Before there were GPAs and Weight Watchers and out of state dreams and raised expectations, there were school lunches. Specifically, there were elementary school lunches.

Lunch was an informal affair celebrated by all. Even the teachers would breathe a sigh of relief as that one bell rang. We’d rush to line ourselves against the wall and wait in anticipation to be handed our tray with some meat or overdose amount of carbs, and a spoonful of defrosted fruit or vegetables on the side. Or, we rushed to the tables, making our claims and throwing our jackets down next to us to save our best friend a spot.

I was often a packer. I’d briskly walk into the room, gripping the handle of my lavender lunch box with a picture of the Disney bookworm princess Belle on the front. I’d sit down and unzip the box, first being greeted by my 3 digit pin code my mother had scribbled in on the inside cover, and then the box’s contents.

Extra sharp cheddar cheese and Triskits. An apple. Some carrots, labeled “baby.” The kind of juice box you get in bulk from Sam’s Club, fruit punch if it was a good day. And a sweet; there was always some pre-packaged goodie, waiting for me behind its cellophane wrapping. My favorites were Twinkies, and I like to think that I appreciated them the most because of my father’s fondness for the cream-filled sponge cakes.

The experience of lunch in elementary school was, to me, a deliciously slow one. I was a sluggish eater, typically because I was also reading a book at the same time. Once, I took so long that I missed the recess bell, and sat with the most majestic group of the school- the fifth graders. I stared in awe at how the giants seemed to shovel food into their mouths, while I took two bites to make a Triskit disappear. Slow, timid, and appreciative, that was my experience of elementary school lunches.