Rainy Day Ramen

Rainy days have a way of shrinking the city down to a few warm places: the fogged windows, the steady murmur of voices, the simple comfort of a bowl set in front of you like it’s always belonged there.

This lunch in Seattle came in quiet pieces. A deep bowl of ramen, pale and steaming, with noodles gathered under the surface and greens and dark seaweed drifting along the top. Half a soft-boiled egg sat nearby, bright and calm, like a small lantern on a black dish. Around it were the supporting notes—little pools of sauce, a small bowl of seasoning, and a plate of fried bites that looked crisp enough to crackle when you picked one up.

There’s something grounding about ramen on a wet day. The broth keeps its own weather. It fills the space between you and the outside, turning the afternoon into something slower and more deliberate. You eat, you pause, you listen to the room and the rain you can’t quite see, and for a moment the day feels less like something to get through and more like something you can inhabit.

Rainy Day Ramen wasn’t just lunch—it was a small shelter, built out of steam and salt and the kind of warmth that stays with you after you leave.