Yesterday I made my favorite Italian vegetable casserole. It has roasted peppers, onions, basil, tomato, and zucchini. I drizzled the vegetables with red wine vinegar and olive oil. I topped it off with colorful pasta and mozzarella cheese.
Today we have leftovers. I just warmed some up in a microwave on campus. I climbed two flights of stairs in the JKB to find a secluded bench in a hallway where I plan to finish writing up a blog post for the BYU MBA blog and eat my warm lunch.
I look for my fork. I keep looking for my fork.
It's not in my backpack.
What's this? My good friend Trevor walks down the hall. We small talk. I tell him I forgot my fork as he piles mounds of ravioli from a bowl in his hand onto his fork and stuffs it in his mouth.
"You carn gor to the Wirlk," he says with his mouth overflowing with food, "they harb forks there."
Wow. He didn't even offer me his fork.
"I think I will, even though it's far away. There is no way I can eat my pasta without a fork," I reply.
He continues to walk down the hall until he turns the corner and is out of sight. I pull out my tupperware and take off the lid. There is no way I am walking all the way to the noisy Wilk to get a fork. Trevor is gone. Nobody is around. So there I was eating my lunch with my hands. It was perfect.
Then Trevor wanders by again. He doesn't notice me eating with my hands but I still feel like I need to explain myself.
"Trevor. I am eating with my hands, and I'm okay with that." I explain nervously, thinking that he may not buy my lame excuse for having no dignity.
He just laughs and walks off.
I am eating with my hands. I am okay with that.
I won't tell you whether or not I washed my hands because I like to let my readers be creative.