THIS THING CALLED LUNCH

11:57 am

"You should write more," a friend remarked to me recently.  To which my answer was, "I would love to, but there is, unfortunately, this thing called lunch."

Perhaps some of you reading these lines are doing so in the early morning hours from the comfort of the States. Your children are tucked away conveniently at school, trendy lunch box in tow. Maybe there is a sandwich in there? Some chips perhaps? Or maybe you simply gave them money for this wondrous place known as the cafeteria. Either way, your children's basic needs during the lunch hour will be met, and if they are not met just exactly to their liking, you, Dear Reader, will not around to find out about it. Nope, you will not be seeing your precious darlings until much later on in the day when the lunch hour is but a hazy memory.

In Switzerland, things are just a tiny bit different. In Switzerland, folks strongly believe in the health-giving, restorative properties of  a hot lunch, traditionally to be taken at home surrounded by mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, godparents, what have you. Every day around 11:45, the business of the Swiss morning comes to a screeching halt. Grocery stores empty of their customers while village streets fill with backpack-laden children making their way like brightly colored tortoises homeward. They are tired. They are hungry. And they are about to take all of the injustices of the morning out upon their immediate family members. Writers are often advised to "write what you know."  I have lived this lunchtime reality for some three years now. I know it, Dear Reader, for a fact.

In my home, a few minutes before noon, a sacred quietness hangs in the air. Dust motes sparkle in the late-morning sunlight. The dog sleeps peacefully in her edelweiss-embroidered basket. I have been enjoying an undisturbed morning in front of my computer screen, and after a few hours of staring at white page and blinking cursor, I have even managed to call forth one or two tenuous paragraphs. Yes, it would seem that I am finally getting into gear. The creative juices are flowing. Conditions are just right.

And then the clock strikes high noon, and with the precision of a Rolex (which, incidentally, are manufactured right down the road from us) both boys come bursting in through the front door. "HI!" they bellow at the top of their lungs while they kick off shoes in all directions and deposit backpacks, hats, jackets, gym bags, bike locks and whatever other paraphernalia they happen to be toting with them all over the front hall. Doors slam, the water in the bathroom runs, the dog escapes out the front door. The spell of the morning has been broken. I shut down my computer, make the sign of the cross over my beating breast, and prepare my tender psyche for what is about to happen. The time has come, Dear Reader, to make lunch.

And so the tranquil household transforms within the span of a few moments into a steaming cauldron of activity. With a waft of thinly veiled resentment, I take up my  position at the stove over a hot pan of splattering schnitzels while around me like raging Furies, the boys circle. Hell bent on taking whatever unimaginable suffering they endured at school out upon one another, they shout over the noise of the bubbling oil:

"AHHH! HE HIT ME!"

"NO I DIDN'T!" 

"YES HE DID!"

From my vantage point at the stove, I survey the scene and reflect. Only a few short hours ago, I ushered these very same children out the front door. Their bodies were soft and warm from their beds. Their hair was tousled and sweet smelling. As I watched them disappear down the road in the morning fog, I basked briefly in their angelic glow. If I watched them intently enough, I could almost make out slips of the dream world still trailing along behind them in the shadows. Now,  here they are home again in the harsh noonday light: fallen, hungry angels who are raring for a fight.

As I turn my attention back to the the schnitzels in the pan, Wolfi decides not to pursue the altercation with his small-fry brother after all. Instead, he turns his attention to me. Before I can plead with him not to, he has already upturned his backpack and all of its discontents onto my work surface. "Mama," he informs, "you have to sign this form right now!" And then, "What's for lunch? I'm hungry!" I cross myself again. Meanwhile Leo, who has already finished his homework, marches over to the stereo and turns on his favorite Spanish pop music. "¡MI-RA SO-FI-A!" the bright, virile voice of a young Spanish rock star fills the entire house: "SIN TU MIRADA SIGO! ¡SIN TU MIRADA SIGO!"

Carry on, I do indeed. Knives, forks, napkins, water glasses. Could someone please get that dog in? She is barking at the neighbors again. The table is just about set. The schnitzels are just about done. It is 12:30 pm, and my husband also bursts in through the front door. We try to acknowledge one another's existence above the racket, but all attempts are futile. "¡MI-RA SO-FI-A!" The music blares! The frying pan smokes! The dog escapes again! And then, finally, the time comes to take a deep breath and put into motion a few sound waves of my own: "BOYS! LUNCH!"

***

I know what you are thinking, Dear Reader. Would not a simple sandwich suffice? Some chips perhaps? Why would anyone subject herself willingly day after day to this kind of noon-time ritual? The truth is that, no matter how much I sometimes resent it, to live in Switzerland is to bow graciously to the cultural inevitability of a hot-cooked lunch.  For children who spend a week at camp in the summer, volunteer parents come along just for the purpose of cooking lunch for them. And on a nearly daily basis in our village, the children whose parents cannot come home at noon  also receive a hot meal at midday, cooked by a cadre of steely nerved retirees and served up with its own side of benign chaos in the basement of the local Catholic church. Far be it for me to deny my children this basic Swiss right.

Besides, I like the glossy-magazine notion of family members collected around the lunch table. Exquisitely dressed and perfectly coiffed, we swap stories about the morning while fortifying ourselves for the afternoon. Or maybe, in truth, we are bedraggled and sometimes even raring for a fight? Either way, there is a wholesomeness to this Swiss notion of the midday meal, of social connection and of nourishment in its broadest sense. The aroma of a bygone era clings stubbornly to Swiss daily life, much as the scent of frying onions lingers on in the kitchen, long after the cook is gone. So yes, perhaps the village church bells pealing out the noon hour are also sounding the death knell for  my creative endeavors for the day. But I should feel fortunate, should I not?  For what would I ever find to write about  if it were not for this thing called lunch?