Pollen season is upon us, meaning two thirds of the College spends their days in a hazy, shimmering world of ethereal shapes and uncertainties. To honor this affliction, the Caf, in an act of unquestionable logic, cooked up a dish fairly reminiscent of rather severe sinus infection.

I was informed of a definite lack of solid foods as I diligently took my place in a line that coiled its way through most of the Caf–once again, I had failed to beat the Noon Rush. Now, there did exist a pork chop, which signs told me was both breaded and fried. Opting out of this encapsulated pig selection, I instead gathered a collection of liquids and purées and labeled them as my lunch.

That said, I began eating without considering the meal to be worthy of a review: it was bland, sure, but bland is usually not enough to warrant documentation. And, apart from the inevitable spillage of one dish into another (a topic covered extensively in last week’s solitary entry), I was quite content with slurping down the assorted chicken scraps.

With every bite, however, a disturbing sensation increased its threats to overcome me. After having successfully dissected the chicken out of the (as well as the disappointly few dumplings), I was left with the yellowish-green mucus that bound it all together in one cohesive–albeit glutinous–mass. Well satisfied, I proceeded to the mashed potatoes, which consistency reminded me of that of Play-Doh.

For reasons beyond my own explanation, I found myself returning to the massacred chicken & dumplings, forking out a blob of its gooey remains. And, like a five year old, I peculiarly enough sampled it, despite its resemblance to something blasted out of a congested individual’s nasal passages.

Suffice to say I was horrified by my own actions, and did not return to Caf for dinner.

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