I’ve been thinking about that phrase, “You are what you eat.” I always assumed the saying meant you literally are what you eat, so if you eat only pork you might end up resembling a pig. However, I recalled the saying while thinking about what my eating habits say about me. Suddenly, I am what I eat. No, I’m not a cow when I eat burgers or a rabbit when I eat my heaping Val salad, but my personality manifests itself in my eating habits.
My parents visited Amherst this past weekend, but my ma didn’t even know that it was parents’ weekend until she noticed the multitude of cars parked haphazardly along the freshman quad drive. Although she certainly confirmed that I am the youngest of four in a busy and distracted family, she also pointed out an aspect of parents’ weekend that can make life difficult when trying to eat out: Amherst gets packed. Thankfully, I guessed correctly that late on a Sunday morning, I could find my favorite corner bakery ready for business and blissfully peaceful, even when more lively than usual.
Party playlists are difficult. Sometimes you pick that song that makes the girls stop, stare in wonder, scream a bit and then dance wildly while belting out the lyrics. At other times, everyone boos you away from the speakers and asks how you could possibly have chosen that song while frantically scrolling through the iPod for one they think people will actually enjoy. I’ve been there. It’s rough. Sometimes I would love to have a 5-minute dance party by myself and then return to reality.
I started my mornings around 7:15 this summer and with the hottest shower I could achieve in Newport House. While others might have found this heat to be excessive during a muggy Massachusetts summer in a college dorm without air conditioning, I needed it. As the heat rolled down my body, I stretched, preparing my muscles for another day chock full of physical labor at Book and Plow farm.
This past Thursday night was a highlight of my time at Amherst; it will forever endure as a cherished memory.
At 6:30 p.m., my friend Marisa and I met outside Stone and marched into town, chattering excitedly as we strode through blustery gusts of biting wind that blew heavy, wet snowflakes into our faces and hair. We hiked across the park and past Fresh Side, CVS and Miss Saigon before finally reaching one of my favorite restaurants in the world.
My parents’ college reunions fall on the same weekend every year. One parent can never visit the other’s, and generally my dad takes the kids to his because we live only an hour from his alma mater. When I was six, my mom decided to take me along on the five hour drive from Philadelphia to Amherst. I can’t say that I remember the reunion itself, but what I do remember is Northampton. More importantly, I remember a specific part of Northampton.
My roommates have a list of restaurants to visit in Northampton. They believe they’ve seen it all in Amherst and feel restless, thirsty for a new experience. Sadly, Nemo and the requisite driving ban forced them to stay local. However, this setback allowed me to introduce them to a spot of novelty in Amherst, proving that they have yet to fully explore and exploit the town.
