I’m gathering that our house is marked.  Like hobos, through the mysteries of their communications, the neighborhood kids have discovered that our home serves RAMEN.  Maybe it’s the squiggly lines footprinted in the snow.  Some days bowls are lined up like the table service in Madeline’s orphanage.  Between little girl, a passionate devotee of ramen herself, and the kids who show up on our doorstep, I might as well buy ramen by the pallet.

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