Oma’s Noodles

the flat was always perfectly warm when we arrived, a kind of warmth that gently welcomed, the heater humming in the corner, air comfortably dense. the smell was its own welcome; Vaseline Aloe Sooth drifting from skin, peppermints perched atop the fridge, and faintly, that ghost of beef maggi noodles, sweet-salty and metallic, caught in the steam of memory. on the counter, ceramic bowls rested beneath small plates like lids; condensation gathered on the rims, ran down in tiny streams. the noodles had thickened in their own gravity, the coils swollen and glistening, an almost-living softness that shivered when the fork touched. i’d lift a mouthful, steam rising like breath, the strands collapsing before they reached my tongue, too smooth, too warm at the edges, too cool at the centre. each bite was a blur of salt and starch, clinging and parting, but turning dense between my teeth. the table was always laid, cotton cloth of blue patterns, a jar of speculaas half-full. i remember the sound of the heater clicking on again, the windows misting from the difference in temperature, the slow collapsing of noodles between my teeth, and her small, certain movements in the kitchen. outside, the world was cooling; the light in the courtyard dulled to ash. we stayed warm inside as the news flowed into better homes and gardens, then to escape to the country, each segment sliding into the next, the slow unravel of an evening. the sound filled the room without claiming it. Oma moved through it all, calm and certain, stacking plates, opening the window just enough for the air to breathe. i watched her hands, the shine of lotion under lamplight, the steam slipping against the glass. everything in the flat held its temperature; everything softly waiting to be loved.