Noodles In 1945 Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

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.