An Appalachian Domestic Tragedy

Inspired by a LinkedIn post by an editor who finds various misspellings and makes humorous posts about them. When I saw that someone had misspelled “Raven” as “Ramen,” a poem was born.

by J.C. White – 2026

Once upon a humid evening, while I languished, tired and poor,

Brooding over debts and taxes, funeral bills and something more,

Thoughts of snacks and midnight hunger, while I pondered weak and sore,

O’er quaint and curious cookbooks stained with soups of family yore,

Suddenly, there came a bubbling, bubbling from the pantry floor.
Listening as the old house settled, sighing through each buckled floor,

Came a faint and solemn rustling
From that darkened pantry door.

Not the wind among the rafters. Not the mice I’d trapped before.

Not the ghost of Uncle Virgil,
Still, who owed me twenty-four?

No… This sounded somehow…
Brothier.

Every board beneath me answered.
Every cupboard seemed to pour

Forth the scent of salt and chicken,
Seasoned faintly… seasoned more.

I confess a chill came creeping
To the marrow of my core.

Then I whispered, scarcely breathing, “Who disturbs me once more?”

Silence.

Then a slow and mournful bubbling
Rolled across the kitchen floor.

When at last I pulled the pantry
Open with reluctant chore,

Thereupon my grandmother’s – Biscuit tin from ‘forty-four

Sat a lonely cup of Ramen. Nothing less, and nothing more.

It possessed no noble bearing.
No imperial folklore.

Only faded Styrofoam,
And one forgotten plastic fork.

Yet the silence all about it
Made my curly hair rise more.

Still… no son born in these here hills
Would ever eat a fare so poor?

Shame may season humble supper,
Still, it asks two eggs… or more.

Lantern raised, I crossed the pasture,
Dew upon the sycamore,

To the leaning backyard henhouse, sagging since the Civil War.

Therein ruled ole Miss Euphemia,
Feathered malice to the core,

Whose one yellow eye held less compassion
Than a Yankee circuit court.

Every dawn she’d peck my fingers.
Every dusk she’d peck them more.

Beneath her breast lay hidden treasure.

I reached. She drew blood. Then she clucked, so satisfied
I’d honored our ritual law before,

And surrendered, without gratitude,
Two warm eggs…and nothing more.

Home, I hurried through the darkness
While the kettle found its roar.

Cracked the first egg. Gold descended.

Cracked the second. And salted more.

Then the broth grew strangely watchful.
Every timber ceased to snore.

Two yolks rose, staring upward,
Twin unblinking eyes afloat.

Then from somewhere deep beneath them,
Where no earthly voice should pour,

Came a single dreadful verdict.

Quoth the Ramen, “Nevermore.”

I recoiled in honest terror.

Many things I’d seen before.

Drug raids, floods, HOA’s.
Even Middle Eastern wars.

Never had I heard a noodle
Quote literature before.

Soon, the house became complicit.

Photographs grew older. Every portrait colder wore.

Even Grandma’s wedding picture
Looked displeased and poor.

From the attic drifted whisperings
None had ever heard before.

Then the ancient cast-iron skillet,
Black with generations’ lore,

Tilted slowly toward the pantry,
Though it hung there as before.

Softly steamed the waiting Ramen.

“Nevermore.”

Neighbors gathered by next morning.

Miss Cordelia from next door,

Who had buried seven husbands,
And expected several more,

Removed her hat.

Surveyed the kitchen.

Crossed herself.

And fled the porch.

Old Deacon Jasper followed,
Certain Scripture could restore

Whatever devil’d found a dwelling
Deep inside my pantry door.

He produced the family Bible,
Worn by sixty years or more.

Read three chapters. Coughed politely. Left without a single word.

Word spread through the county. Folks arrived from miles before.

Some brought pies and hams and cobblers.
Others merely came to gawk.

Children lingered near the windows,
Far too frightened there to knock.

One ambitious college teacher,
Fresh from somewhere way up North,

Declared the bowl was evidence 
Of semiotic force. 

Then the Ramen turned toward him,
Steaming bleakly, slightly hoarse.

“Nevermore.”

He changed professions. Years rolled onward.

Roof collapsed in one hard storm.

Vines consumed the front veranda.
Owls inher-i-ted the barn.

Still I kept my lonely vigil
Watching by the pantry door.

Late on heavy August evenings,
When the lightning stitched the hills,

When the whippoorwills surrendered
And the valleys all grew still,

I’d imagine I could hear
Water just beginning boil.

Then I’d smell that fatal seasoning packet.

Chicken… Beef… Some olive oil …

Always just beyond remembering. Always just beyond the door.

Travelers often asked me gently, “Sir… why don’t you throw it out?”

Then I’d answer,

“No man living
Rules this old house any-more.

Not the sheriff.
Not the banker.
Not the preacher.
Nor the dead men who owned this farm before.

Power passed, years long forgotten,
To one melancholy bowl,

Whose expiration date had yellowed
Somewhere during Reagan’s term.”

There it waited. Undisturbed.

Unimpressed by death or weather. Patient as these ancient hills.

Every dawn old Euphemia
Left two warm eggs beside my door.

She would pause… Look toward the pantry…

Lower then her weathered head…

Cluck once…

As though, too, she’d heard before…

Whenever hope began returning,
Whenever life seemed worth much more,

The Ramen noodles, ancient, wrinkled,

Steaming with eternal confidence,

Would slowly raise one pallid noodle,

Pronounce, with all the dreadful certainty, 

Quoth the Ramen, “Season once. Regret forever.

“Nevermore.”