Marist Dining Hall

    Undercooked chicken with a rubbery consistency. Pizza oozing with grease. Turkey that tastes about five days old. Those are all images that flash through my mind when a friend asks if I'd like to go to the dining hall. I can think of about 25 places I'd rather eat, yet time after time, I find myself in no other than...you guessed it...the dining hall. And time after time, I put that rubbery chicken in my salad or that ancient turkey on my sandwich. Why? I don't know. I guess it's just because that place and the less-than-desirable food will always hold a special place in my heart.
    On my most recent trip to the dining hall, I entered and was instantly greeted with memories. I walked past the array of cereals (in which Cheerios is mysteriously and heartbreakingly absent) and remembered those Sunday mornings where my friends and I could hardly take two bites of breakfast. We would sit for over an hour with our barely touched bowls of cereal as we recapped every last detail of our crazy Saturday night.
    As I got on the grill line, I was immediately reminded of those busy weekday nights when I would wait for what seemed like an eternity for my food, chatting with fellow classmates.
    The sushi station ignited memories of all the firsts I tried under that roof, which includes knishes, squash, zucchini, and of course, sushi.
    On the walk to the water machine I let out a laugh as I remembered the time time I slipped on an ice cube and went flying, along with the full plate of food in my hands.
    And passing the table all the way in the front brought back the deeply suppressed memory of that time I found a fly in my salad. I haven't sat at that table since.
    Even though I complain about Marist's dining hall and scoff at people who enjoy it, secretly, deep down, I love that place. And you can bet your ass that when a friend asks if I'd like to join them for a meal of rubbery chicken, greasy pizza, and old cold cuts (and even dead flies in some cases...) I'll happily say yes.