Noodles In 1945

I told you once before, I don't do noodles, the wormy things that you and High Society call pasta, Well no, it's not the starch the wiggly shape or even the hollowness so full of air. We only had a pile of spuds and starch from which my Aunt, helped by her sisters, made by rolling out on the big table, the dough, manhandling it with the old rolling pin, until it lent itself to being cut, straight lines resembling those that marked a skilful farmers field, it always seemed to me that plowing was a special art, it heaped prestige upon the steady ones for months to come. No one would know about the straightness of the women's noodles though, why bother was the question on my lips, so why indeed? Once boiled huge piles descended on each plate, a quarter ladle of thin whey enriched with spice and parsley for its luscious green. On Sundays there would be, God willing a small herring or a pair of eels. No sir, I don't do noodles, give me spuds and some substantial fare.