It had been an awkward morning, I ran the race and then O. and K. came to meet me, they had a baseball game to get to and I had a baby shower in the other direction, awkward timing so no lunch proper, just a banana on my way to the party and a piece of cake once I got there. I couldn’t believe K. was so big, that the baby would have to come out of her body somehow.

C. made this chocolate cake for the holiday party that made me glad to be alive. So unbelievably, unbearably good. I could have eaten the whole thing but instead split a slice with a student worker I didn’t know. The cake wasn’t that big and there were a lot of us, and I didn’t want to be that jerk who eats the entire cake. But wow. I could have eaten that entire cake.

The institutional lunch was really elaborate, steam trays of meats and vegetables, this was not your ordinary wraps. I stood in line with M. and J. and we goggled at the warning on the roasted vegetable tray: no turnips. But why? I found the desserts inedible and was happy for the cookies that arrived later in the afternoon.

Last lunch before K. drove me to the airport to fly home to New York. Of course I was consumed with needless time anxiety, but I think K. is pretty used to that. O. and I picked up the cake J. ordered from the camp kitchen, stuck candles in it and sang a song. I’m really glad K. was born, and at a time when she could be mine.

I’d nurtured fantasies of a formal convention lunch in the basement of the Philadelphia Sheraton, the kind with a salad course and a main course, and coffee and dessert, but it was not to be, a sandwich buffet with a couple kinds of salad, a long line that I was was in the back of, it wasn’t my favorite, but at least it had the feeling of being free.

My strategy for the birthday party featuring 25 six year olds was to take myself outside as much as necessary, to prevent blowing up and pushing small people around. So I ate my two slices of pizza on the stoop out front of K.’s Dyker Heights house, went back inside to help cut the cake.

Video of a log fire flickered on the wall, the inexplicable life-sized teddy bear slumped drunkenly on an office chair, a sub sandwich covered the tables end to end twice. Holiday party! I ate fast, in between a meeting and the reference desk, feeling very in the spirit of thing.

You know those days? When you’re too busy staring off into space to get lunch at lunchtime? I swallowed a giant slice of cake from the admin office, L. brought one by and dropped it off, went out and got a fast food sandwich a little later, kind of sick, I didn’t stop to think, to go and eat. That kind of day.

Two of the presenters in the first afternoon panel were no shows and the essentialist line the third presenter took was exhausting so K. and I complained and kvetched at a table in the reception room while we ate our lunches, me a bagel from home, K. a dish of barley salad from the train station. I can’t believe they gave me a fork instead of a spoon, she complained, now people will think I’ve never eaten barley salad before.

Ebscolunch! M. and I went and it was every bit the fantasia I remembered plus some. The plus was absolutely the puff-pastry covered mushroom soup. Totally wild, we could not figure out what it was. It took a knife to get into the thing, and then there were pale lumps in the soup that were I don’t know what, bisques? I didn’t eat those. The iced tea was refreshed as fast as we could drink it, and especially in M.’s case that was really superfast. Only downside was the part where I didn’t win the raffle, and the unrelated guffawing by that one table of librarians. Somehow I felt we owed these gentleman our attention in return for the mushroom ravioli. This is why you don’t want me in charge of the revolution.