“There’s cold pizza and some other unidentifiable food in the kitchen,” my boss told me this afternoon.
Tempting, I thought, since I found a platter of bagels on the counter just before noon and had one of those rather than getting lunch. But I’ve been burned before, when my co-worker told me there were cookies in the big kitchen. I went down there, but all I found was a tray of lettuce. Around 3 when my stomach started growling, I scavenged for pizza.
And I realized my Seattle co-worker was right the other day when he said, “New York seems to turn people into mooches.” That was after I told him about going upstairs to have a slice of Debbie’s baby shower cake. No, I don’t know who Debbie is, but I wish her and her baby daughter (I assume, based on the pink cake) well.
So, yes, I’m guilty of foraging for food. Today I made breakfast at my desk out of the cereal I bought myself, along with milk, orange juice and coffee provided by the company. The bagel and pizza were my lunch, but I added my own apple from home.
We’ve deemed one co-worker the master of free food. He has contacts on the sixth floor (we’re on 4), who email him when there are giveaways up there.
Sometimes there’s fruit on the counter. I usually grab something healthy when I find it.
I’m a journalist, content strategist, doting auntie, amateur bobsledder, fitness enthusiast, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.