I stopped in my tracks, glancing between the leftward grill and the station on the right in the West Campus Dining Hall. The former housed plates of blueberry pancakes and a tray of hashbrowns where trays of scrambled eggs and bacon would usually lay. At the latter, chefs were busy making scrambled eggs in frying pans, keeping strips of bacon warm in a covered tray. Empty plates were stacked at the ready for egg portions to be allotted to a desiring student.
This is wrong, said my mind immediately. But I only stared without words, until one of the chefs looked up from stirring his eggy mixture.
“You look confused,” he said, to which I nodded and he added, “We’re switching things up a little.”
I kept staring at the new arrangement before me, but eventually mustered up an “okay” before turning on my heel and running over to the other side of the dining hall to find the granola. I’d been looking forward to my usual self-serve eggs, but the slight change in dining hall scenery caught me so off-guard that I couldn’t risk being disappointed in the new-but-probably-similar scrambled eggs that day– so I booked it to a different breakfast option.
As I sat at a table a few minutes later, stirring together my groyo delight, my mind returned to the scrambled eggs. Would they taste better or worse coming from a frying pan instead of the grill? What if Dining Services handed me an unsatisfactory portion? Would I ever eat eggs again?
I noticed on Twitter that I wasn’t alone in my eggs-treme anxieties:
When I had no words to describe my feelings, these outspoken students carried my voice to BU Dining Services. Critical, somewhat disrespectful, but expressive in defense of our yolk-and-whites freedom, they put their fists down and demanded justice. Alas, if only they could be taken seriously:
Sometimes, the little people must accept defeat. And so, the next morning I walked into the dining hall with a brave face and all the composure I could collect. My insides squirmed with discomfort as I, for the first time in West Campus, asked for a plate of scrambled eggs. A sizable portion was handed to me with a kind smile, giving me enough encouragement to grab a fork and sit down at a window-side table. Slowly, I took a bite from the fluffy, sunshine-colored pile, chewing with deep thought to allow room for critical analysis.
I had none.
Oftentimes, we become critical and anxious over the little changes we must adjust to in life. The freedom to serve ourselves food can still be found across all three BU dining halls in places such as the salad bar, dessert table, soft-serve ice cream machine, toaster, waffle maker, et cetera. If the inability to self-serve your eggs truly affects your well-being, I suggest you take it up with BU Dining Services on Twitter (@BUDiningServices). You’ll find that they are more than understanding of student needs.