Fettuccine

Once upon a time in the land of Noodle, a lonely young king fell in love with the daughter of a widowed pastry shop owner, and asked her to be his bride.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Glass slippers, midnight balls, pumpkin coaches and all that. Well, I will have you know that such peculiar cases have been sensationalized to the point of total fiction.

In the Once Upon times there was really nothing especially unusual about the odd king growing smitten with the occasional peasant, even one from a pastry shop.

Oh, it might be gossiped about by local taverners for an afternoon or two; it might excite a town crier into shouting himself so hoarse that no one would hear of a fresh fish sale in the market. But by next week, the scandal would be forgotten, and all the Noodlians would congratulate their sovereign on his engagement, politely forgetting that she was not a proper princess.

Proper princesses were ridiculously hard to come by. Beauty was a rare commodity, and chastity even more so; to find both in a princess of proper breeding and marriageable age was a rare thing indeed. The young king's subjects understood this, and of course none of them wanted him to remain lonely forever.

Except, perhaps, for one.

No one who knew her was surprised that the pastry shop owner's daughter had captured the affection of the king. In addition to the greatest stock of beauty in all the land, she possessed healthy doses of wit, charm, and skill at making excellent meat pies, all of which were scarce and honorable virtues.

The startling element in this story, then (for every good story must have at least one), is not that the king proposed marriage to a lowly commoner.

The astonishing thing is that she refused.

Beautiful, witty and charming, the pastry shop owner's daughter was also equipped with a vicious temper. The king's proposal incensed her.

"Marry him!" she raged, scattering meat pies everywhere. "Why on earth would I marry him? He's boring! He's foolish! He's boorish! He's a bad dresser! He's —"

She proceeded in loud tones to enumerate fifty-three character judgments of the king. None were flattering; most were synonymous with "stupid" or "really stupid."

Her widowed mother's reply was concise. "Noodle," she said sadly, and then she was silent.

"I knew you would say that!" the daughter shouted, even more irate. This was true; she had known precisely what her mother would say.

In the kingdom of Noodle, everybody said "noodle," and nobody said anything else. Whether this was because they couldn't, or because they didn't want to, or because they had never thought to, or because they had forgotten how, nobody knew, and nobody seemed to care.

In the kingdom of Noodle, everybody's name was Noodle. This was sensible enough; after all, who would want a name they could never say? The lonely young monarch was King Noodle LXIV. (There were rumors among the older generation that King Noodle I's father had been King Noodlus CCLXXVIII, but nobody knew for sure.)

The pastry shop owner's name was Noodle. Her cats' names were Noodle and Noodle, and there was a tiny new calico with an orange stripe on its nose whom she had lovingly nicknamed "Noodle." All her neighbors' names were Noodle as well, though some pronounced it with strange accents, and all with varying degrees of pride.

The kingdom of Noodle was a dreadful home for young Fettuccine, the peasant girl so admired by the king. Fettuccine was, as you may have noticed, the only citizen of Noodle not named Noodle. To relate how this came about requires a brief look at a rather unusual doorstopping device.

Visitors to Noodle, had there ever been any, might have been intrigued by the profusion of certain small rectangular artifacts which were excavated in abundance by archaeologists, and sold by local merchants for their utility as doorstops and to prevent furniture from wobbling. Within their hinged, leathery exoskeletons were a number of delicate yellow leaves covered with strange markings (and, occasionally, pictures) which were often removed for their value as kindling.

The pastry shop owner kept several of these fossils around the shop. Her daughter was inexplicably fascinated by them, and spent long hours studying the curious symbols they contained. One day while thus engaged, she had come across the name "Fettuccine," and taken it for herself. She liked the sound of it, as well as the subtle slap of irony at her subjugation to the thing that liberated her, the ability to speak freely. (Fettuccine is, as you know, a type of noodle.)

Of course, everyone else still called her Noodle, and no one else could hope to grasp any irony, not even the least subtle. But in solitude, her own unique name was a comfort to poor lonely Fettuccine.

Now Fettuccine ran outside, still furious with her mother, and spent several minutes kicking rocks around in the flower garden to dispel her frustration.

Soon she spotted her nearest neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Noodle, as they came strolling along the hard-packed dirt path that wound through the heart of her village, right in front of the pastry shop.

Noticing her, they waved. "Noodle!" they called cheerfully.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" she called back. "And yet there seems to be a hint of rain in the air. The sky was awfully red this morning, don't you think? I just hope that if bad weather does come, it won't be fierce enough to harm my little petunias; I just planted them last week, you know."

Her neighbors stared quizzically at each other for a moment, then shook their heads.

"Noodle," Mrs. Noodle muttered as they passed. Mr. Noodle only shrugged.

Fettuccine sighed heavily, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. "Fettuccine," she whispered.

Shoulders sagging, she reentered the shop.

Her mother was seated in a rocker by the window, worriedly sipping tea. "Ah, Noodle!" she cried when she saw Fettuccine, and embraced her daughter lovingly.

Fettuccine struggled to free herself from the smothering grasp. "Fettuccine," she murmured hopelessly.

Fettuccine's mother took her face in both hands and looked her sternly in the eyes. "Noodle," she admonished.

"FETTUCCINE!" Fettuccine shouted, slapping the gentle hands away. "Noun, Italian. Plural diminutive of fettucia, ‘ribbon,' or possibly of fetta, ‘slice.' Pasta in narrow flat strips, or a dish made with such strips; in both senses also called tagliatelle. My name is Fettuccine!"

Her mother cocked her head to the side, and clucked her tongue in an agitated manner. She looked exactly like a rooster. "Noodle," she rebuked.

At that moment, Fettuccine realized that she had no choice but to run away.

She packed one small suitcase with enough food and doorstopping artifacts to get by, and she was gone before the sun rose on another day.

The journey was hard, but Fettuccine was driven by the hope that just maybe, if she went far enough and searched hard enough, somewhere she would find someone who would say something real, something more than "noodle." Maybe there were people like her out there, people who knew the words she knew. Maybe they could tell her what good all those words were, if they were any good at all.

Rounding the crest of the highest hill in the kingdom of Noodle, Fettuccine felt her heart skip a beat. Far below, in the village, she could hear her mother's voice, rising with anxiety. "Noodle? Noodle!"

Soon it was joined by other voices, as the sleeping village rose to find her missing. She heard her friends, her neighbors, her aunts and uncles. Before long, she even thought she heard the strong voice of young King Noodle LXIV, calling after her. She hesitated, looking back. They were searching for her. They loved her. "Noodle! Noodle! Noodle!"

Sighing once, she turned away, and resumed her determined pace. Yes, they loved her. But they did not know her, and they never would.

The voices faded as they became more distant. Her steps did not even hesitate. One foot followed the other, again and again in rhythm, as the cries of the village slowly gave way to a blessed silence.

In that silence was something very much like her own voice, and it whispered something very much like her own name to the endless horizon ahead.

Fettuccine.


Wondering what happens next to Fettuccine? Well, wonder no more! Here it is, the much-anticipated result of the "Invalid Item"  contest, the next chapter of the Fettuccine saga:

Fettuccine Alfredo  (E) Fettuccine has finally escaped the kingdom of Noodle, only to wind up in hot water! #776527 by Scottiegazelle