On Lunch

When I grow up, I will make my children sushi for lunch. I will make them California Rolls and include sides of sweet ginger, wasabi, and stolen packets of soy sauce. I will roll these every morning, cut them up, and put them on small, covered trays to place in metal lunchboxes. I will not include chopsticks. My children will eat with their fingers because it is more fun that way. These bourgeois lunches will be the envy of mothers and the laughingstock of friends. My kids will plead for peanut butter and jelly, cut diagonally in triangles, and without crusts. And my face will fall when I quietly brownbag these among staid potato chips and fruit drinks from concentrate. Only later will my kids realize how cool their mom once was, but by then they will be going off-campus for lunch, probably thinking this while biting into a quarter-pounder with cheese.

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