After the Lydia Davis Colloquium in Margaret Jacks Hall

Self had lunch by herself in a quiet courtyard off Cubberley.

In front of her on a little table:  two copies of The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis, one for niece, the other for self.

Then she walked back to the Oval, where she had parked her car.  Here’s a shot of the grove of trees directly across from History Corner.

Here’s an excerpt from a Lydia Davis short story called “Meat, My Husband.” This is a story about food and food predilections.  Self was actually quite hungry by the time she finished reading it:

My husband often ate in diners before we met.  He had two he liked, but he preferred the one where they did a particularly good hot roast beef sandwich.  He still likes a good piece of roast beef, or steak, or hamburger mixed with sauce and spices and grilled outdoors with brochettes of onions and peppers.

But I’m the one who cooks most of his meals now.  Often I make him meals with no meat in them at all because I don’t think meat is good for us.  Often there is no seafood in them either, because most seafood isn’t good for us either, and there is almost never any fish in them, partly because I can’t remember which sorts of fish may be safe to eat and which are almost certainly not, but mainly because he likes fish only when it’s served in a restaurant or cooked in such a way that he can’t tell it’s fish.  Often there is no cheese in our meals either, because of the problem with fat.  I’ll make him a brown-rice casserole, for example, or winter vegetables with parsley sauce, or turnip soup with turnip greens, or white bean and eggplant gratin, or polenta with spicy vegetables.

“Why don’t you make the foods I like?” he asks some times.

“Why don’t you like the foods I make?”  I answer.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.


  1. Maya said,

    May 1, 2011 at 1:22 am

    Lunch of Kettle chips, eh?

  2. May 1, 2011 at 1:48 am

    Ha, ha, ha!

    I had a salad first, before the Kettle Chips (I thought the photo would look more artsy without inclusion of remains of my salad . . . )

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