(no subject)
A crowded inbound bus on a Saturday Morning. In the Handicap Seats near the front sits a woman in her twenties or thirties, black, curvy, but not greatly obese. When I get on I notice she's eating a yogurt.
The ride goes on, and I notice she's moved on to some Sun Chips, and a turkey sandwich. She has decided to eat her gas-station bounty in full on the bus, it seems. I commiserate with her for a moment, thinking back to the times I've bought a meal-on-the-go from debit-card-friendly Jewel, and lamented their lack of seating as I eat from a CTA or park bench. No harm, no foul.
The ride goes on. My surly attitude grows, knowing there's no way I can make my Metra train. As I look around the bus and the streets for things to hate, my eyes go back to Yoplait who, at this point, is unwinding the lid of a small flat tin with a key. Surely not stinking fish, on a crowded bus. Though it's technically against the rules, eating a snack or even a meal on the CTA is excusable - within the bounds of consideration. I wouldn't whip up tuna salad there on the morning rush. But sure enough, she eats her sardines, bite by bite, shaking each morsel vigorously to clear it of oil.
More snacks. A power bar, some lemonade, then back to the turkey sandwich. I hop on the phone to tell my ride that I'll be late and, at the height of my seething rage, the woman produces from a backpack, a box of Argo cornstarch, and a plastic spoon, and chows down.
I stare in disbelief, as a number of notes roll through my mind. First, that this is a treat held specially - not in the bag from whence it was bought, but in its own compartment, in her backpack. This Argo cornstarch never leaves her.
Then, that her candy bar, turkey sandwich, canned sardines, Sun Chips, and yogurt weren't enough, and she felt like capping off the meal with a substance that's technically a food. Refugees might subsist on this when it's too dangerous to go out for real food, just to feel a pasty clump of something fill their belly. But for this woman, it was like dessert.
Third, giving full benefit of the doubt, that this was perhaps some frugal delight I've not yet discovered the wonders of. I've played with cornstarch and water as a boy, feeling the way it hardens into a paste. But I'd never thought to pop that paste in my mouth, after it had hardened on my fingers. Perhaps I was missing out on a simple joy - a great way to -- curb hunger? whiten teeth? promote regularity?
And finally, despite her good composure, and hygiene, this fair subject was indeed bonkers. Shoved in the grocery bag alongside the food wrappers was a pamphlet on Jesus, and emerging from her backpack was a small white teddy bear. Inconclusiveness abounds.
The ride goes on, and I notice she's moved on to some Sun Chips, and a turkey sandwich. She has decided to eat her gas-station bounty in full on the bus, it seems. I commiserate with her for a moment, thinking back to the times I've bought a meal-on-the-go from debit-card-friendly Jewel, and lamented their lack of seating as I eat from a CTA or park bench. No harm, no foul.
The ride goes on. My surly attitude grows, knowing there's no way I can make my Metra train. As I look around the bus and the streets for things to hate, my eyes go back to Yoplait who, at this point, is unwinding the lid of a small flat tin with a key. Surely not stinking fish, on a crowded bus. Though it's technically against the rules, eating a snack or even a meal on the CTA is excusable - within the bounds of consideration. I wouldn't whip up tuna salad there on the morning rush. But sure enough, she eats her sardines, bite by bite, shaking each morsel vigorously to clear it of oil.
More snacks. A power bar, some lemonade, then back to the turkey sandwich. I hop on the phone to tell my ride that I'll be late and, at the height of my seething rage, the woman produces from a backpack, a box of Argo cornstarch, and a plastic spoon, and chows down.
I stare in disbelief, as a number of notes roll through my mind. First, that this is a treat held specially - not in the bag from whence it was bought, but in its own compartment, in her backpack. This Argo cornstarch never leaves her.
Then, that her candy bar, turkey sandwich, canned sardines, Sun Chips, and yogurt weren't enough, and she felt like capping off the meal with a substance that's technically a food. Refugees might subsist on this when it's too dangerous to go out for real food, just to feel a pasty clump of something fill their belly. But for this woman, it was like dessert.
Third, giving full benefit of the doubt, that this was perhaps some frugal delight I've not yet discovered the wonders of. I've played with cornstarch and water as a boy, feeling the way it hardens into a paste. But I'd never thought to pop that paste in my mouth, after it had hardened on my fingers. Perhaps I was missing out on a simple joy - a great way to -- curb hunger? whiten teeth? promote regularity?
And finally, despite her good composure, and hygiene, this fair subject was indeed bonkers. Shoved in the grocery bag alongside the food wrappers was a pamphlet on Jesus, and emerging from her backpack was a small white teddy bear. Inconclusiveness abounds.