Noodling

“Try the pasta,” Estelle said, “it’s out of this world.” So I did. And she wasn’t kidding, it really was - that became evident later that night when the Tupperware of it I brought home burst open. The “noodles” crawled from the container, onto the counter, and booted my laptop

I’d always thought the Pastafarians were completely noodly, but maybe they were on to something. I watched in amazement as my leftover dinner tapped out a message on my laptop. Soon I heard a noise and looked out the window. The Flying Spaghetti Monster hovered nearby.

“Wrap it up,” I said to the linguini linguist. “Your boss’s here and we gotta go.” I stared and the sentient noodle and gestured at the evil spaghetti cluster hovering outside. It nodded and I shut the laptop lid. “Out the back!” I screamed grabbing a pint of Ragu on the way out.

We jumped in a gondola and I navigated quickly out to the grand canal. “We need to get out of town, and we need some cheese. We might as well go to the source. Let’s catch the next train to Parma!”

We knew a guy who worked at a dairy outside Parma named Shaun. I know—Parma Shaun is a little on the nose, but I didn't name him. Blame his mother. Believe it or not, I know another guy named Justin Case. He works in luggage sales. Anyway, it was in Parma by the Cittadella that

day. He was a smelly man, which did not help his reputation. You could smell him a mile away, not an entirely unpleasant smell, but musky and bold. Familiar to locals. One of them was about to announce a new cheese, aged to perfection, when inspiration hit him. Parmesan was born.