It is a well know fact that fast food and sea food do not mix; the combination seeks to extend the brief window of opportunity within which the latter is delectable. Sea food and Caf food, however, does not only not mix, but creates a concoction able of vanquishing what little hope anyone could have in the Caf.

I should have known that today, Wednesday, would be a bad day. Breakfast presented no oatmeal, and, although there was yogurt, the Caf had run out of milk. In desperation, I tugged at the dairy-controlling levers, but the repositories were as dry as the College on an August afternoon. There was cereal–after all, I seem to have made some claim about the abundance of that specific breakfast item–but not a drop to drench it in.

Peeved, I then realized the Caf had run out of appropriately-sized spoons. I was furious.

I might as well say this now: I have given up on lunch. For the past month, that meal has consisted of a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk.

That said, the Caf is providing plenty of material with its dinner offerings alone. The cocktail cherry-marinated pork, for example, made a haunting comeback earlier this week–I can’t help but wonder where the poppy seed chicken has been banished to.

Another soon-to-be classic presented itself today: seafood casserole. Allow me to explain exactly why this dish represents the epitome of all things vile. Ahem. First of all, my fellow diner, I have already explained my aversion to seafood. Moreover, incorporating several of these foods (and I use this term lightly) in a casserole suggests they have individually seen the light of serving in some other form. The casserole, in other words, is the lowest form of food freshness, tied only with sloughs and slurries.

I did a double take. After first seeing the casserole, I turned on my heel and marched back to my table. Once there, I spent a minute in deepest reflection, weighing my options. In a moment of sincere clarity, I thought of you, fellow diner. I thought of a buildup of expectations, and the disappointment my cowardice was generating.

I returned. I requested a helping. For once, I was served a decent portion. It looked like this:

My face and stomach set, I tried a white part reminiscent of chicken. It was not. Then, in a move of lunacy, I tried another white piece–this one with a pinkish rind. A more hopeful part of my mind imagined shrimp, but there was nothing shrimp-like about its gelatinous consistency. The dish sampled, my resolve left me, and I left the Caf still hungry, but with sick pooling in the back of my throat.

Coincidentally, the Caf has started a “Who Cares What You Think?” response campaign, which I assume is directed at yours truly. For what it is worth, I will continue both thinking and caring. This way, you won’t have to.