Slow Food

The title of this post is misleading as it has nothing to do with the slow food movement, but it does have to do with eating your food slowly--a luxury that is simply no longer part of my life.

Monday through Friday, I eat one meal slowly. Friday night is take out Friday, when Adam and I peruse the orange folder of take out menus and order some kind of crap from a local venue, drink a beer, and catch up from the week. All other meals of the week look like this:

Breakfast: Eaten on the train ride to work. My commute is only four stops, so this eating is FAST. Last week I grabbed a couple leftover pancakes from the snow day (decided that snow day had to = pancakes), threw them on top of my packed lunch, and noshed them on the train practically choking on how dry they were. At least there was something in my stomach before teaching for 3 hours.

Lunch: Eaten while pumping breastmilk in the dirty, smelly, waterbug infested bathroom of the Humanities teacher's lounge. Horrible place to eat, no doubt, but by 11:00 not only are my boobs about to simultaneously explode and implode, but I am also starving. I inhale whatever lunch I have during my 12 or so minutes that the pump is on.

Dinner: Eaten while feeding Alexandra, who, although 2.5 insists "Mommy, feed me!" while pacifying Nico, who is pretty much fed up after being in the bouncy seat while I made dinner. I usually inhale my dinner so quickly that I scare myself and even wonder if I ever put any food on my plate in the first place. That's how fast I eat.

So this week of midwinter break, I have eaten slow and it. has. been. glorious.