Reward.

I have a pretty boring breakfast of yogurt or oatmeal. When I'm feeling especially sorry for myself, I treat myself to a scone on Fridays.

Since I'm lovingly detaching some of my emotional bonds to food, today I passed by the blueberry scone in the coffee cart on Battery. I even held my gaze long after, looking over my shoulder, as if I were a man who passed by a pretty girl. "If I still want one tomorrow morning," I said, "I'll get one at Javaholics."

And, since I was still keen on rewarding myself, I promised myself a stroll to ferry plaza for lunch since the weather is so lovely. Everyone in the financial district agreed with my plan of action, however. The to-go lines for Slanted Door and Taylor's Refresher stretched across the walkway to each other and criss-crossed; it reminded me of BART stations at rush hour. The Japanese deli was less busy, but the food was scarce and didn't look worth the effort. I fondled a bag of Miette's shortbread cookies (faintly warm!), but eventually settled it back into the tray.

I finally settled on Lulu Petite: a grilled chicken salad with toasted almonds and grapes and a cranberry-lime soda. Delicious, but the concept is so played out. How many grilled chicken salads have I had for a weekday lunch? In the future, "grilled chicken salad" will replace "white bread" as the synonym for prosaic and uncreative. Like in Prufrock, I feel I've measured my life out in plates of grilled chicken salad.

(I stand by Piperade's panko-crusted chicken and avocado salad, however, I could eat that every day like gruel at an orphanage.)