Today’s menu: bagel dog, tater tots, peach(!), cookie, milk
The lunch that started it all…the bagel dog meal that I ate last Fall was what got me thinking… The bagel dog that launched a thousand school lunch photos…
A commenter wanted to see some of the trash so I took some extra shots. I’ll try to do that again. I’m just pressed for time at lunch. Today there wasn’t as much trash as usual because the bagel dog was in a plastic wrapper versus a little container. The packaging is really part of the story. It’s just crazy to me how the packaging is cheaper than real plates and a commercial dishwasher. Of course there is a significant expense upfront, but doesn’t that dollar-cost-average out?
I think that’s a peach that I ate. I thought maybe it was a nectarine, but looking around online (I found out that there isn’t much difference between a nectarine and a peach genetically) I believe it was a peach. Of course I know you guys will correct me if I’m wrong. Whatever it was, it was good! Bring on new fruit!
An anonymous commenter mentioned he/she was “consistently disappointed by [my] lack of hard critique” of what I eat every day. Well. It is what it is. I’m not sure what else I can say. Should I be hopping mad day after day? I’m 96 meals into this. I’m a little fatigued.
But in an effort to “take no prisoners” (my words) I’m going to revise yesterday’s post:
Me and a rib-b-que in an interrogation room Law-and-Order-style. At a steel table, I am staring down a processed beef patty aka Mr. Rib-b-que.
Mrs. Q shuffling papers: “I have ways to make you talk.”
titanium spork gleams from side of the padded room.
Mr. Rib-b-que nervously: “I didn’t think I would be caught.”
Mrs. Q matter of factly: “There’s a new sheriff in town and alls yous guys better watch yourselves. That goes double for Mr. Cheese Lasagna.”
Mrs. Q pointedly: “What were you doing on a kid’s tray today?”
Mr. Rib-b-que sneering: “Someone put me there.”
Mrs. Q, dubious: “Likely story –” Mrs. Q grabs Mr. Rib-b-que and hurls him against the wall.
Mr. Rib-b-que starts crying
Mrs. Q walks over to Mr. Rib-b-que and picks him up by the “ribs” and presses him against the wall
Mrs. Q inches from Mr. Rib-b-que: “I don’t want you hanging around kids anymore. You’re a bad influence. And you smell.”
Mrs. Q drops Mr. Rib-b-que on the floor she says, “I’m fed up with your kind.”
Mrs. Q’s heels click as she walks towards the door and slams it.
Mr. Rib-b-que is a mess on the floor.
Oh that was fun!