In the corner of the Queen’s Lane Coffee House in Oxford, I am only a student.
I relax after a full day of lectures by eating Greek yogurt, honey and fresh strawberries. This scrumptious food of the gods is beautifully arranged in a tall parfait glass. The bowl of my teaspoon digs to the bottom of the treat and drags bits of each layer up the side of the glass for my next bite.
As I take that perfectly mixed bite into my mouth, my eyes close, and this noise escapes from me: “Mmmmm.”
During the summer I am an instructor with a lighter load, I’m managing a few research projects and writing two papers.
I prepare for the day’s work by eating Greek yogurt, honey and fresh strawberries. This breakfast created to remind me of Oxford is plopped precariously into my cereal bowl. I grab bites here and there with a soup spoon as I dry my hair and get dressed for the day.
As I pack the car with my briefcase, purse and grocery list for the evening trip home, I run back into the house, grab my soup spoon and quickly scrape the last of my faux parfait. This noise escapes from me:
During the January semester I am an instructor with a full load, a student who is taking her last statistics course that paralyzes her with fear, and three other things that make me stressed to type so I don’t.
I don’t have time to drag my breakfast around with me. Rather, I rapidly toss Greek yogurt, honey, fresh strawberries, some ice cubes and a little skim milk into the blender. I turn it on while I’m zipping up my boots. As soon as the zipper reaches the top of the boot, I slam a cup down, jerk the blender off the rotors, and pour in my liquid not-anything-like-a-parfait.
I toss everything I think I’ll need for the day into the car and wedge my breakfast into the drink holder. Half-way to work, I toast the Morning Edition hosts with my liquid breakfast. I drink in gulps it while listening to the news about Pakistan, the upcoming elections and the economy.
Not really regarding the goodness of what I’m drinking, I don’t say a word.