What is it about bringing a packed lunch to work that makes me feel 10 years old? I’ve never really been a brown-bagger, even in high school: I’d sneak off-campus to the local subway, or falaffel hut, or somewhere similar to eat. Sometimes I’d eat at the school “cafeteria” (I encircle that word in quotes because our school cafeteria was not a traditional school cafeteria with mystery meat. No, our school cafeteria was called “Chez Hamida”, and was run by Hamida, a persian woman who whipped up some amazing meals. She ran a professional catering business, I believe, and used the same kitchen to prepare her catering work as she did our lunch options. So our school cafeteria was more of a delicatessen, perhaps, then a caf), but I haven’t regularly had a brought-lunch since I was in elementary school.
Ok, so that explains why I feel like a child when I bring in my lunch. I feel so … gleeful might be the best word … when I unwrap my sandwich from it’s wax-paper envelope. Or struggle to find the edge of the cling-wrap encasing my carrots or cookies. And then the fruit (because, if Leah makes it, just like when my mum made me lunches, there would always be fruit. Everyone in my life who’s ever cared for me seems to have made it a personal mission to get me to eat more fruit. I’ve done just fine, thank you very much!). The fruit will sit on my desk for a while, taunting me, daring me to eat it. Holding promise of juciy goodness & energy if I decide to eat it, warning of inevitable decay & death if I leave it there, not only it’s own, but, in some curious way, mine too. And it’s that fear, not love of taste, or joy of the crisp “SCHNKK!” as I sink my teeth into a crunchy apple (one of my absolute favourite moments in life), that usually drives me to eat the damn fruit.