Hoisin duck noodles

And so we meander another day closer to Christmas (and to another borderline obscure 90s music reference). It still doesn’t feel to me like it’s nearly Christmas: my brain is still three months out of schedule, wondering what happened to autumn. I’m not sorry about the appearance of a plethora of mince pies, though, even if they tend to disappear quite quickly again if they’re left near me for any length of time.

Today was mostly about arranging mum’s social schedule for the next few days, with help from a family friend who I haven’t seen since I left hospital. She was the one who bought the knitted poncho I wore pretty much constantly at the care home, and only very reluctantly entrusted to their laundry service for fear I’d never see it again¹. The friend saw it sitting on the sofa and commented on how pleased she was that I got it back; not nearly as pleased as I was, though!

In honour of the friend’s visit I opened the box of posh biscuits I bought for the holidays, to find that the post hadn’t been kind to them: “Border” is the name of the maker, but could also refer to the biscuits being on the border between ‘broken’ and ‘crumbs’². They still tasted just as good, though, particularly the caramel chip shortbread which has long been one of my favourite biscuits.

After that, I was surprised – but pleased – when mum said she was hungry. I cooked the hoisin noodles myself. Well, sort of myself: I got the pan out and heating, got the bag of food out of the freezer and, after some effort to get the bag open, into the pan. These meals in a bag just need to be poured into a pan and heated until hot and bubbling, stirring frequently: after I burnt myself on the pan’s handle, my care worker firmly took the spoon off me and did the rest of the stirring, reckoning correctly that I couldn’t be trusted to do it without hurting myself³.

I dished up the hot noodles, though, making sure most of the broccoli ended up on my plate⁴ as I know mum feels about broccoli as I feel about cauliflower.

The noodles smelled wonderful: savoury and sweet, with that Chinese takeaway scent you get from hoisin anything. They didn’t taste nearly as good as they smelled though: the duck could have been any meat, and the whole thing just tasted vaguely sweet and savoury, with the only distinct flavour coming from the broccoli, which was very broccoli-tasting indeed. All the other veg and the shreds of duck cooked together into a sort of mush which sat on top of the noodles, which wasn’t altogether appealing to me.

Mum finished her half of the bag, though, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

Tomorrow I’m intending to order a takeaway and finally sate my months-long longing for a curry. Hooray for all the Indian / Pakistani / Bangladeshi immigrants and their families who provide us with delicious food with more spices and heat than most British food: I salute you, fork in hand and at the ready.

1. Like two pairs of knickers, a vest top, and a pair of trousers with a hole in a rather embarrassing place. I’m not really sorry those never came back, if I’m honest. ↩︎
2. I looked at how to report the damage, but it required the product to be returned, and we had already made good progress on eating the evidence. ↩︎
3. He also helped with the photo, using the flashlight on his phone to help me get a better image. As mum said after he left: “he can come again”. ↩︎
4. We have had that very 70s brown plate as long as I can remember: it was part of a set that was, I think, either a wedding or housewarming present to my parents. There’s not much of the set left now – this plate, a single side plate, and a small serving bowl – but I prefer them to the newer and better-looking white crockery as they feel much less fragile to my clumsy fingers. ↩︎