ちょうど先日、Habit Burgerで期間限定のportobello mushroomバーガーを食べたばかり。アンドレアとアレックスのメニューも美味しそうです。
Alex picked at the chicken sandwich she'd bought at the campus store for dinner, trying to ignore the singing.
Ponytailed girls in tank tops pass around spiked bottles of Minute Maid orange juice. Some show up dunk—more leave drunk—but most are just high on the last moments of intense togetherness.
While some other clubs happily blow their budget on beer and eat hot dogs for the last few weeks of school, Tower members order every meal from a computer in the dining room, choosing from more than seventy different options for lunch and dinner.
In high school, I would rather have stayed home with my mom on a Tuesday night, eating spaghetti and watching American Idol, than have gone out with my friends. No question.
At home, that happy history was everywhere. Glass bottles of red Ragù sauce in the kitchen reminded me of spaghetti Bolognese dinners she used to make the night before I had a big test in high school.
I wanted him to understand this place I escaped to—to meet my past students, to share simmering vats of spicy hot pot, my favorite Chinese dish, and to build a new class community with me.
She couldn't escape to school, so any time Ben gave her a break from work, she drove ten minutes down the road to have a sandwich or a cup of coffee at Panera. Leaving the house, Alex liked to imagine she was making a prison break. Panera was noisy and smelled strongly of feta, but it was outside the house and that mad it sanctuary.
Her mom's African friends—other graduate students—were always filing in and out of the apartment, inviting her to graduation parties, asking her to be the flower girl at their weddings, cooking jolly rice and grilled tilapia for the gatherings the African community at Champaign hosted every Friday night.
She offered me tea—fancy, organic chocolate rooibos tea—before I had to ask.
At the weekly house dinner, I was sure they noticed how much I stuck out: a college kid who sat in the corner, laughed at jokes but said little—who, when it was her turn to cook, couldn't even figure out how to turn on the stove (I sautéed onions for twenty minutes before noticing they were still cold).
"I donate tens of thousands of dollars every year to rare turtle conservation. I always try to do whatever I can to protect animals."
Olivia thought about the dinner they'd had two nights before, when she'd watched Greg eat a huge slab of rare steak. She smiled.
When people came to visit, she could take them to her favorite ginger beef shop, vegan restaurant, ice-cream store, or bar that served the best burgers in the city.
I knew his annoying habits: he never picked his sweaty workout clothes up off the floor; he couldn't tolerate the sound of me eating chips, apples, or carrots. I could deal with those things.
I made friends with our landlady and the vendors at the market two blocks away—Dee at the meat stand liked to make fun of my laugh, and Daniel at the cheese stand always let me sample as many different cheeses as I wanted before I bought a small hunk of the cheapest cheddar he sold.
I was cooking chicken fajitas, a dish Robert and I made all the time when people came over. I was particularly excited to cook for my mom, because when I lived at home, she never let me near the stove. As I chopped the vegetables and sliced the chicken, Mom hovered in the doorway, watching everything I did, clearly ready to come to my rescue at any second.
Mom made small talk with Robert, pouring some tortilla chips into a bowl and acting like everything was completely normal.
"Would anyone like a glass of wine?" She said, opening the fridge.
At dinner, Mom was quick to refill our glasses as soon as they were half empty. She gave the fajitas way more compliments than they deserved, and we spent the rest of the night watching home movies of me giving speeches in my eighth-grade Latin class.
They served homemade soup and fresh food from the farm—vegetables and eggs—while they were tripping. Peter said they did this because "people need to be treated kindly."
They ate chicken and a salad with homemade dressing, and lay down together on a blanket on the sand.
When I Skyped with Alex on a Saturday, she was getting ready to make bacon-wrapped filet mignon topped with scallion cashew cheese, with arugula and sautéed portobello mushrooms on the side. Halfway through our conversation, Andrea came in from the kitchen (where I'd been watching her dance around in a T-shirt and gym shorts), put her hand on Alex's back, and placed a mug of hot coffee on the coaster beside her.
Caroline Kitchener著 Post Grad: Five Women and Their First Year Out of College より