POSTCARD FROM CAMBRIDGE: Salivating for a Salad Bar

Over dinner a few days ago, my summer roommate asked, “Has anyone seen the spoon?” Note the singular, “spoon.” Luckily, our schedules were different enough so that no fights broke out over our beloved spoon, but when I wanted ice cream, which required a metal spoon to dig out frozen bits of cookie, and my roommate wanted to eat her soup, we finally admitted that it was time to buy some silverware.

Until our recent trip to Dickson Brothers, where we treated ourselves to re-usable plastic bowls, a spatula and silverware, we had just one metal spoon among our four mouths. We have housing in DeWolfe, considered quite posh by summer subletting standards in Cambridge. And although we have a big, glorious refrigerator capable of storing 5 gallons of milk to my HSA’s one quart, as well as a dishwasher, oven range and trash compactor, fending for my stomach—even with the mechanical niceties of a working kitchen to call my own—has been a struggle.

I’m not complaining about cooking, but about the contrast that exists between the services I receive as a Harvard student and the lack of goodies I now have as a resident of Cambridge in Harvard-affilated housing. Last summer, I cooked for myself. This summer, I’m cooking for myself. The difference: During the year, I’m still at Harvard but the food preparation is done for me.

While I won’t go so far as to say I dream of General Wong’s Chicken or the Baked Cod nights, I do miss the cereal variety and made-to-order omelettes. Walking past the dining halls, I dream of the stacks of clean ceramic dishware and endless supply of cups, ice and soda. Then I go back to my kitchen and attempt stir-fry-à-la-Trader Joe.

The worst moments come when I’ve just come back for the day and am salivating about the idea of dinner in any form, even if it is nuked Chef Boyardee. I’ve got to cook and prepare it myself, with Leverett Dining Hall in plain sight, a constant reminder of how food in the dining hall is instantly accessible at meal time—none of this rapid-defrost-in-the-toaster or waiting-for-water-to-boil nonsense.

With the constant reminder of Harvard Dining Services only bolstered by tales of Annenberg’s cuisine from summer school proctors, I’ve taken a solemn vow never to complain about variety. Having only four or five dressings to choose from at the salad bar seems like a wonderous selection after having bought a super-large bottle of ranch dressing in order to save a few dollars at Star Market. Same goes for bread—committing to finishing an entire loaf of wheat bread without getting sick of its discolored brown and grainy consistency reminds me of how thankful I should be for the bread basket in Cabot, which is itself notoriously understocked. I now treasure the opportunity during the school year when I could choose between an English muffin and cinnamon raisin bread without having to buy entire packages of each.

We whine about Harvard Dining Services. Perhaps some complaining is warranted—this year, we’ve seen the lack of hummus in Quincy, the disappearance of daily donuts and the recycled-dessert style Brain Breaks. But being at Harvard for the summer with a similarly stacked schedule, with work replacing extracurricular activities, summer school and the I-should-explore-Boston-because-I-have-time mentality, means that cooking becomes another time commitment and is often stomach-torture.

Not having my popcorn chicken may be good for my arteries, and cooking may be good for developing my sense of independence, but being at school without the services our tuition includes provides a new perspective on the Harvard dining debacle. I may have anything I want for dinner, but just because I’m cooking what I desire doesn’t mean it’s any good. So come September, appreciate the already-hot General Wong’s Chicken when you come to the dining hall starving because you’ve had a five-hour lab or tutorial through lunch. The HDS meal we make an art of despising may really be disgusting, but at least it’s ready-to-eat.

Nicole B. Usher ’03, a Crimson editor, is a history concentrator in Cabot House. She spends her days killing flies in her Let’s Go office.