Two Noodles Shy of a Salad

by Donna Poole

A dozen hardboiled eggs, a pound of cooked elbow macaroni, whatever sweet pickle relish is left in the jar, as many sliced green olives as you can find in the fridge, a can or two of tuna, a few shakes of onion powder, a couple of scoops of Miracle Whip and mayo, and a good squirt of mustard.

There you have it. The macaroni salad John and I threw together. I forgot to mention we peeled the eggs before we added them to the salad.

John would rather I forgot the eggs altogether, and I really wish we didn’t have to add the gag-a-maggot tuna!

I was vigorously stirring the macaroni in the colander to get the last drops of water out when two noodles flew into the sink.

“Well, there you go,” I said to John. “Now the salad is like me. Two noodles shy of a full box.”

He laughed.

“Do you still love me even if I am two noodles shy of a full box?”

He assured me of his love. John would love anyone who would put tuna in his macaroni salad.

“How many noodles shy can I be and still have your love?”

He gave the ridiculous question about as much thought as it deserved. “You,” he declared, “may be four noodles shy of a full salad, and I will still love you.”

I’ve been to a neuropsychologist for testing a few times; if they send me again, I’ll be sure to ask him how to tell if I’m three noodles shy, so I’ll know when I’m pushing my limits with John. On second thought, I won’t ask him. That man has no sense of humor.

My neurologist sent me to him for testing after a stroke, craniotomy, and multiple seizures affected my brain. Don’t ask me how they affected it; I can’t remember. Kidding. They combined to give me what the neuropsychologist called mild cognitive dysfunction. I think basically that means I get to forget whatever I don’t want to remember, and no one can blame me for it.

I say the doctor has no sense of humor because on my first visit with him I told him a joke. He looked at me unsmiling with wide, fixed eyes.

“It was a joke,” I said, rather lamely.

“Oh,” he replied. Not even a hint of a smile.

I got the sense we weren’t going to be the best of friends.

I wish I could remember the joke I told him. Maybe it was this one. I went to a psychiatrist, and he told me I was crazy, so I told him I wanted a second opinion.

“Okay,” he said, “you’re ugly too.”

It wasn’t that joke. But I honestly can’t remember the one it was. And forgetting that joke bothers me more than not being able to recite Psalm 1 anymore.

See what I mean? A couple noodles shy of a full box.

I had a full box when John married me. Not to brag, but hey, why not? The Apostle Paul bragged, so I guess it’s biblical. I’ll get to my bragging. I used to be queen of multitasking. I never forgot anything. I had so much energy the Energizer Bunny came to me by night for secret lessons before he made his first commercial.

But life has a way of changing things and people. When John married me, I didn’t have gray hair either. I didn’t have cancer and didn’t need to go to the University of Michigan Hospital for treatments more than I go to church. I certainly didn’t need help making a simple macaroni salad.

But, like the Paul said—he wrote some good stuff when he wasn’t bragging—or rather, God wrote it through him: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.” –I Corinthians 13:7-8

Love eats hardboiled eggs in macaroni salad.

Love eats tuna in macaroni salad.

Why, you may wonder, don’t we each make our own salad? John could have his without eggs; I could have mine without tuna. That, my friend, is a logical question.

I give to you an illogical answer: “Because. Then it wouldn’t be our salad.” We’ve grown to like it just like it is, even when it’s two noodles shy of a full box.