Note: This was written September 2010 – during an full-time employment lull.
There is a lot to be said for the lunch break. And this is about precisely that.
I remember vividly many a lunch days spent on the office-break-room table. Ahh, the thirty minutes of likely lunch bliss. If I was lucky, I’d be alone – alone and allowed to fall into my leftovers like a trance. I’d meticulously spoon out whatever glorious concoction was previous night’s dinner – find a non-plastic dish and pop it into the microwave for exactly one point five minutes, hoping the core would heat effectively – heating something twice soaked up valuable savoring time.
It’s been over nine months since I’ve worked in that office, yet I operate more or less the same. This routine found me and won’t let go.
And today? It’s brown rice. Nights ago it was sushi bowls. But now there’s no microwave. No co-workers. Just my granite counters and my snoring pug. And I love it just the same. The cold, simple crunch of brown rice doesn’t challenge me – it’s boring – it’s plain; there’s no special sauce or rare ingredient to appreciate or attempt to catalog away in my foodie memory.
It makes me pull my eyes from the screen and look at it, in all its predictability. And sometimes, that’s all you need.