The travel menu said we were being served dinner at the start of our twelve hour flight from Detroit to Tokyo even though it was only 12:15. Normalizing the meal and sleep schedule is key, everybody says: hygiene hygiene, hygiene. This first airplane meal was novel, the rest much less so. 

The O’Hare SkyClub had a soup I hadn’t seen before, Wicked Thai Chicken. I contend it was neither wicked not Thai, but that was plausibly a piece of chicken. I ate and caught up with email. So many good books about to come out. 

Buffalo Wild Wings has a lunch special! I got it plus the beer special and worked through some work email using the wifi and then watched a show about the NBA draft. America!

Paying real money for things to drink still feels impossibly luxurious, even now, a decade into making a salary high enough to regularly pay real money for things to drink. I don’t even think about getting the juice anymore, I just get it. I put a can of lemon lime seltzer from home into my lunch bag this morning. Eating in my office in the twelve minutes between therapy and the refdesk, it was like I was practically in France.

I thought I grabbed a lemon yogurt but it was plain. The best part of the lunch, obviously, was the chunk of cheese, part of the block of manchego that belongs to me and only me in the refrigerator at home. I read S.’s chapter for the book she edited with B. Resonating all over the place, and incredibly brave. I put blueberries on my salad and they were so much better than my usual handful of raisins.

I ate a salad in a meeting about outcomes assessment and it was all a little watery. 

I ate the salad K. made me and the chips that A. brought while sitting in a chair on the sand under an umbrella, watching the Atlantic Ocean.