Noodles Romanoff with Mushrooms

They brought food. Of course they brought food. That is what church people do when someone dies — they bring food, casseroles and fried chicken and pound cake and banana pudding, the same food I have cooked for other families' grief a hundred times, delivered now to my kitchen by women whose faces I know but cannot focus on, because my eyes are not working right, everything is blurred, everything is underwater, and the food piles up on my counter like a wall being built between me and the world.

I cannot eat it. I have tried. Sister Johnson brought her fried chicken — the good chicken, the kind I have always secretly believed is almost as good as mine — and I put a piece in my mouth and chewed and the chicken tasted like nothing. Like paper. Like the absence of taste, which is worse than bad taste because bad taste is at least something and nothing is what I have now. Nothing. The food that has been my language, my ministry, my love — I cannot taste it. The taste died on I-65 with Marcus. Everything died on I-65 with Marcus.

The funeral was Saturday. Calvin preached it. I do not know how. I do not know how a man stands at a pulpit in the church where his son was baptized, where his son sang in the children's choir, where his son was confirmed, and delivers a sermon over a casket that is too small and too final and too real. But Calvin stood. He did not preach a sermon. He preached a cry — raw and ragged and theologically imprecise and more honest than anything he has ever said from that pulpit. He said: I do not understand. He said: God, I do not understand. And the church said: Amen. Because they didn't understand either. Nobody understands. There is nothing to understand. There is only a boy in a box and a father at a pulpit and a mother in the front pew who is not crying because she is beyond crying, in a place where tears don't reach, where grief is dry and enormous and geological, like a canyon you cannot fill and cannot cross and cannot see the other side of.

CJ held my left hand. Destiny held my right. They held me in the pew the way the pew held us — physically, structurally, without commentary. The church was full. The aisles were full. People stood outside. They came for Marcus. They came for Calvin. They came for me. And I sat in that pew and I stared at the casket and I thought: I packed his lunch last Monday. Fried chicken, two pieces, wrapped in foil. A biscuit. An apple he didn't eat. I packed his lunch. And now I am at his funeral. And the distance between packing a lunch and attending a funeral is seven days and a lifetime and a phone that should have been in a pocket instead of a hand, and I will never close that distance. I will live in it. I will die in it. The distance is my address now.

Someone brought a noodle casserole. I do not remember who. It sat on my counter between Sister Johnson’s fried chicken and a pound cake still warm in its pan, and I stared at it the way I have been staring at everything—like it belonged to a world I used to live in. Noodles Romanoff. Creamy and warm, the kind of dish I have made for other people’s worst days a hundred times. I could not eat it. I could not eat any of it. But I am writing it down here because someday, maybe, taste will come back, and when it does, this is the recipe I want to make first—not for myself, but for the next woman sitting in a pew who cannot cry, whose church is full, whose counter is covered, who needs to know somebody stood in a kitchen and thought of her.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 35 minutes | Total Time: 50 minutes | Servings: 8

Ingredients

1 pound wide egg noodles
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
8 ounces cremini mushrooms, sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups sour cream
1 cup cottage cheese
1/2 cup whole milk
1 teaspoon onion powder
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup shredded Parmesan cheese, divided
2 tablespoons fresh chives, chopped

Instructions

Cook the noodles. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook egg noodles according to package directions until just al dente. Drain and set aside.
Preheat the oven. Set your oven to 350°F and lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking dish.
Sauté the mushrooms. In a large skillet over medium-high heat, melt butter with olive oil. Add sliced mushrooms and cook for 5 to 7 minutes, stirring occasionally, until golden brown and tender. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more until fragrant. Remove from heat.
Make the sauce. In a large bowl, stir together sour cream, cottage cheese, milk, onion powder, salt, pepper, nutmeg, and 3/4 cup of the Parmesan cheese until well combined.
Combine everything. Add the cooked noodles and sautéed mushrooms to the sauce and fold gently until the noodles are evenly coated. Transfer the mixture to the prepared baking dish and spread into an even layer.
Top and bake. Sprinkle the remaining 1/4 cup Parmesan cheese over the top. Bake uncovered for 25 to 30 minutes, until bubbly around the edges and lightly golden on top.
Garnish and serve. Let the casserole rest for 5 minutes. Sprinkle with fresh chives before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Noodles Romanoff with Mushrooms — The Casserole I Could Not Taste