Chopped salad and a cafe au lait

It was like no time had passed at all, I smoothly split a pair of Italian tourists so as not to break my desire line through Grand Central, picking up salad and coffee and train ticket and nabbing a front-facing left side window seat on the 12:25 local to North White Plains. I balanced salad and coffee and the New York Times like a commuter pro, listening for that musical line I’ll apparently never forget: Fleetwood, Bronxville, Tuckahoe, Crestwood, Scarsdale, Hartsdale, White Plains, North White Plains.

 

Steak burrito

Something I’m ashamed to admit: Sometimes I freak out at the lunch counter and can’t figure out how to say what I want (a fish taco and a pork taco and an iced tea) and some unknown thing comes stammering out of my mouth as an interrogative (uhhh… a burrito?). But it was good enough, heavily salted, I was way way hungry. I forked it into my mouth via an ineffectual plastic knife and fork because I ate inside so the burrito didn’t come wrapped in helpful foil. I didn’t want to drip everywhere, so I just hacked away. Then I wiped my mouth and skipped to the movies. There’s a scene about two hours and four minutes in that is as precise an argument as I’ve seen for the total and utter bottomless horror of war. Please go see it so we can talk about it. Over lunch.

 

Turkey sandwich

L. and I sat on a bench in the shade by the park, just a block from the appointed homosexualist football meet up spot, eating turkey sandwiches and talking about history. My knowledge of the past runs about as deep as a quesadilla, so it was good to hear some facts. Apparently most of the places we are now we’ve been before, and not that long ago, either.

 

Grilled chicken, green beans, and Mediterranean salad

I appreciated the extensive research and instruction. No, really. But well into the second hour of Cook’s Illustrated salad prep and I really envied/didn’t recognize myself in the pages of the magazine. As I chopped and drained, L. made chicken on the charcoal grill, and it came off with grill marks like you see at Burger King. I’ve had some practice, said L. We ate under a hot sun, dry even for the moment, and it was like summer. The greens in the salad and the green beans too came from the garden in that same backyard, a miracle every time.

 

Baked potato

I left my draft for an hour of reinvigorating Housewives of New Jersey reunion show that left me with more questions than answers. What did Danielle try to do to Dina that had Caroline so upset? That’s an actual question.

 

Lemongrass chicken salad over sticky rice

My doctor and I came to a breakthrough last night regarding my listing tendency toward ruts and routines. The breakthrough was pretty much steer clear, so despite my restless desire for the Indian chicken curry over basmati rice I had last time, I went for the lemongrass chicken salad instead. I don’t know. It wasn’t the Indian chicken curry. It had pickled carrots and iceberg lettuce and the chicken was cold and there weren’t any bananas or mango chutney or creamy curry sauce. L. sat across from me and talked about what makes a prose poem poem-y and then about her current romance, like something out of a great novel, something classic, all while delightedly eating a bowl of Indian chicken curry. This is delicious! she crowed accurately. I might end up coming here often!

 

Tomato and black bean quinoa salad, redux

I gave up a lot when I left my old place of business–the Flik chocolate chip cookies, my best work friend, a certain limited sense of home. But look what I gained: the ability to run home at lunch time, drop off a stack of books and yesterday’s lunch dishes, gobble down the remains of the quinoa salad from the fridge while catching a few minutes of Jim Gaffigan on the DVR (I love to laff), scratch the cat and change his food and water, grab the mail, run to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription that has been sitting there since June 9, and get back to my office in just a hair over an hour. Really, it’s just amazing. Plus, if you look down Washington Ave. from just off Eastern Parkway, the gathering storm clouds look like they’re about to gobble lower Manhattan, which is pretty cool too.

 

Tomato and black bean quinoa salad

For the past month or so, I’ve woken up every morning with two first thoughts: (1) I really need to get that additional withholding form from HR so that I don’t get hit all at once for hundreds of dollars in excess taxes on my graduate tuition next April; and (2) I need sandals. Because solving the first problem would take five minutes and be free, I chose instead to hop over to the Macy’s in Fulton Street Mall to try to find shoes. B. had warned me about the service, so I took only my best, most patient spirits. And though they were sorely tried at one point when I opened the box I’d been waiting for only to discover, literally, two left feet (You’ll have to find the right shoe yourself, shrugged K., my helpful Macy’s ambassador), I persisted and wore my new sandals back to my cloffice where I broke them in by swinging my feet under my desk, spooning quinoa salad down my gullet.

 

Spinach salad and a banana

I sat in my cloffice with the door closed and eked out the very last seconds of this spinach. If I’m honest with myself, I have to admit it had pretty much turned already, tell-tale dark green around too many edges. Still, it was good enough with chickpeas and feta and doused with olive oil and vinegar that leaked out of the container into a plastic bag on my way to work this morning. As I ate I chit-chatted with K. on googleychat (where have you been?!?) and paged through the White House photostream on Flickr. I love the White House photostream, especially the shots of the president just looking like a normal guy. His escalation of war in Afghanistan and weird affirmation of DOMA bum me out (among plenty of other bummers), but it’s so nice to have a president who appears at least human.

 

Chicken salad sandwich, plus junior mints

It wasn’t the first time this weekend that L. and I tucked into a pair of seats in a darkening theater, but it was the first time we brought lunch. I waited until it got dark to pull out the paper bag, previews of additional upcoming action films masking (I hoped) the rustle. As I ate, chunks of my chicken salad fell out of my sandwich and rolled off my lap to the floor. By the time the movie started I was pretty much done with the savory part of lunch and ready for more than my share of Junior Mints. I ate them one by one and leaned increasingly hard against L.’s shoulder, happy after all.