An Open Letter to Lo Mein

Dear Lo Mein,

I love you.

They may call me an uncultured lout, a base jackass, a proto-Aspergian frog-child, but, when the hankering for Asian fare sends my innards a'quake, as I stare listlessly at the red and green menu, with various animalia slathered in various garlicky brown sauces vying unctuously for attention, I invariably come back to you, Lo Mein.

You are everything I want and need. You are better than life itself, and while some may say the aforementioned statement is nothing but the hyperbole of a Lo Mein Extremist, while others may say that the aforementioned statement says more about my particular life than your inherent worth, don't listen to them.

They don't know what we have together. They can never know. They're jealous of your delicate, almost autoerotic asphyxiation-like hold on the neck of my desires.

They're petty and cruel and most of them, statistically speaking at least, have some form of herpes.

I won't let them hurt your feelings anymore, Lo Mein. You are my little Asian flower and, if I could kiss on you without getting carrot-shards stuck to my moustache, I would.

You are the perfect meal. I cannot stress this enough, this is not an opinion, this is a fact. Deal with it. Especially when ordered in "House" or "Sub-gum" variety, you are a veritable animal party-- a vast, delectable cornucopia of animals, all looking forward to the final destination: Mouth Partysville, My Mouth, USA.

Noodles-- just the right length and girth. Beef, pork, chicken, shrimp-- oh, who can pick just three? Veggie shards-- sure, why not? You add flavor and crispness, I'll have you! And the sauce-- just kill me and pour Lo Mein lovingly on my corpse. I'll be okay. Don't forget to put a kitsch little takeout container on my grave once a year when you come to visit.

Lo Mein, I have a question for you: why are you so good the next day?

There is nothing that can compare with how you taste in leftover format-- even cold, you are approaching the very zenith of tastetacular foodfection. One day, I will order you on a Thursday, and eat absolutely none of you until Friday, so I might consume you in your blissful, day-old form. I will do it.

Oh-- no! It's not true. NO! No, how could I? How could I live in a house where I knew resided freshly-prepared, untouched Lo Mein and be expected to contain and restrain myself for a full 24 hours? Surely they would be the most painful hours of my petty existence.

I do not throw praise around lightly, Lo Mein, and most open letters I write begin with the words "Will you please shut the fuck up?" but I would never be so base as to write these words to you; these tacky, puerile words could never roll off my tongue in your direction. I would sooner coat myself in peanut oil and light myself on fire before I offended thee. I hope you know that my adulation has been constant and fierce and I will defend your comestible superiority to the last. To the last, Lo Mein, to the last. Last what? Last shrimp? Last bamboo shoot? To the last-- that is all you need know. I will be your most ardent warrior, your most passionate son.

Your Lo Meinness. Your Meinjesty. I bow humbly to thee, and I am your most obedient servant,

Mr. Apron

P.S. I love you.