Here at the Food on Fridays carnival, any post remotely related to food is welcome—it doesn’t have to be a recipe.
Food on Fridays Participants
Food on Fridays with Ann
Late Sunday night I returned home from Grand Rapids, where I attended the biennial Festival of Faith & Writing held at Calvin College. The past few days, I’ve tried to share some of my encounters and interactions with you. The following is a scene from last Saturday (root beer falls loosely into the category of food, doesn’t it?).
My editor and I arranged to meet for lunch on Saturday along with another David C. Cook colleague to discuss potential projects.
Ideally, I’d handle myself in a professional and poised manner. I dressed for it, wearing black slacks, a suit jacket and black pumps.
We couldn’t find a place on campus to eat, so we jumped in my car and drove to the first quick restaurant we spotted: Culver’s.
I placed my order and filled my large cup with root beer. I glanced at the lids and straws, but my hands were full. I decided that trying to secure the lid would be too awkward. I carried the open cup carefully to a small table that was the only one available at the time.
We sipped our drinks for a couple of minutes, chatting, waiting for our food to arrive. Finally I offered to launch into my ideas. I slipped some papers from a Kinko’s bag to hand to both of them as I pitched the first concept.
At that moment, our trays of food arrived. I set my papers down and reached for the tray.
As I brought it toward me, the tray blocked my view of the cup, and—thunk!
The entire cup of root beer tipped over, cold drink pouring onto my lap and down my pant leg. I was saturated. Sopping. The liquid soaked my pants and continued to flow all the way down to my shoe—into my shoe.
“Save the papers!” I exclaimed. My editor whipped up the stack of papers while the other lady rushed over to grab a wad of napkins. I blotted my pants a little, but it was too far along to make much of a difference. I resigned myself to sit in root beer pants.
Someone watched the spill from a big table in the corner. She came over. “I’m just one person at a big table, and you’re three at this small one. Why don’t we trade? You [she glanced at me compassionately] look like you could use the space.”
I thanked her with a sheepish grin. We gathered our trays and bags to walk the few steps to the bigger table.
The root beer had filled my right shoe.