Luncheon

Graham teases that I’m not very good at making what he calls “a fast American lunch.” He means the kind of food that you grab and eat quickly, often while you’re focused on doing something else. I suppose he’s right. I admit I’m not very good at that. 

I look forward to lunch all morning long, and sometimes when I’m cleaning up from dinner, I’ll think ahead to what I’d like to cook for tomorrow’s lunch. I relish the opportunity to take a break from the busyness of work, to sit down properly, and to eat something delicious. I might even call lunch my favorite meal of the day. 

But I also understand that we don’t always have the time to prepare an elaborate meal. In fact, for most of us, on most days, we could say it’s a small victory to squeeze in a moment for lunch amidst the million other things demanding our attention. Especially so these days, when we’re juggling the responsibilities of being an employee, a family member, and perhaps even an educator for our kids. On top of all that, we also feel the weight of anxiety over what the future holds. I am not trying to argue that cooking solves any of these problems. I don’t really believe in the “just cook to feel better” philosophy. Instead, I know that we all need to eat, and if we’re able to put a little bit of care and attention into it, we end up with something that’s nourishing in a wide variety of ways: for our bodies and souls, for our relationships, and for our communities.

So, each day for lunch I try to cook something. It’s never complicated, because I haven’t been in the mood for kitchen projects. Most days my lunch is some form of sandwich. I love a fried egg on a toasted and well buttered everything bagel. Or, lunch could be leftovers reimagined: cold roasted chicken, shredded and mixed with mayonnaise and fresh dill, then piled on olive bread, with a pickle on the side. Graham and I usually eat together; we’re both working from home and it’s nice to sit down at the same table for a little while, even if some days we just stare at the crossword puzzle from the weekend newspaper or sit in relative silence because we’re both thinking deeply about our respective work projects.

He calls our shared meal “luncheon.” It’s a continuation of the tease. He’s making fun of the idea that only a certain type of wealthy person could spend a few leisurely hours at a private country club, dining on boiled crab legs, eggs benedict, and cream of artichoke soup. What we eat at home for lunch isn’t really luncheon, and he knows it. But it’s also not exactly the typical fast American lunch. He’s pointing out that difference—and, at least I think, showing his appreciation for it.