Snack Pack

Ready for lunch?

My husband once subsisted on cheese sticks, hard-boiled eggs, and Nutri-Grain bars during his hospital shifts here in Portland. That was his triangle of sadness, courtesy of the break room pantry. Every day, via Snapchat (my family’s preferred mode of staying connected), I would see a photo of Maxwell’s paltry lunch, if it could be called that. Sometimes, it’d be a singular fruit pouch—a dishonor to lunch. Especially for a tall man like my husband, who can decimate a dinner plate-sized quesadilla and half an al pastor burrito from a street taco stand. Oreos gulp in fear when his hand peels back the Nabisco package film.

To be fair, being a doctor at a hospital doesn’t include enough free time to munch at your leisure, let alone think about basic needs. You can squirrel away ten minutes here and there, hopefully a bathroom break as well. Most of the day seems devoted to patients, paperwork, and politics—at least, from what I’ve witnessed so far. “No water has touched these lips today,” Maxwell often texts me.

He had waved me off before when I suggested that I pack his lunches. I knew that he was being considerate of my bandwidth and mindful of the way I struggled to even take care of myself, given the messy health situations that I somehow kept face-planting in. I leaned heavily on him instead.

But if I saw another empty fruit pouch as proof of life from him, I was going to explode. This food deprivation over the course of a twelve-hour work day, this somewhat self-inflicted martyrdom, was wrong. When Maxwell arrived home every evening, I asked if he’d eaten. As the “nos” accumulated, so did my exasperation.

Something needed to be done, despite Maxwell’s insistence that he lacked the time to reheat food or the likelihood of touching said food. I found myself fretting about it, then driving to Trader Joe’s during rush hour and loading my cart: hummus, mini bell peppers, Persian cucumbers, crackers, madeleine cookies, a plump yellow pear. Back at home, I took out a notebook and pen and cross-referenced the new groceries with what we already had: Chomps meat sticks, salmon bites, guacamole, chili crunch oil, cheese. On paper, I wrote combinations of carb, protein, and fiber, then bought a metal bento container from Amazon. Maxwell would get adult Lunchables, I decided.

Soon enough, Maxwell was walking to work with the metal bento box tucked in his backpack. At some point in the afternoon, via Snapchat, he would reveal what was nestled within the box’s compartments—my uneven cucumber sticks, a Chomps cut into fourths, a heap of hummus, miniature peeled wheels of pale yellow cheese. Enough to scarf down in ten minutes.

Every day since then has featured a different assortment, a slight tweak that keeps him guessing. Upon his return home, right after the keys clatter into the pineapple-shaped bowl in our hallway, I interrogate him for a lunch review.

“Do you like the chili crunch on the hummus?”

“I mean, yeah, it was interesting.”

“Do you even want a dip?”

“Hmm…not really.”

“What about yogurt and cottage cheese?”

“Uh, I veto that.”

We’ve started coining the lunch spread as a Snack Pack. The other day, Maxwell sent me a mournful text, saying that he couldn’t eat his Snack Pack because a surgery had run late. I chuckled at the angry emoji that closed the end of his sentence—such adorable pouting. Fridays, I’ve learned, don’t require a snack pack, as the hospital leaves out free pizza. I’m reminded of the hot lunch menus printed on blue construction paper that stuck to the bulletin boards at public school, how I’d eagerly review the meals for the week to note when I could wolf down some chicken-fried steak and go to school without a lunchbox. Lunch is exciting again.

I quite enjoy the process of constructing a Snack Pack. It’s a pleasant game of surprising Maxwell with a unique treat or a new way to layer cheese, crackers, and meat. I’ve snuck in a brownie once and marinated the cucumbers another time in soy sauce and sesame oil. I’ve substituted the round cheese for squares of Tillamook pepper jack. Just like that, the Snack Pack has become a fixture of Maxwell’s day and something to look forward to. Best of all, he won’t end up withering away.

I’ve latched onto the Snack Pack and developed a fondness for it, but I’m trying to understand why. It’s such a simple thing, technically not that much effort. I’m not crafting hot, flavorful dishes or waking up at five a.m. to do so. Perhaps the Snack Pack is the bare minimum for some people. Yet to me, I appreciate it as a tangible offering of affection—action behind my words. Whatever I can give is enough for Maxwell. This is my adoption of the Asian immigrant parent’s unspoken “I love you,” by ensuring that my husband eats. In this era of my life, where I fight each day to get to the next one, the task of a Snack Pack feels achievable. Light. Fun. I may not be an elaborate provider or a refined cook, but I do care, and I want to show that I care. The metal bento box conveys that constancy, no matter how clumsy it may appear. Let me shoulder your burdens, too.

A bit fiber-heavy, this one.