The Midnight Noodles I Never Regret

Stirring spells at 11PM like the kitchen witch I am.




There’s a certain kind of hunger that only visits at night—not just in the stomach, but in the soul.
And for that, I don’t want discipline. I don’t want structure.
I want noodles.
Messy, spicy, confused noodles.

I boil water like it’s a ritual.
Then I grab everything—literally every spice I can see. Turmeric, chili flakes, garlic powder, curry leaves, soy sauce, ketchup, maybe even a splash of vinegar if I’m feeling dramatic.

The veggies? Whatever’s still alive in the fridge. Carrots, onions, random leaves, one sad tomato, and an egg that never goes forgotten—into the cauldron they go. I chop like I’m possessed. I stir like I’m summoning a storm.
If I had a wooden spoon and a full moon, I’d probably float.

I don’t measure. I don’t taste-test. I feel. I keep adding things until my ancestors whisper "that's enough child". 

The kitchen smells like rebellion.
My eyes are a little teary—not sure if it’s the spice or the 2AM emotions.

And when it’s done, I sit on the floor, bowl in hand, slurping chaos. It’s salty, spicy, a little too intense—but it understands me. It holds me exactly how I am: overthinking, overstimulated, slightly unhinged but still hungry for comfort.

This is not a recipe. This is a mood. A lifestyle. A personal spell.

No one gets it, but the noodles do.


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