I put the noodle blocks in a zip-top bag and break them into rough, one-inch pieces with a frying panβsmall enough for a fork, but not smashed into dust. Then they go into a skillet with a little neutral oil, and I keep them moving until every side is deeply golden, about three to five minutes. I pull them onto a plate right away to stop the cooking. Pale, under-toasted ramen is too hard. Properly toasted ramen shatters like the top of a crΓ¨me brΓ»lΓ©e. VoilΓ !Β
Napa cabbage is what lets all of that crunch work as a salad instead of a pile of toppings. It has the heartiness of regular cabbage with the daintiness of lettuce, so it can hold the ramen, fruit, pecans, and dressing without collapsing under them. Regular green cabbage works when that's what I've got; I just slice it very thin so the salad stays light.
I season the toasted ramen with everything bagel seasoning, which I think of as an American introduction to furikake. Theyβre not the same thing, but both bring that salty, savory, seedy finish. If I keep the individual spices around, I can probably make my own everything bagel seasoning. With some crushed nori snacks, I can take it a step closer to furikake.Β
Then the soy sauce, rice vinegar, sugar, olive oil, and sesame oil carry those flavors through the dressing. Everything goes into a mason jar, the lid gets tightened, and I shake hard until the sugar dissolves and the oil and vinegar stop looking like separate things. I can see the moment it emulsifies, and whatever's left over is already sitting in its storage container. Fewer dishes. A beautiful concept.