with the important responsibility of delivering a full aluminum can of milk.
Based on the pattern so far, you probably know what happened next.
Yes. I dropped it.
The can dented. The milk spilled. I became distraught.
The folks at the dairy kindly consoled me: “Don’t cry over spilled milk… 😉 we won’t tell your grandma.”
Of course, this was a small village. Everyone knew everyone. She knew before I even got home.
That’s the day she gave me my nickname: “Oti chethulu” which loosely translates to “butter fingers.”
Fast forward to the present day… or rather, that day with the Singapore noodles.
I was honestly shocked by how calmly Uma handled the situation. No yelling. No dramatics. She just quietly got to work cleaning up the mess. It took a long time. I mostly stayed out of the way, careful not to make things worse by stepping on oily noodles and spreading the disaster further.
When it was all done, she simply said, “Just be mindful next time when you’re carrying these bowls.”
That was it.
I felt terrible—not just for dropping lunch, but for creating so much extra work for her. Right then and there, I took a solemn vow: this would never happen again.
I actually wrote most of this piece last Wednesday. Then I took a short break… to heat up lunch.
Yes. I did it again! Grrrrrgh
This time, it was Indian curry. Mixed with sharp ceramic shards. Spread beautifully across the kitchen tiles.
Good lord!
This is no longer an accident. This is a pattern.
With all my mishaps, I could have done PhD-level research!
At this point, I have three observations and one request:
First, the tiles we chose for our kitchen 20 years ago are remarkably resistant to turmeric stains. Extremely reassuring.
Second, Uma used to be very particular—borderline obsessive—about cleanliness. Not anymore. I sometimes wonder if my repeated “incidents” have slowly desensitized her. Just saying… 😊
Third, whatever she’s doing for anger management—yoga, breathing exercises, or some advanced spiritual discipline—is working brilliantly. She should absolutely continue.
And finally, a request:
Does anyone know where we can find those classic CorningWare dishes with the floral patterns and handles?
We seem to be running out of them… for some reason. 😀
RecoveringNostalgic 