Lunch Languages

a spiritual potluck

I do not like eating alone.

Upon clocking out as I leave the hospital each shift, I’m required to report back to the small timekeeping system about whether or not I have taken my compulsory 30 minute uninterrupted meal break. I’d read some lore on the socials regarding the legends of consequences if one marks ‘no…’ circuses of forms and meetings with HR, but as I’m rather committed to the faith practice of lunchtime, I do indeed always take this time and faithfully report back ‘yes’ to the Kronos box.

Thirty minutes is inadequate for the consumption of a salad of reasonable size with appropriate chewing (trust me, I’ve tried). Even if I earnestly march from my desk to a designated lunch space and do not distract myself with talking, I’ve been so far unable to complete a whole salad in the time between clockings. My adaptation is to have soup or a grain bowl, which I prepare in triplicate the day prior to my three-day stretch. This is part due to the time constraints and also due to the TMJ, which requires softer foods with less forceful chewing.

Personally, I don’t mind eating the same thing three days in a row, and am quite comfortable with my packed lunch. The cafeteria often has great smelling options with decent variety, but occasionally serves something I find abhorrent, and so I try not to rely on the hot dish.

For many months I would dance between dining in the staff lounge on my floor, the outdoor terrace, or the cafeteria. But I found I always ate alone, because everyone else seemed to as well. Occasionally in the lounge people would comment on the news or weather or some tidbit of popular gossip while they passed at the microwave, but principally it was individuals sitting one per table, headphones in, eyes focused on plates and phones and paper books. I thought about making my own table tent inviting people to come sit with me - I didn’t want to intrude on quiet time, personal reflection, or a good book - but I also didn’t want to just sit by my lonesome. I don’t like eating alone. And for reasons I have not yet unpacked with my therapist, I am timid when it comes to openly inviting others.

I have taken to anthropological observations of the sorts of meals the others eat. We’re a mixed bag - some ordering in the cafe, others toting from home. The home lunches might be pre-portioned freezer meals, leftovers, or glass containers with snap on lids filled with bits and pieces of leftovers. One brings an unthinkably large smoothie. Another eats two bags of chips, and only two bags of chips. Some grab and go, probably to eat in front of their computer stations in defiance of the Kronos Time and Attendance System or maybe in the car.

I worry a little about the ones I’ve never seen eating.

In my adorably bizarre and formative youth, within the ecosystem of my experimental elementary school, we had norms which I’ve come to learn were probably not the same that yours might have been. On days when the weather was deemed adequate for outdoor eating, we would wander across the creek in a single-file line to the neighboring park where we were frequently seated in small circles or clusters not of our individual choosing. We didn’t have regular groups, we were randomly shuffled and seated in configurations unique to the day and the whims of the teachers pointing at imaginary spaces in the grass. On days the weather was deemed insufficient, we marched to a make-shift assembly hall for floor eating. At times, we were one enormous perimeter. Others, the line folded back on itself and we sat across from others who might have been in pre-kindergarten or 8th grade, or anything in between.

We were not forced to interact or talk, nor were we given prompts or directives, but I think we often chatted. I do recall times when we were explicitly eating in silence for some purpose or another, although I don’t recall learning the purpose. It’s possible that Grandma Dorothy, the mother of our principal who lurked among us rather than being minded more appropriately in a memory care unit found our chatting irritating on some days.

Ok, maybe all of that is familiar. Maybe this is how all 80’s era American lunchrooms unfolded, but I have a sense that many of you reading ate at tables and were not implicitly expected to wrangle your elders.